BACKING INTO THE FUN

When driving and parking -- I am a backer-in-er. Occasionally I am also a pull-through-er, but mainly I'm a back-it-up parking person.

Recently a friend teased me that I'm just showing off when I wedge my car into a spot by backing it in. Nah! I'm actually untrustworthy when backing out of a parking space because my view might be blocked by another vehicle, or perhaps a pedestrian or bicycle might zoom by. (I just witnessed this the other day at the grocery store and almost saw two idiotic bicyclists get smeared as they raced between parked and moving cars.) 

I also do this to provide a quick getaway. Not that I've robbed the store or anything. Truth of it is that I hate shopping. Detest it. Doesn't matter what it is: grocery shopping is tedious and always has long lines to check out; shopping for other random supplies (ink or hardware or odds-and-ends) requires wasted time hunting and pecking through jumbled aisles; clothing shopping is torture; malls are constructed from the Devil's armpit; I even hate running into the coffee shop for an iced caramel swirl. 

The main reason I back into parking spaces, though, is because even the average driver is a moron. This is on display when I go to meet friends a few towns away in a place called Station Landing. There are some shops and several restaurants, and there is a decent amount of parking. So, imagine my surprise (being facetious here, folks) when a young man slides his SUV into a space, blocking the handicap spot, and leaves his vehicle partially parked with its ass-end hanging sideways.

I snap a picture of his marvelous parking ability, and I also snap a picture of all of the empty spaces around me. Yes, this is hilarious! Except . . . 

. . . Except that it immediately starts happening as if the driver has opened Pandora's Parking Box. Within two minutes, every space is taken, and multiple drivers arrive making multiple attempts to back into, and to pull straight into, the spaces. 

It suddenly looks like a clown circus. It looks like a drivers' ed course. It looks like the opening sequence from the old TV show The Banana Splits.

My friends, who park across the lot in a sensible spot, arrive in the nick of time to witness the madness. As we wander into the restaurant for lunch, we are wide-eyed and giddy after watching the mayhem of the crazy parking party. As quickly as it starts, and once all of the parking spaces have been filled, it's as calm in the parking lot as if the ridiculousness had never happened. We shake our heads, because, in reality, we can describe it to you, even post pictures of it, but it cannot compare to the hysteria of watching people jockey for spots as if they'd won the lottery and had to beat the competitors to the ticket cashier.

And this is why I back into spots. Yes, there are nutty drivers everywhere, and I can exit the space more safely with a front-facing position. Truthfully, though, I would've missed all of the fun and insanity if I'd been facing the street instead of the idiocy occurring in the lot. Backing into the space is well worth the price of admission to the fun!

BABY, IT'S (NOT) COLD OUTSIDE!

Baby, it's coooold outside.

Well, actually, it's not cold outside on the first day of November, also known as The First Day of Christmas Music on the Radio. In fact, it's nearly eighty degrees outside.

Sure, I know it's always eighty degrees where some of you live. Christmas is tropical, and your Christmas grog has coconut in it. 

But, up here? We're all about snow and hot mulled wine and freezing our toes off just stepping across the parking lot to huddle inside of our iced over vehicles.

Bring on the snow.

Bring on the biting winds.

Bring on the pitch-dark afternoons now that the clocks have fallen back.

Bring on the holiday soundtrack.

I'm ready! 

HALLOWEEN WHINE

It's that time of year again.

Halloween!

It's also Stress Level Ten Time,

When administrators discover all 

The things they forgot to organize,

And teachers' lives turn to chaos.

In other words:
Terror Time.

It's okay, though.

We have a secret weapon.

It's called WINE.

We pour it in goblets and practice

Homophones when we

WHINE.

We welcome Halloween,

Especially when it falls 

During the school week 

Because it gives everyone

Equal chances to be unglued

In character as in reality.

Pop a little ghost wine

Glass charm to the stem,

Call it a party,

Even for one.

Whine a little.

Watch chaos turn to calm.

(Just wait until the last bell rings.)

GLENN FREY MOMENT

I'm having a Glenn Frey moment.

The heat is on!

I caved to the temperatures, but only a little bit. Last year, prior to the flying squirrel taking up residence, I would flip on my gas fireplace to take the chill out of the apartment. Now, though, I have more windows and no fireplace, so the cold creeps in faster. 

The mornings have been the hardest, when it's in the low to mid thirties and the car windshield and windows are frosted. Yes, the auto-starter has been getting its workout already. Getting out of a toasty bed (flannel sheets went on last week) to encounter a chilled home, though? 

Yeah, ain't nobody got time for that.

I don't keep the heat on for long. Five minutes here or there. Luckily, it's a small place, so it heats up quickly (which also works during the dog days of summer when the air conditioner comes on). I've delved into my fluffy socks collection, my fleece stockpile, and my sweater mountain, but I have resisted the coats. Okay, I did cheat that morning it was just below freezing and put a winter vest over my sweatshirt, but I'm not sure that totally counts.

Either way, the heat is on. Now I have an earworm as well as an ear-warmer, and I'm okay with that. 

WELCOME, STEW SEASON!

SNL might tell you, "It's sweatah weathah," and it is, so that's true. It's also Stew Season. Basically, it's cooking season up here in New England.

Not that we don't cook other times of the year. because we certainly do. We barbecue, steam, air fry, make pizza (basically add tomato and mozzarella to anything and everything), eat burnt hot dogs off equally burnt sticks, chew on hamburgers that give hockey pucks a run for their money, and we do so all summer long.

Once we whip out that car auto-starter and the seat warmers, though, all bets are off. It's time to bring out the big guns: crock pots and bakeware.

I'll be honest. It has been a while since I cooked anything stupendous. Sure, I'm still eating corn on the cob and an occasional meatloaf, courtesy of my own kitchen, but now that the temperature is inching toward that first frost, comfort foods are necessary.

I go to the store with the intention of getting a few things that I need. I have half a box of lasagna noodles, so maybe I'll make some meatballs to go with that. I accidentally bypass the hamburger, though, and end up in the chicken section. There are some packages of boneless chicken breasts that look darn good, and they're on sale. Into my cart they go. Backtracking to the beef, I first must pass the pork. Oh, how the ribs are calling me. Alas, I'm trying to buy ground beef, so I urge myself to keep moving. 

On the way to that section of the meat case, I see cubed beef chuck. Yes, that's a great idea. It's going to be chilly. I should make some beef stew. I find a small package that is, surprisingly, also on sale. I make a mental note to hit the produce as I push the cart over to my original destination, the ground beef. I find the amount I need, on sale, throw that in with the other stuff, and head over to buy vegetables for the stew.

As I pass by the pork section again, country style ribs whisper, "Won't we taste good on a cold evening?" The correct answer is, "Yes, yes, you would, but you're not on --" Dagnabbit! These are on sale, too! I find a package of five good-sized spareribs, and, just like that, BOOM, I'm buying ribs, too.

I complete my shopping trip, the one where I came in for a couple of random items and some ground beef once upon a mini-list ago, in the produce aisle. I select carrots, string beans, mushrooms, onions, potatoes, and various other delicious fruits and veggies. I think I'm home-free until I pass by the fresh corn on the cob. I pick out two great ears (I'm pretty good at this as I have been a corn hound since before I could walk).

The next thing I know, my freezer has several meals stashed -- lasagna and meatballs, stew (I fished out both bay leaves on the first swipe), chicken and corn dinner -- and five individually wrapped spareribs. It's as if I blinked my eyes and the autumn cooking genies took over my home. I won't lie: I'm totally psyched.

Nothing left to do now except put on my sweater, crank the heat a little bit, and enjoy. Welcome, Stew Season. Long may you reign!

RACECAR FEVER

My neighbor has a race car. I know this because he rents several garage bays in front of my apartment building, and I have full access view of the work area. It's fascinating, kind of like watching a one-man pit crew. Sometimes the car is on a lift, sometimes it's in one bay, and sometimes it's in another random bay.

Sometimes, though, that car needs to be transported to races, and this is where I salivate. The sound of that car is mesmerizing. Sure, I often hear the engine going through its motions as the mechanic checks it and recalibrates it and runs it through its paces inside the bays. But nothing, not one damn thing, beats the sound of that car trying to contain itself as it moves into the trailer for transport.

It's the end of the race season up here, maybe another three weeks or so, because it's New England, and our weather is about as predictable as an unmedicated mental patient. This means I only have limited opportunities to hear the car before it's packed away for the winter. I sit on my porch, pretending I'm not watching and listening. I pull the curtains aside, pretending I'm not watching and listening.

Recently, I realized exactly what I must look like: The neighborhood creeper.

So, I finally introduce myself to the car owner/mechanic. We haven't chatted much, perhaps a total of forty-five seconds in our three very brief conversations. I apologize for being that person who probably looks like a busy-body. He apologized for the car making noise when he runs it. 

Making noise?

At that point, my eyes bug out of my head. I blurt out, "That's the highlight of my day!"

It's to the point where I try not to be a nuisance. If he's working on the car and outside of the garages when I am leaving or returning, I will wave maybe fifty percent of the time. I mean, I'm a car Fan Girl but there must be a fine line I don't want to cross. He probably thinks I'm the crazy old lady who lives in a box. 

I'm just a neighbor with a true appreciation for the beauty of a car, and, if I'm being totally honest, a bit of jealousy that he gets to drive it for fun and money. Lucky bastard!

ALOE FOR THAT BURN

I have a gazillion aloe plants on my windowsill at school. Okay, maybe not that many, but at least a dozen.

Last year a trio of students gave our entire grade-level team aloe plants. One each. In containers. Strict instructions: "Let your plant dry out completely then water generously. Watering should occur once every two weeks."

Perfect! The only plants I have been able to keep alive are pothos. They'll grow if you just look at them. "Forgetting" to water a plant except every two weeks? Now, here's a plant that can live (and I do mean "stay alive") with me!

Not only does it stay alive, it reproduces. And reproduces a lot. Apparently, aloe is the rabbit version of the plant world. 

I spend an afternoon repotting the babies of all of my plants (pothos and aloe) so that I can take them to school with me. I have to use hole-less containers because heaven forbid any water gets on the windowsills at school! I'd never hear the end of that taxpayer fiasco.

It takes several shopping bags to gently transport my newly replanted babies to work. So much trauma over the course of twenty-four hours between new bowl digs and then new sunny digs. My classroom faces the sun pretty much all day. It rises to my left and sets to my right, so my three giant windows at school are terrific for plants (and, to be realistic but morbid, perfect for random target practice from the woods).

Eventually, when I'm certain that the plants have survived my non-green thumb, I might give them away to others. But, for now, they are enjoying the excess carbon dioxide in the room dominated by tweens and young teenagers who simply cannot, will not, and should not keep their mouths shut. If we suddenly have a mass outbreak of cuts, sores, or skinned knees, I have enough fresh aloe available to soothe whatever ails all of them.

In the meantime, I am decorating the rest of the windowsill with little random items: A Bob Ross figurine that talks, a solar-powered Queen Elizabeth and one of her corgis, inspirational signs that say things like "I don't like morning people. Or mornings. Or people." I've moved my desk across the room so that I am sitting directly in front of the window and my plants, which makes me somewhat happy all day long. Maybe I'll add battery-powered fairy lights, too. 

A couple of years ago, someone complained about my inspirational posters. Yes, the ones anyone can buy at a card store or a teacher supply store. My empowering, positive messages actually offended someone, so I ripped them all off the walls, taking fresh paint with me because I was so perturbed. I am taking this new phase of my teaching encampment as a hopeful sign. Plants today? Maybe, just maybe, I'll wish someone a nice day. Maybe.

I don't want to push my luck. But, if I do, I'll add some aloe to the burn. That, in and of itself, is progress.

DUSTING OFF THE FLEECE

Here in New England we are in False Fall. This is when the trees start to turn (in no particular order), and cool mornings give way to boiling hot afternoons. It's what SNL famously referred to as "Sweatah Weathuh." 

It's officially fall! But, unofficially, it's not.

We are still due for one more wave of summer heat. At least, we could be. It was mere decades ago that it snowed during the first full week of October. We've had Halloweens needing snowsuits and others begging for t-shirts and shorts.

Fall isn't really here until the first frost. 

What is here, though, is fleece. That's right, I said it. It's fleece weather. Fleece is what happens when a sweatshirt and sweater have a love-child. However, just because the fleece has been broken out, that doesn't ensure that summer is truly over. Like the Ninja Turtles, this is the time of year of Fleece-On-Fleece-off-Fleece on . . .

Anticipating true fall (in a few weeks), I scour website sales and find a pullover fleece that I really like for a ridiculous sale. No worries. My size is relatively standard, so I shouldn't have a problem choosing the last color available. Right? Wrong! There are about fifteen different colors in my exact size, all for unthinkably low prices. How can I just pick one?

I don't. I pick ten.

I won't lie. I'm really glad I ordered these things. They're pull-over style fleece tops, and they have pockets. Pockets! Can I even believe the luck? 

Why am I admitting this to everyone? So that you can blame me. Yup. You can all blame me and my stupid fleece purchases when summer just hangs on and hangs on, refusing to let fall happen. We will go right from roasting on the beach to roasting chestnuts over an open fire because there is no way Mother Nature will let me enjoy my fleece tops until she makes me throw on a down and nylon vest and snow gloves for effect. 

This upcoming week looks rather fleecy - cool mornings and warmish afternoons - but give it a week. I predict another round of summer will arrive just when I'm dreaming of the pink heather fleece to wear while I warm up my car and scrape the icy rime from the windshield. Either that, or it will snow several inches and I'll be eating this column.

Happy False Fall, everyone! 

 

HOT TUB MAN - PROVING THAT WE HAVEN'T LOST OUR TOUCH COMPLETELY

My friend and I are walking around Marina Bay in Quincy. There is a labyrinth made up of boat docks, and the further the wharf moves along, the more expensive and exclusive and enormous the life-sized toys. Toward the right are nice boats; toward the left are yachts that money-dreams are made of.

The two of us enjoy the beautiful summer day, leaning on the railing that gazes over the harbor with Boston in the backdrop. Behind us, people populate the outdoor dining littered all over Marina Bay. In front of us, several super-sized private boats are docked, one of which is so huge that it cannot even park inside the marina. 

Oh, how the other half lives!

This is when we notice Hot Tub Man.

On one of the larger yachts, a hot tub divides the deck of the bow. In the hot tub is a man about our age, topless, wearing sunglasses, and tanning his upper half while tossing around his unnatural, tangerine-colored hair. My friend is convinced that he is checking us out. I think she's hallucinating. 

Until --

Mr. Hot Tub Man glances over his shoulder at us, then slides himself around the water until he is face-on toward us. Of course, I giggle because this is so high school behavior, and we are all so very much past high school. Yet, we continue to semi-watch him from the corner of our sight line.

Suddenly, Hot Tub Man pops up, showing us his tighty navies. He is wearing either a square-crotched bathing suit or the man is in his damn boxer briefs. How do we know? He turns over and starts doing modified push-ups and planks on the tub's edge, still in the water, showing us his barely-spandex-clad butt cheeks. 

God bless the man, he's trying. He really is. He's got game, we'll give him that much. But, for the love of the art of flirting, you don't need to show us your aged backside if you want our attention. 

Just wave. Raise a glass to toast two beautiful ladies who may or may not be watching you.

When he finally climbs out of the water, Hot Tub Man goes for the beach towel, sucking his gut in as he waddles over to where the terrycloth is folded on a ledge. You all know the gut-suck I'm talking about. We all do it at our age. It's the "Oh, shit, my stomach doesn't belong down at my thighs" breathing intake and breath hold. Don't lie. Anyone over the age of forty has practiced it. By fifty, we've mastered it. By sixty? Well, we try, goddamnit, we try.

I'll be honest: I'm a window shopper. I have zero desire to try nor to buy whatever it is that Hot Tub Man is peddling. Once we realize that he is drying off and possibly changing, we come to the conclusion that, ahoy, matey, he's going to request permission to come ashore. This fact immediately alters our lunch plans. 

Sit outside on the wharf where he can find us? No way! 

Quickly, we hustle slightly inland, away from Marina Bay's immediate waterfront shops, and settle into our good old favorite, The Chantey. We do sit outside, but we are between two buildings and in the shade. If Hot Tub Man intends to find us, he's going to have to work for it. 

Besides, if he does find us, I'm putting the mudslides bill in his back pocket . . . provided he has finally put on his pants.

SCHOOL - IT'S "GO" TIME

School is in session! 

I'm going to have a positive attitude! I'm going to rock it so hard this year! I already have my rosters printed out, my seating charts done, and my first few days of handouts all copied and hole-punched. 

I'm ready!

Or, so I believe.

The rosters change at the last moment. This means that the seating charts change. We cannot access the part of the website that we need for our team meeting. The three professional development sessions are less than professional. The copy machine is being temperamental, and someone walks away and leaves it jammed. We're short-staffed. The tech department failed to properly open the date to begin start-of-year assessments. Five minutes before the students walk down the hall for Day One, I experience a sudden and somewhat debilitating ocular migraine.

In other words, it's business as usual here in the middle school. Bring it. Let the games begin!

MY EPIC ROAD TRIP: BAD DECISIONS MAKE GOOD STORIES, CHAPTER 6 - THE FINAL FRONTIER

{Remember two things about my epic Vermont-New York road trip: My car has 93,000 miles on it, and disaster is about to strike.}

With about sixty miles left to my destination in the North Country of New York, my car decides to crap out in Westport. The tachometer starts going a little funky, and all of a sudden every single emergency light comes on.

Yes, my car has 93,000 miles on it, but it has recently been serviced, and it's a make and model that can easily support 200,000 miles. Of course it would choose now to be a jerk -- right now -- when I have zero GPS, zero cell service, and it's 8,000 degrees with 97% humidity outside. Despite being a notorious speed trap, there is nary an officer of the law in sight.

I. Am. Doomed.

As I drift over to the side of the road, panic sets in. Sure, I have AAA-plus. I can get towed to my brother's house. The problem is that I still have zero cell service and zero wireless capabilities. I'm not calling anybody for help. I push the button on the dashboard, assuming that I am shutting off the car. Nope. Apparently, the car shut itself off, so pressing the ignition restarts the car. The dashboard looks deceptively fine now. 

What doesn't look fine is my heart rate. Finally, I take a few deep breaths and pull back into the road. I drive along, not pushing the speed too far. As I'm driving if locals are up my arse to pass me, I pull over, wave them along, and get back on my route. At this point, I could get on a northbound highway, but I'd rather have the car die on a backroad than die in the passing lane of route 87. 

I drive for about ten miles and come to a side street where the oldest schoolhouse in Essex County, New York, is still standing. I decide to have lunch at the schoolhouse and give the car a good rest. If it doesn't start, there are a couple of farms I can walk to because, hey, I still don't have cell connectivity. Off on the side of a car-less street, a schoolhouse with a flag stands right on the road, along with a sign inviting people to sit and enjoy the views from sunrise to sunset. I grab my sandwich, a water, and a snack, then get myself comfy on one of the benches.

The first thing I notice as I relax in the midst of absolute solitude is that my phone starts pinging. Hey! I'm back in the land of the electronic living, at least, for now. The next thing I notice is the view - I am facing the mountains, and the sun is shining full and hot, creating areas of light and shadow across the mountainous skyline. The last thing I notice is that I am sitting about twenty feet away from a vineyard full of row after row of grape vines. (Oh, for a glass of wine right about now!)

By the time I'm ready to hit the road again, the car starts and seems to be running okay, although I can't tell if it sounds different or if I'm hallucinating from the panic and the high temperatures causing heatstroke. I decide to avoid the highway and continue on the backroads thirty-plus miles until I reach another land form much like the one where I started. 

I stop at Ausable Chasm, a gorge in the Adirondacks. Quechee Gorge (where this entire misadventure started), runs through Mesozoic-era Vermont metamorphic bedrock for over a mile, is 165 feet deep, and has formed over 13,000 years. Ausable Chasm runs through 500 million year-old Potsdam sandstone for about two miles, is 150 feet deep, and has formed over 10,000 years. I've walked the trails before and rafted back to the main lodge, but today it's crowded and oh-so-undeniably hot, and the water level is a bit low. I snap a few photos and video, then backtrack to my favorite farmstand store in nearby Peru, NY (today's destination).

It seems appropriate that my trip from gorge to gorge, chasm to chasm, bridge to bridge, has included unbelievable highs, terrifying lows, twists, turns, cool refreshing spots, sweaty uncomfortable moments, some frustrations, some surprises, and countless visions of amazement. 

The Syracuse - Albany - Amsterdam - Plattsburgh (New York Triangle) trip is another story but separate from my solo travels and not at all horrifying, and it would earn a separate novella (which I probably won't be writing anytime soon) since it involves much more interesting co-conspirators and no wrong-way idiocy (my sister-in-law has a remarkable sense of direction that I lack). 

It's safe to admit, however, that I avoid any further stops on the way home, despite several hoped-for adventures. After my major hiccup in Westport, NY, when my car lost all power and every light flashed on, I make the executive decision to follow twisted Monopoly advice: Go home. Go directly home. Do not pass Go; Do not collect $200. I get in my car, devise the safest route home, and put pedal to metal, not even stopping to eat nor to pee. Four-plus hours of cross-fingered driving and six days after this misadventure began, I am home safe, sound, and running straight to the facilities.

MY EPIC ROAD TRIP: BAD DECISIONS MAKE GOOD STORIES, CHAPTER 5

Still in Vermont on my epic MA-VT-NY-NY-VT-MA road trip -- 

I have a few more things that I want to see in Middlebury, Vermont, before I get on the road for New York's North Country. First stop is the post office to buy stamps and to mail the postcards. Yes, the postcards are old-school, but it's fun. I still have zero cell service and GPS, but I know the center of town well since I circled around it a half dozen times the day before when trying to find the Morgan Horse Farm. After the post office, I walk across the parking lot to a green space where there is a pedestrian bridge, an old stone mill, and a waterfall. 

Then, I prepare to head toward Crown Point, New York. This is where it gets tricky. A recent bout of hurricane fall-out has washed out the main road to get where I am going. There are two other ways to go, but route 125 is the easiest. Except ... the road forks in Middlebury, and there are ZERO signs as to which road I am on. I have to make an executive decision, then change my mind. Only problem is that now I am stuck on one-way roads heading out of town on the more difficult road (that would be simple if I had GPS and a decent map).

I get turned about for a short while until someone helps me out. I start traveling on route 74, which winds around and is through an area only cows could love because there is nothing but an occasional farm for miles and miles. My helper had suggested a cut-through road, which would've saved me about ten miles or so, but I am afraid at this point to veer off the numerical path. I find myself swearing a little bit at my phone and swearing a lot at myself for being a dope with no sense of direction. 

Right about the time I am cursing everything and everyone for my own idiocy, I come to the top of a rise and have the most incredible, fantastic, unbelievable views. 360 degrees of mountains and awe. Green Mountains behind me; Adirondack Mountains in front of me. 

It. Is. Amazing.

I go a little further in my quest to find my way back to the correct route when I pass a random school house on the top of a hill. Directly across the street is an amazing spread of land with a beautiful house and an even more gorgeous barn set up. As I pull over to take pictures, a motorcyclist (the first person I have encountered in about an hour) also pulls over and asks if I'm all right. I explain that I'm a teacher and have to get a picture of the school but thank him for stopping. It may be rare to see humans out here, but, when you do, they're darn nice people.

I get back on track and cross the first modern bridge I've seen in two days, the Lake Champlain Bridge that connects Chimney Point, Vermont, with Crown Point, New York. It's also under construction, much like the historic Quechee Bridge, and only one lane of traffic is being allowed at a time. I don't mind waiting. The bridge offers some impressive scenery. 

Once I cross the bridge, there is an old stone fort off to the right. It was built by the French in 1734 and taken over by the British in 1759. American colonists took over the fort in 1775 before it fell back into British hands in 1777. The ruins of the fort became property of New York state in 1910. The stone work is impressive, and there are masons here today working on repairs of one of the remaining parts of the fort. 

I can see a yellow bus in the parking lot. Of course there is a school bus. Educators are like fly-paper for children. When I was at a museum in North Carolina a few months back, there were three separate groups of sixth graders there on field trips. Naturally, this historical park will be full of children because why in the name of all things sane should a school teacher escape the yellow bus and minions even during summer break? It's a giant cosmic joke.

My next stop is the Champ Tote Board. There is tale in this part of the country of a giant sea monster named Champ, or Champy, that lives in the depths of Lake Champlain. I've crossed the lake dozens of times, and I always look for Champy, but I've never seen it. It's a fun reminder, though, that our local tall tale may actually be fact. I pull my car back on the road and stay alert as this area is notorious for speed traps, but, alas, not a cop in sight today.

Of course there isn't a police officer to assist because this is when disaster strikes. Remember a few weeks ago when I wrote to hold that thought about my car having 93,000 miles on it? Hold that thought a little longer and I'll explain it next blog.

MY EPIC ROAD TRIP: BAD DECISIONS MAKE GOOD STORIES, CHAPTER 4

Epic journey through Vermont and New York (in case you forgot) . . .

Road Trip continued: I roll into Middlebury, Vermont, about two hours ahead of my worst-case scenario schedule. So far my driving plan has been reasonably straightforward, and I still have both cell phone GPS and an old TomTom GPS system making sure I'm going where I belong. 

All is right with the world for now.

My first Middlebury stop is the American Legion Post, where there is what Roadside Attractions website calls "Jet on a Stick." Middlebury was one of the Legion's first ever organizations, starting in 1919, but not at its current location. The A-4 Skyhawk jet was procured through a Marine who flew A-4s during the Vietnam War. My first reaction when I get out of the car is, "This is frakking cool!" The plane is on loan from both the Marine Corps Air Station and the US Naval Museum, and it has been "on a stick" for nearly twenty-five years. I think it's amazing, so I snap about a dozen photos.

My next stop is the Middlebury Art Museum. It's free and small enough to breeze through relatively quickly. It doesn't seem like much from the outside, but the very first thing I see is a small sculpture by Rodin. There's an Andy Warhol print, and an ancient Egyptian sarcophagus from about 664 BCE to 343 BCE. The top floor is inundated with ginormous papier-mache puppets. It takes me about twenty minutes to get through.

I glance at my phone and realize that I have time to fit in the UVM Morgan Horse Farm today. This is amazing! Until . . . it's not. Suddenly and without warning, pomp, nor fanfare, I entirely lose cell, internet, and all GPS. 

Even though I have rudimentary maps printed out, I cannot see the names of streets. That's all right. I'm an intelligent woman. I can follow street signs as well as anyone else. Except . . . Middlebury doesn't believe in clear street signs that point in the correct directions. Remember when I mentioned printed maps last week and wrote for readers to  hold that thought? 

Well, now is the beginning of the Great Middlebury Map Fiasco of 2024.

I know that the Morgan Horse Farm is less than four miles away, and I know the general direction, but the streets go to nowhere, or they have similar names, or they go only one way, or the signs point left and right and up and down all at the same time. I circle the area in my car for almost an hour, and drive miles and miles and miles out of my way and in giant geometric directions. An oval here, a square there, and, oh, look, I've just completed a dodecahedron. I ask a nice young couple for directions, but they're not locals. I ask another older couple, but they don't speak English, and my Spanish far exceeds my French. Finally, I see a young girl walking a dog. She directs me across the very cool Pulp Mill Covered Bridge, and I finally see a sign for the stables.

When I arrive at 2:43, I know there is one more tour at 3:00. There are some horses in the paddocks, but honestly, it is so bloody hot outside that the poor animals probably should be in the shade. Despite there being several cars at the facility, I am the only one signed up for a tour. I feel silly, and I explain to the young guide that I'm happy to wander around; they can keep my small tour fee as a donation. But, no, I get a private tour with a friendly apprentice, who apologizes because the horses have indeed been brought inside, which prevents decent photos. So, she walks me through the barn to meet the horses, and we talk about my limited but sufficient familiarity with the lineage and physical qualities of the Morgan horse breed.

Finally, I know the place will be closing soon, so I say my thanks. Oh, no, though, we are not quite finished. Annalise is heading to the foaling barn. Would I like to come meet the foals? Holy crap, yes, I would! We walk to the far barn where she swings the paddock gates wide open and invites me to walk across the huge empty (and poop-less -- absolutely spotless) area. She then invites me into the specialty building and introduces me to all six foals and mares and tells me each one's story.

It. Is. Phenomenal.

I head back to town, check into my hotel, then shower the entire steaming day off. Other than the door to my room being finicky (I open it once to check in and once when I leave so I don't get locked out), the only two flies are that the wi-fi is spotty so I am still in Cell Hell, and I forgot to bring stamps for the postcards. Luckily, there's a post office nearby that I can hit on my way out of town. Besides, I circled Middlebury so many times today, I am familiar enough with the town to find my own way.

Or, so I innocently believe. Next installment: You can't get there from here.

MY EPIC ROAD TRIP: BAD DECISIONS MAKE GOOD STORIES, CHAPTER 3

{Continued saga of the epic road trip from Massachusetts to Vermont, to Plattsburgh, NY, to Syracuse, NY, through Albany, NY, back to Plattsburgh, NY, then back to Massachusetts -- Yes, It's a triangle+ of epic proportions, not a straight line, because somebody (me) feels a great need to explore areas of Vermont and New York that I have not been to yet.}

Day #1 - Everything is loaded into the car, my snacks and cooler are within easy reach at any and every stop, and my good camera is an arm's-length away. I'm full of confidence that everything, every single little thing, is going to go my way, exactly as planned, or better!

The first stop is a rest area. Unfortunately for me and everyone else who stops, we're about fifteen minutes too early to use the facilities. One hardy gentleman does his business in a porta-potty, throwing the door open afterward to exclaim, "It's not too bad in there compared to the other ones." His female companion and I glance at each other and shake our heads. I'm not against porta-potties; I use them whenever it's necessary. But, I'm reasonably close to civilization, so I opt for a quick few photos of the view and head back on the road. 

Quechee Gorge plunges about 165 feet with spectacular ledge views and a 1.3 mile trail along the Ottauquechee River. There's an amazing bridge that provides panoramic views without having to hike down and then back up again. Unfortunately, the bridge is reduced to one lane right now and is totally under construction. The view is not only obstructed; it is completely hidden by lumber. The bridge, a three-hinge steel deck arch, was constructed in 1911 as a railroad bridge. I'm deeply depressed that I am only able to snap pictures of the north side through a fence and from a trail through trees, but I'm thrilled the state is saving the bridge. I might have time to make the trek down and back into the gorge itself -- I've done it before -- but I'm wearing sandals, and it's already blast-furnace hot at 9:00 a.m. Maybe next time.

Due to the backed-up traffic crossing the construction zone, I accidentally miss the Quechee Covered Bridge, but I do manage to see the next three on my list: Taftsville, Middle, and Lincoln Covered Bridges. There are a couple of great spots to view the Taftsville Bridge, and it's the only one of the three that I get any decent shots of on the drive. 

I am about an hour ahead of my self-imposed schedule, which puts me at the base of Killington mountain mid-morning. I arrive at the Water Wheel Trading Post too late for their famous breakfast sandwich and too early to buy beer with a clear conscience. I stop anyway, grab some chocolate and a picture or two, and head toward my next stop.

Unfortunately, not all of Vermont is a quaint Hallmark movie, and Rutland is a perfect example. There are a couple of sculptures I'd like to see. One is Batman Meets Mr. Halloween, which I drive past getting to the artwork that I truly do want to see: a Steampunk locomotive made out of scrap. I'd like to exit my car and snap better photos, but this may not be the best idea with the train station parking lot under partial occupation and with active dirty deals taking place in the wide open light of day. Rutland has a relatively high crime rate, and I am a single old lady with a car full of goodies. Luckily, it starts to rain, which makes getting out of the car a dumb idea, anyway, and I use my camera from the comfort and safety of my vehicle (note the inspection sticker in the bottom right of the frame).

The second to last stop before I get to today's end point of Middlebury, is the New England Maple Syrup Museum. Yes, it's more store than artifact, but the place is charming. I join a couple from New York, and we sample some amazing local maple syrup. We all love the final one, a bourbon-barrel sample that is the best maple syrup I have ever tasted in my life. There is only one bottle left, and the other couple grabs it. I take my second favorite as a gift to my hosts, who always bring me New York maple syrup. I also spend a pretty penny on lots of other useless stuff because this shop has about a zillion things that I want to buy.

The last thing I need to see before rolling into today's ultimate destination is a huge

statue/sculpture named Queen Connie. Connie is a giant steel and concrete (aka "Connie") gorilla that is holding up an old Volkswagen Beetle. Her other arm is a large seat that people can sit in. (I do not in case I get stuck in it.). A few snapshots later, I wave goodbye to Queen Connie and continue up route 7, bringing me to another chapter of the blog, which will post next Sunday.

Don't worry, folks. You know it won't run smoothly.

MY EPIC ROAD TRIP: BAD DECISIONS MAKE GOOD STORIES, CHAPTER 2

I'm plotting my way to Syracuse, New York (Upstate), from north of Boston, Massachusetts (Merrimack Valley), via Plattsburgh, New York (North Country). I've already discounted multiple simple and lower-stress ways to accomplish this, but, with me at the helm, nothing is ever easy. Nothing.

I finally make some decisions. Since I always stop by Quechee Gorge, I find it on the map. Route 4. Looks tame enough. Now that I have my first destination, I need a theme (other than Crazy Old Woman Takes On Backroads of Vermont and New York State for Sheer Idiocy). I decide to do a mini-tour of covered bridges. Some of the better ones are just too far off of my radar, but there are plenty along the way if I just stick to a plan. 

I can hear some of you laughing hysterically already at the "stick to a plan" bull-tooky. It's okay. Trust me - I deserve your mockery, as you will learn over the next few blogs.

My end-point-for-today's destination, the first leg of the journey: University of Vermont's Morgan Horse Farm in Middlebury. I do some research on hotels and discover that, despite being a college town, Middlebury isn't really a place that accommodates tourists and students and families. Oh, it loves having people come through and spend money, but apparently Middlebury doesn't encourage anyone actually spending any extended time there unless you Air BnB or do the local inns. Despite that, I do book the one chain hotel after researching the place. Now I have point A (Quechee) and Point B (Middlebury) in place.

In between Points A and B, I make a list of covered bridges (four) within easy road access, and some other things to squeeze in: trading post, statues, odd sculptures, a small museum/shop, some scenic views, an art museum, and the Morgan horses. I hope to do most of these on Day 1 and spill them into the morning of Day 2 before I continue toward my relatives, which is Point C.

Next, I make a loose plan for travel from Point B to Point C. This includes anything left from Day 1, plus: a modern bridge, an old stone fort, Champ (our Loch Ness monster), a school house, a chasm (another gorge), and my favorite farm stand store.

I also do something that most people think is stupid -- I make sure I have directions printed out, just in case. Remember last week's blog when I mentioned that my car has 93,000 miles on it, and to hold that thought? Well, when I say I have some rudimentary maps printed out, I'd like you to hold that thought, as well.

I pack my suitcase with clothes and toiletries, a backpack with electronics and camera, snacks for the two-day trip, and a cooler. The car has recently been serviced, the tires are inflated properly (I have an electronic air machine if needed), and the car is gassed up. 

The only thing left to do is to totally screw up this entire adventure.

MY EPIC ROAD TRIP: BAD DECISIONS MAKE GOOD STORIES, CHAPTER 1

Bad decisions make good stories, and I now have the tee shirt to prove it.

My nephews march with Spartans Drum Corps and tour all over the eastern United States before the culminating championships in Indianapolis mid-August. Unfortunately, their closest show to me this season is in Syracuse, NY. So, me being me, I start planning a trip out to Syracuse, with a plan to take in what I like to refer to as "roadside oddities" on my way. If I plan it right, I can even stop in Cooperstown to tour the Baseball Hall of Fame.

I plan three different routes just for fun: I-90 (through NY, this is a given), route 2 Mohawk Trail in Massachusetts, or route 9 across southern Vermont through Bennington. There are too many possibilities, and I want to see everything. Route 9 is a no-go because, if I pass through Bennington, then I also need to see part of the Mohawk Trail and vice versa. So, both 2 and 9 are ruled out simply because of the high distraction value. 

That leaves route 90, a rather tame initial journey where the most exciting thing is the speed trap crossing over Massachusetts into New York state. But, there are multiple side trips to see roadside attractions across New York. This is a huge draw.

However, my sister-in-law is also planning a solo drive to Syracuse because her husband, one of my crazy-arse brothers, has been volunteering on the corps' food truck -- feeding something like 300,000 kids and staff (okay, maybe 200) three meals a day and basically not sleeping for six straight weeks -- and his tenure is up with the Syracuse show. My brother and his family live in the North Country of New York, a little over an hour south of Montreal.

I have a brilliant idea! I'll take the backroads and scenic byways to my sister-in-law, and we can drive to 'Cuse together. Even crazier . . . she agrees to this evil plan of mine.

Me being me, I start planning with the roadside oddities. What can I see and do that is totally whacked? Again, route 2 and route 9 compete for my attention, but, again, I discount both because it would mean at least one extra day of travel. There's simply too much to see, so that needs to be a separate trip or done in a Winnebago. I start plotting routes 30 or 100 or 7 through Vermont. They're all winners, but some of the directions involve north-south deviations to traverse the Green Mountains. My car has 93,000 miles on it. Is this my brightest idea? (Hold that thought.)

By now, I've put way too much time into this. I could've hopped into the car and used the day I've already spent plotting this out rather than actually . . . well . . . plotting this out. I mean, really. Just get in my car, hop on 93 to 89, jump the Grand Isle ferry, and get 'er done. 

But, anyone who knows me also understands this is not how I operate. I get easily bored on the highway. People drive like idiots, and there's not too much to see for 80% of the drive. Plus, my foot and butt get tired just sitting there driving. It's like a really stressful plane trip without benefit of free drinks and snacks and bathroom.

You'll have to wait until next week's blog for more of the story, but, I promise you, it's epic. I did make it home mostly safely and mostly intact, no thanks to my own stupidity. But, as the tee shirt says, bad decisions make good stories. My friends, I trust it will be worth the wait.

PREPPING FOR THE ARTISTIC APOCALYPSE

It's that time of year again: Time when I truly believe I might find a spare moment to be creative.

I have a mish-mash of projects either half-finished or thoughtfully un-started -- fabric waiting to be cut out and sewn; yarn waiting to be knitted into rectangles; glue sticks waiting to hot-glue something together. 

Truth be told, I'm not remotely talented when it comes to hands-on creativity. Oh, I can write you a poem, story, or essay at a moment's notice. What do you need?  A report? With or without citations? Flash fiction? Limerick? The sad part about my particular talent is that AI has come along and blown it all to Neptune. What takes me months to do, AI can create in a millisecond.

No matter. I'm prepped and ready for the Artistic Apocalypse. 

You need cray-pas? I got you. Colored pencil that turn to water colors? Check. Oil paints? Acrylic paints? Fabric paints? Yes, yes, and yes. Drawing pencils? Charcoal pencils? Calligraphy pens? You don't even have to ask.

Back in college, I had to take a drawing class to fulfill a fine arts elective. It was 101-level, meaning we were all supposed to suck at it. But, much to our mutual horror, we had an art major in our class because, like us, Drawing 101 fit into his schedule as a fine arts credit. We all felt like pathetic failures.

Hope does spring eternal.

Last summer I reorganized all of my random supplies. This summer perhaps I should attempt to use them. If not, then I'll do what I did with half the excess craft stuff from last summer's clean out: I'll donate it. 

What's that you ask? What happened to the other half of the excess craft stuff from last summer? Don't look in my closet at school. You just might find that I pretend to do crafts at work, too.

Like I said, when that artistic apocalypse hits, whether I'm at home or in class, I'm ready.

CAPTURING THE (DAIRY) QUEEN

I am massively depressed about the massive ice cream recall. So, I decide that I will make my own ice cream, hopefully free of extraneous additives and other poisons that caused the massive mess in the first place. 

Recently, my brother-in-law churned out some fabulous vanilla ice cream using an electric ice cream maker. It was so easy that I thought maybe I'd get myself an ice cream maker.

Then, reality hit.

I don't need that much ice cream in the house at any given moment because I will convince myself that I must eat up all of the ice cream in order to save the masses from possible ice cream induced brain-freeze and ice cream related cooties. But, the ice cream process itself does seem rather interesting. So, I do what any lazy person might do: I scour the internet in search of easy ice cream recipes.

I find one that sounds simple enough: heavy cream + sugar + vanilla + salt = shake for 5 minutes in a mason jar, then freeze for four hours.

I have one mason jar with an airtight seal lid. So, all I really need is a cup of heavy cream to give this a whirl. I go to the store and discover only a quart size of heavy cream. Anything smaller is light cream or whipping cream or half and half. If the recipe calls for one cup of heavy cream, then technically I can experiment with this four times. 

This sounds like a wonderful, devious, fattening plan!

I assemble the ingredients into the mason jar, secure the lid, and start shaking the contents rather carefully so I don't drop it. Let me tell you, five minutes is a rather long time to be shaking a mason jar. I switch off from arm to arm, putz around the apartment while I do this, empty the dishwasher, change out the toilet paper roll, put away the new roll of aluminum foil, and just plain doubt myself that this is even going to work. 

I give the shaking one more minute for extra measure, just in case I didn't thicken the mixture enough (but not too much as it might solidify into a butter-like substance). To be honest, my expectations are reasonably low. However, when I open the cover of the jar, a substance like soft-serve vanilla ice cream is in the jar. I add some chocolate chips to it and put the whole jar in the freezer. 

Hmmmmmm. I wonder if I can make a chocolate version? Back to the internet go I.

Unfortunately, all the recipes involve melting things down or special-ordering stuff. Whatever. I've never met a science experiment that didn't have some element of failure attached to it, so why start now. I don't have any more mason jars, but I do have those plastic disposable soup containers.

I mix together a second batch, but this time I generously add chocolate syrup. The top goes back on, and I start rocking and rolling that stuff for five to six minutes. When I peek inside prior to the freezing portion of this exercise, I see light brown ice cream about the consistency of soft serve. This looks promising. 

Four hours later, the ice cream is pretty much frozen solid. I taste the vanilla chocolate chip, then I try the chocolate. Remember, my expectations are not lofty here.

Holy. Dairy. Queen. I think I might be on to something. 

Another recipe suggests that this shake-an-ice-cream technique will work with evaporated milk. I put that on my shopping list. I call my sister to tell her that she and her husband are bad influences in the dessert department, and, while expounding on the benefits of non-store-bought frozen deliciousness, I wonder out loud how it might work with some coffee added.

I may have created my own Frankenstein on this one. I'll keep you posted. In the meantime, I have some ice cream to polish off and some bigger-waisted clothing to order.

GO "FOURTH" AND READ!

A lot of stores are open for business on the Fourth of July. That doesn't surprise me anymore. 

There used to be these things in Massachusetts called The Blue Laws that prevented people from doing anything except going to church and mowing their lawns on Sunday . . . unless you forgot to fill the gas can on Saturday. Then, you weren't mowing your lawn on Sunday. These Blue Laws also extended to state and federal holidays. In other words, nobody except police and firemen and hospital staff worked when the Blue Laws were in effect.

What does surprise me about stores being open on Independence Day is that now stores are posting their holiday hours as "Open normal business hours." I mean, seriously. How many people are going to be out shopping on the Fourth of July for anything other than burgers and beer?

This is my mindset when I decide to go to the Used Book Superstore on July 4th. 

I tried this same trip last Independence Day. That time, I got within two-tenths of a mile and had to turn back because the road was closed for a parade. Bad planning on my part. This year, I wise up. I am not going over until three o'clock, after the parade-goers have packed it in and taken off. That gives me two hours to turn in old books and then buy more. This way of thinking means that anyone who had parked in the big lot for the parade will be long gone, and most sane people will be at barbecues and pool parties or in the ER after blowing their fingers off with M-80's.

I mosey on down with my grocery bag full of books to sell, pull into the parking lot of the bookstore, and . . . hesitate. Every single parking spot (except for a couple of the handicapped spots) is occupied. I have to park in an adjacent lot. I also notice two other people bringing books in to sell, and I mean bags full of books. 

I wait in line to get my return-books credit and am pleased to add twenty dollars to my account. I grab a carriage and begin to maneuver through the wide aisles and quickly realize that having a cart is a truly stupid idea.

This place is mobbed.

I have never seen so many people in this store, leading to multiple conversations about writing and publishing, and strangers sharing author recommendations with each other. The check-out line looks like Christmas mall shopping. It's so packed that I only buy myself a couple of books and decide to carry over a balance for next time. 

When it's my turn at the register, I say to the clerk, "I'm so glad you're open today, but I thought maybe it would be dead in here on the holiday."

"Me, too," she says with a small grin. "This is quite a surprise."

As I sit in my car, prepping to head home and checking my text messages that I ignored inside the store, I notice two people unloading boxes and boxes and more boxes of books to donate and/or sell. Some people may be at parties that are popping, but the real magic is popping right here in the bookstore.

FIRST SUMMER BEACH WALK

So far we've had a couple of hot, hot, HOT days. 

This means that if I try and get near a beach, I've got to leave absolutely no later than nine o'clock in the morning to get a spot in a lot or on the sand. The water is still way too cold for most sane people to go in. Of course, most of us who live in New England are not sane. The water temperature has been fluctuating between 61 and 63 degrees, and, after sitting on a hot beach in the direct sun, the water could be fifty degrees and we would be going into it in some capacity.

The main problem with my favorite beach is that it disappears at high tide. I can sit on a rock and wait for the waves to subside (not a bad day, either), or I can look at the tide chart and figure out when the beach will be wide open for low tide. Another problem is the fact that my super-sun-sensitive skin cannot be in the cloudless weather for extended periods of time. This is why it's better for me to go to the beach alone rather than insist my cohorts leave after two hours or so. 

Finally, a day arrives that is warm and sunny, and it happens to be a day when low tide occurs around 9:30 a.m. This means that I can get a good two-plus mile beach walk in well before the beach disappears. It almost seems silly to drive forty minutes from home to the coast for a walk, but those who have been to the ocean will completely understand my logic. So, I pack my beach bag (never truly unpacked) quickly and jump in my car.

The beauty of my favorite beach is that car-to-waves is less than thirty seconds and requires zero hot sand. Parking is three dollars per hour, and I gladly pay my nine-dollar fee, though I will probably only be there for about two hours. The time buffer allows for walking to the bath house, if I so desire.

I walk for an hour, read for an hour, and go into the water up to my knees. I am tempted to jump in, but I've settled my chair in the black-and-white checkered flag area. This is the surfers' zone and, even though no one is really surfing today, there are several lifeguards patrolling who will keep us out of the water on the beach's south end.

When I'm ready to leave, I am surprised to find that there are some parking spots open, probably because it's a weekday and many school systems are still in session. I head south on route 1, watching the traffic begin its predictable back-up as the day's heat climbs. I am home shortly after noon, sun-kissed and sand-toed from the walk, less than ten dollars lighter, with a renewed serenity and my first real dose of summer beach life.

SPOTTY WI-FI FLOOR PLAN

It's the most wonderful tiiiiiiime of the yeeeeear! School is done. 

I've said it before, and I'll say it again:  Teachers do NOT get paid for the summer (nor any "vacation" breaks, nor holidays, nor snow days); teachers are per diem employees. If teachers didn't have a summer break, there would be no more teachers because we would all be in the mental institutions.

Before I leave, I have to make a map of my room for the custodial and painting staff, which is normally easy-peasy because I have not changed my classroom footprint in years. However, I am already in the only room that has spotty wi-fi, also known as The Bluetooth Room From Hell. In February, our district decides it's a super-dee-duper time to update our network.

Now, the wi-fi situation is even worse. I get calls from the office: Why didn't you send your attendance? I did send the attendance. The software says so. I can see it right in front of me. It has already been submitted. 

Oh, but wait! It looks like I'm on the wi-fi. My tabs work. I can bring up Google and other sites, but, apparently, I am not connected. At least, not to the district's network. I don't know whose network I am on, but I'm not on theirs. This happens multiple times a day. If I move from one classroom to another, I "lose" network connectivity. Unless I stand in the windowsill all day, I don't have internet access for the full day, and I never know when I'm off the network because, hey, I'm still connected . . . somewhere.

The final full Friday of school, I cannot sleep, so I haul my butt to school. I am the very first car in the combined middle-high school lot. I arrive at o-dark-forty, park my car, and get into the building. The kiddos will be watching the final installment of a curriculum-based movie and having the final quiz on it. (Yessir, we don't just sit and watch movies. I make them pay attention and earn points for it. I even told them if their neighbors start to doze off, give them a little virtual pinch because this is worth big money.) 

While the students are occupied, I quietly sit at my desk in the far right corner and rearrange drawers, and get files ready to put away because the very moment they finish the quiz, I will be posting their final, unquestionable, solid-in-bedrock term four and year-end grades. No amount of emails, phone calls, nor district complaints can save anyone now. The moment the grades are finalized, I formally submit them through my spotty wi-fi connection along with those infamous conduct and effort comments. 

We. Are. Done. Here.

Except that now comes the hard part. Before I create a room map, I have to find a new space for my desk, somewhere in the room where I might possibly be able to maintain wi-fi connectivity to our district website more consistently than once or twice every hour. Eliminating the rest of the lyrics, let's just say I had a very brief Lil Jon moment: To the window; to the wall.

I start moving stuff across the room. First, the bookcases, still full of books. The file cabinet, three drawers full of files. Two tall file cabinets don't move much but still need to scooch a bit. Thirty desks with chairs need to be put into play, as well. The desktop cannot move because it is attached to what used to be an interactive board and is now just a glorified overhead projector for showing movies and videos and the daily agenda. Finally, the desk to the far left corner. Inch by slow inch, that loaded desk is going to move if it takes me all afternoon.

Hours later, long past the time that just about all of my colleagues have left, I have my desk in the new location, the bookcases where they need to be, the files all organized, the closets packed with loose textbooks, thirty desks are in group formations, and I have made sure that I seem to have district network Bluetooth working. I'll draw the map on Monday, when I'm sure this will be the final layout. 

I gather up the one lone teacher still in the building, and we walk out together, somewhat wilted but completely triumphant. She gets in her car first and tears out of the lot like her weekend is on fire, which it is at this point. I take a moment to get my phone up and running, check and see if anyone loves me, and make sure the air conditioning is coming on in the car (since it is broken inside the building).

I glance around and realize that I'm right back where I started, eleven-and-a-half hours later, alone in the parking lot. It may have been a long day, but it is a day like today that staves of the mental institution I mentioned earlier.