SAME OLD SAME OLD TRAVEL BLIPS

Whenever I travel, two things always happen without fail: 1. Some stranger accosts my personal space; and 2. My glasses break.

The first happens when I am minding my own business at Logan Airport. Regular readers of this blog will recognize the same old story. I am in a near-empty gate, sitting alone and away from humans, charging my phone, and generally minding my own damn business. Apparently I have a neon sign above my head that says, "Come! All ye who are loud and obnoxious, all ye who chew loudly, and who speak on your phones as if the whole world needs to know your life choices. Come, sit near me for a long, long while because I certainly don't wreak of 'Leave me the fuck alone' vibes."

A man, probably about my age, sits in a seat directly behind me (remember, the gate is near empty, so at least fifty other seats are completely unoccupied), starts up a video call, and proceeds to tell a woman (his poor wife?) all about everything from his travel woes to his pus-filled hemorrhoids. I know she can see me on the video call, and I've half a mind to swivel my head and scream, "Who are you talking to, you two-timing bastard?!" 

Finally, he says mercifully, "Let me put on my headphones so we can have a private conversation." Then, and this is the ridiculous part, he puts on the headphones but does not plug them into his phone. He continues on his very loud video call, only he's louder since he cannot hear clearly because he is basically now wearing mufflers on his ears. I turn, glance over my shoulder but am disappointed to see that he has angled the phone to the right so only half of his face is on the video screen (and none of mine). I shake my head and move two aisles over in the same waiting area because there is no one else here.

The second problem I have when traveling is that my glasses always break. Oh, they never break when I'm home or near a store -- only at the most inconvenient times and places. I have learned my lesson of having to wear driving sunglasses in the dark because my distance glasses broke during a road trip, and of not being able to read anything because my up-close glasses have lost a lens. Now, I always bring two pairs of driving glasses and two pairs of readers with me on trips. Simple. Problem solved.

However, on this particular trip, I will be going someplace sunny. At the last moment when parking my car at the long-term lot, I grab my driving sunglasses (the ones that saved me during that night driving incident) and pop them into my bag. Thank goodness I do. because I am wearing those constantly while driving around the neighborhoods of North Carolina.

I leave my glasses in the rental, no problem, and proceed to a park and to lunch. Until, that is, I get back in the SUV. Remember -- I have not been near the sunglasses for two hours; they are merely sitting alone in the vehicle. When I open the car door and ready myself to leave the parking lot, I grab my glasses and a random chunk of the temple tip of the frame has merely detached itself. I can't even pretend to use the glasses because they will fall right off the side of my face.

Thank goodness I still have two sets of driving glasses with me in my backpack in the car (I'm headed to the airport soon, anyway, so everything is with me). It doesn't help that I am driving into the sun, but it's okay. That's what car visors are made for, right?

When I get back to my own car at the long-term lot, it is dark, so I don't need my sunglasses. I have my spare pair in the car, anyway, but now I have to buy a spare spare. All in all, one random freakazoid headphone man and one set of broken glasses are not nearly enough to dampen a great trip, and it's reassuring to know that my travel blips remain steady. It almost feels like good luck!

SANGRIA AND INDUSTRIAL TOOLS

I am not a weakling.

I used to carry full-grown men across judo mats, along with dragging their full body weight up and down the mats. I can and have moved furniture by myself up and down stairs. I routinely carry cases of paper around at work.

But, I have strangely small hands that make opening things a huge challenge. 

My hands are so small that I can barely reach an octave on the piano keys, and pinkie rings are too big for my ring fingers. Of course, my tiny fingers are extraordinarily helpful when someone needs to reach up and into the broken copy machine at work to retrieve bits of paper that no one else can access without barbecue tongs (which we do not keep in the teachers' room). 

However, my limited grip berth is detrimental when trying to open things like jars and bottles. More than once, I have had to take serrated knives to the plastic caps on bottles in order to open them. Oh, sure, I can lift cases of these bottles. I just don't have the brute hand span to get a decent grip for torque.

Imagine, if you will, my limited grip versus a very well-sealed bottle of sangria.

I try and try and try to turn the cap, but it is fused metal-to-metal. I get one of those rubber grippy things and work at it, but it doesn't budge. I even try leather gloves, which have a much better grip than tiny hands alone do. Finally, I grab my handy serrated knife (that I keep for such occasions and for breaking down large boxes) and start pecking apart the metal ring holding the cap to the bottle neck.

Nothing is working. Not a dang thing. I can't even budge the cap. (Remember, I am not a weakling.)

Finally, I grab a wrench. Yes, a wrench. an industrial sized wrench, not some small one. I am going to open this bottle or break it and dump its contents down the sink. I use a washcloth, too, just in case the glass does break, to add an element of safety to this endeavor.

Once I get the bottle open (after several attempts), I take a look at the cap. It is bent, and not just bent a little bit, but bent in a way that the manufacturer seemed to intend that no one could ever break into the bottle. It's like the makers of Fort Knox created the sealant to this bottle. As I am adding fruit to my glass and preparing to pour the sangria in, I swear I hear the theme song from Mission Impossible playing.

I think I'm done with these bottles. I understand now why people gravitate toward pop-top sodas and boxed wines. At least I won't need the power tools to have some refreshment.

SPICY PEANUT SAUCE AND OTHER OBSESSIONS

I just happen to be running errands when I pass a Whole Foods grocery store. I have zero business buying more food. My refrigerator is decently stocked, as is my back-up supply of dry goods. I have every intention of steering my car straight up the hill and away from Whole Foods. I even get into the lane that does not turn toward the road where Whole Foods is located.

Somehow, though, I suddenly find myself changing lanes and swerving right to head toward the parking lot. Apparently, I have a hankering for some vegetable spring rolls. If you don't know what those are, vegetable spring rolls are sushi for people who hate raw fish. 

Not every Whole Foods has the vegetable spring rolls, or, if they do, they're not readily available on a regular basis. For example, I've never seen them in Whole Foods in Charlotte, North Carolina. Doesn't mean that they don't have them; I've just never seen them when I've gone looking for a snack while visiting.

So, my car and I end up at Whole Foods. (I'm blaming the car, of course.) I go into the store and find the spring rolls. Score! But, the display case also has cucumber avocado rolls. I've never tried those, but they look good, too. Oh, great. Now I've gone from "I shouldn't be stopping here" to "I cannot decide which specialty item to choose."

In the spirit of generosity and because I don't want to offend any yummy vegetables in the case, I opt to buy both. I actually tell myself that I will have a few of each and maybe bring the rest to school for lunch.  (Insert evil laughter here.) 

What actually happens is that I scarf down all of the cucumber avocado rolls plus half of the vegetable spring rolls. I do not bring the rest of the spring rolls for my work lunch because the spicy peanut sauce is messy, so I inhale those the following evening.

This is not the worst part of the story. The worst part of the story is that now I have an obsession with these darn things. I cannot stop thinking about the vegetable spring rolls, and it's to the point that I am Googling spicy peanut sauce recipes. I also used an avocado and other vegetables (string beans, peppers, tomatoes, spinach...) along with couscous and created my own bowl version.

Thank goodness Halloween just passed by. I have enough disguises to go back into Whole Foods as often as I like and buy the vegetable spring rolls and the cucumber avocado rolls without being recognized and dubbed mentally and nutritionally unbalanced. I pay cash, too, so no one will be able to track my purchasing history.

I suppose there could be worse obsessions, but this one is borderline weird. That being said, if you have a decent and easy spicy peanut sauce recipe, send it my way. 

HALLOWEEN FUN

Halloween is coming.

As readers know, I already set up for Christmas (mostly) when one of the grands came over to help decorate. Same grandchild is here with me this weekend, so I decided to bring home my school Halloween toys. Not only will I be retiring within the next year or two so stuff has to come home, but this kiddo loves, loves, loves scary stuff and all things Halloween. She is the perfect audience for such shenanigans.

As soon as the little missy wakes up from her nap, we are going to town with the toys. I have a two-foot tall dancing skeleton who sings Super Freak, a dancing and singing purple people eater, an animated witch,  and a full-sized (but flat) plastic skeleton with moving joints.

I might have set up Christmas first, but that was just to throw off the holidays. I am fully ready for Halloween around here, and I have the decorated cookies and cupcakes to prove it. Today we drove nearby to inspect fairy houses and mini villages. The kiddo pointed out Halloween houses the entire ride there and back, short as it was. Later, after nap time and toy time, she will be having a play-date with another young'un who just so happens to be one house away from a huge animated Halloween house.

It's great when a holiday (or two) can give children so much pleasure. It's fun to be with the little kids (and the bigger ones) at any given moment, but it sure eases the entertainment factor around the holidays.

Happy Halloween, and may the trick-or-treat gremlins be generous!

BOOOOOOOOO -- IT'S THE HOLIDAY SEASON

Booooo! It's Christmas in my house.

I know, I know. It's not even Halloween yet. But when a three-year-old comes over to decorate a tree, you decorate a damn tree. That's just the way life is. 

I have a small tree, only about four feet tall. I live in an apartment that lacks storage. For some reason, every place that I've lived in has seriously lacked closet space. Not only that, this place doesn't have attic storage, either. So, I had to decide: full-size washer and dryer, or another closet. Hmmmm... time to down-size the Christmas tree, I guess.

I will say that having a three-year-old decorator certainly made my share of the work more tolerable. The older I get, the less I like hanging ornaments on the tree. I've dumped more than half of my original ornaments, and tossed a lot of the decorations because I don't host anymore, so the whole "deck the halls" routine is ridiculously streamlined now, much to my amazement and pleasure.

I do, however, still have several fragile antique ornaments, as well as many lovely glass ones, so this whole "toddler-tree" symbiosis may not have been my brightest idea. In the end, though, no glass was broken. There were casualties, though. The Bruins chair lost its hockey stick, and Bob Ross suffered a half-severed foot. Nothing a little hot glue won't fix once I get around to it.

I did notice, after the fact, that a couple of bulbs on the tree are out, but I'm not touching those until after the season ends. I refuse to risk short-circuiting the whole tree. That would mean undoing everything, adding strings of lights, and re-hanging all of the garland and decorations.

Bah-freaking-humbug to that, Ebenezer!

I guess for Halloween I will be Santa's elf. Considering that I haven't given the holidays any thought other than that, the tree will be scary enough.

WEATHER AND DUMB-ASSERY

 New England weather is at its "dumb-ass" level -- 40 degrees in the morning and 85 degrees in the afternoon. This means that we are unable to properly dress for simple things like work, shopping, or stepping outside for a moment.

I decide to bring in the last of my porch plants. I figure that if the frost comes, which it does a few days later, I want to save the few plants that I hadn't brought back to school. This seems like a smart decision.

Until I start moving the few pieces of furniture that I have out there.

It all starts innocently enough. "Bring in the plants; sweep the porch off." There isn't a whole lot of room to move around out there. The porch is some silly measurement like 3.5 feet by 6 feet., so I am even tripping over myself. I have a couple of wire shelf units for plants, so those have to come inside, as well. Then, I have to maneuver the other furniture from side to side so that I can get the broom working.

It all goes well, for the most part. Yes, the wind might take a bit of the dirt I sweep over the balcony and deposit said dirt onto the patio below. Ooopsies. But, really, it wasn't like I dumped leaves or big branches. Just some dirt. The bulky metal table and the matching medium-weight chairs move easily enough. Pretty soon, the porch is looking all right, so I sit out there for a couple of hours (since it's 80 degrees now).

I am now minding my own business, reading on my Kindle while enjoying my plant-less porch. It seems like a win-win for me. 

Until I glance down.

Just as an FYI - I was born with long toes. It's the reason why I have a larger shoe size for someone of my limited height. This means that I'm always catching my toes on things, and I have broken no less than eight of my toes over my lifetime. This knowledge alone should prove that what I am about to type is no big mystery. And yet, the true mystery is that I have zero recollection of doing this.

I seem to have taken a substantial chunk of skin out of my foot right near my big toe. 

I figure it's just a scratch, so I let it congeal and continue reading. Later, as I prepare to shower, I realize that I should probably clean the toe off. After all, it's going to sting like Charles Dickens when I get under the water.

Except instead of a scratch or normal injury, I discover a hole. A pretty substantial hole. A hole about the size of my pinkie fingernail, and about as deep as the thickness of a quarter.

You would think that I might remember such an injury, but you'd be wrong.

Apparently, I have somehow managed to gouge a nice divot into my big toe, probably on some piece of furniture, and have now bled to softball stage. Even worse, the dang thing is starting to show signs of infection. I treat it with both anti-infection stuff (smells like tar) and triple-antibacterial cream. It hurts a bit, but not that badly. But, man, oh, man, does it look hideous. 

Let this be a lesson to all of you: If you're thinking of doing fall cleaning and bringing in random porch furniture -- DON'T. If summer isn't over, which ours clearly is not yet, don't bite Mother Nature -- she bites back (and uses outdoor furniture in her arsenal).

ADVENTURES IN PENMANSHIP

It is said that students can't write anymore, can't use punctuation, can't identify nor write a complex sentence (or worse). In many cases, this is absolutely true. But, let me break it down to an even more basic problem:

Students cannot write legibly anymore. For me, this is the crux of the problem.  

When I first started teaching in my current district, all of my students were required to write in pen and in cursive. After a few years, we relaxed that standard. Somewhere along the frameworks-pushed way, handwriting and penmanship gave way in elementary schools to things like social-emotional wellness. By the time the kiddos got to me, they had socialized victim mentality and writing that resembled chicken scratch written in a foreign alphabet system.

So, this year, I have a poster that depicts what the regular printed alphabet looks like, letter by letter, with little arrows teaching the students exactly how to stroke out the letters in pencil or pen. On day one, I announced, "If your letters don't look more like these," and I pointed to the poster, "then you will be rewriting and rewriting and rewriting your work until it does look like this."

I also announced that anyone who masters the printed alphabet is welcome to experiment with the cursive alphabet, of which I also have a poster. Every day I post an inspirational quote on the board, always written in cursive, with the challenge, "Read this, if you can!" It  has proven to be a popular activity.

Before you blast me about IEPs and 504s and PT and OT, understand that unless the child is actually physically missing a hand, or has a degenerative hand or arm condition, or a temporary issue such as a brace or cast, or is mentally unable to write, then that child can produce writing that resembles or even emulates the printed letters on the poster. Period. 

One boy boasted that he didn't have to follow my directive. My expression clearly stated otherwise. He stood up and said, "Yeah, that's not going to work because I have terrible handwriting."

I gave the child my caring face (hint: I don't have one), and replied, "Oh, pumpkin. That sounds like a you problem, not a me problem. Feel free to have a seat."

I am pleased to report that we are three weeks into the school year, and it has been a very long time since I have been able to clearly decipher (and grade) the students' work, until now, that is. They seem to understand that illegible handwriting isn't just good practice. It is also brainpower, willpower, and academic power. Being careful writers also helps them to be careful thinkers. It seems that how they write something directly corresponds with the actual initiative to write something.

For now, I don't have any scientific data beyond my own observations. I do, however, look forward to practicing cursive with them eventually. There are many studies on the interconnectedness of contiguous writing and contiguous thought. It's kind of like playing Connect the Dots with a captive audience. 

Mastering basic writing skills at ages twelve and thirteen really is too late. Unfortunately, the state only allows teachers minimal time and support to work on handwriting skills. I shouldn't have to teach them the basics all over again, but, dagnabbit, I will. If any group can pull it off, it's the group I have now. Maybe then I truly will give them a real caring face, after all.

DOG-AND-PONY SHOW

I do not like Back-to-School Night.

I tell my students that one of the things I hate most in the world is standing in front of people and talking. This is true. Then, they laugh and point out that being a teacher means I stand and talk in front of people every day. This is also true.

However, actively teaching to an engaged young audience is starkly different than presenting a dry and untested dog-and-pony show to tired and harried adults on a mid-week night of torrential downpours. 

You see, all of us, parents and teachers included, wish to be somewhere, anywhere, else.

The beauty of  Back-to-School Night is that I don't have too many more of these. I'm old and have done this already almost thirty times. The sad part is that many of these parents I see now include former students. While that is a surreal experience, it is also a blatant reminder that I am rapidly becoming a relic.

When I do retire, I just might return for Back-to-School night, sit in on my former teammates, and enjoy being out of the hot seat for a change. On second thought, maybe I won't. After all, no one truly wants to be here. We may want the experience of it, to be able to say to the students that we enjoyed meeting parents and that parents enjoyed meeting us. The reality is that we all just want to get home to dinner and showers. Perhaps we can just record ourselves (you know -- like the old-school Covid days) and send these home for parents to watch at their leisure.

Won't happen in my teaching lifetime. At least I can count on one hand the amount of times that I will do this again. Maybe even on the hand of a truly bad shop teacher. Either way, I'll be glad to put this Dog-and-Pony show out to pasture when the time finally comes.

My Recent Airline Experience:

1.  I leave work on time to get to the station where I will park my car and take the bus to the airport. When I arrive, there are zero long-term spaces available. After some finagling, I pay for three days and leave my car in the "pick-up parking only" lot, which means I have a front-row spot at the station.

2.  The bus is caught in stopped traffic because some idiots smashed into each other on the Zakim Bridge, making inbound afternoon traffic worse than outbound commuter traffic.

3.  There is no one in line at pre-check, and the few of us sail right through. A random guy and I get pulled aside at Logan by TSA to be checked for bomb residue on our hands. Yes, I look like a post-menopausal terrorist, apparently. This is the fifth or sixth time in a row that I have been "randomly" tagged. The last two times, TSA demanded my cell phone (also for bomb purposes).

4.  My gate is changed. I sit a gate away so I have room and availability to charge my cell phone. My only company is a lovely lady sharing my flight and a random bird that keeps wandering around between our feet.

5.  Our flight is delayed by people who do not understand how to deplane. They keep dribbling out with huge spaces between random blobs of humans. People - Grab your stuff and get off the plane. Worth the wait -- the sunset is amazing through the cloud bank.

6.  The rental car line is ridiculously long, even at an almost ungodly hour of the night.

7.  I miss Whole Foods by five minutes and end up getting the first fast food that I have had in a decade or more. It's a Wendy's chicken sandwich, passably edible.

8.  I sleep better than I do at home except for a random 3:30 a.m. leg cramp that feels like I might need to have my lower leg amputated. Takes a solid fifteen minutes to walk and settle down again. Old age is not for sissies.

9.  Everything is great, the weather and the company and the hotel, until I return to the airport. Seriously. I don't even hit traffic, and the line to the rental return is well-organized. I get to pre-check, which in Charlotte means me and 300 of my closest friends. It's okay because the regular line is probably 500 deep. I almost don't get past TSA because they're looking at my license. Now, this I could understand when I cut off all of my hair last summer, but now I look exactly like my license picture, long gray hair and all, minus maybe a dozen pounds. Again, TSA gives me crap.

10.  Two minutes after I sit at my gate, a notification comes through that my flight will be delayed 90 minutes. That's 90 minutes I could've spent NOT sitting at the airport. At least I get to watch the end of the Giants-Cowboys football game.

11.  The flight is delayed on the tarmac as there are too many planes in front of us. 

12.  The woman sitting next to me smells so badly that the girl on my other side curls into a ball for the entire two-hour flight, and I am forced to pull my jacket around my nose. Seriously. Take some Gas-X or something. We are all stuck with her rear-end the entire flight.

13.  The flight is delayed in landing because Logan closed one of its runways and there are still too many planes in front of us. I sit near the front, so I manage to get off the plane within ten minutes.

14.  The express bus back to my car is late, and, when it does arrive, we make the rounds to the other terminals. I am at B, so A is already on the bus. Then C, which has a lot of people, then D with the same situation, then E, the international terminal, with a bunch of people. I have never seen the bus so full, People are standing. Where did all of these people come from? 

15.  At the bus station, my bag is one of the last out because, hey, too many people on the bus after me. At least my car is all paid for and in a front spot. I manage to make it home and am showered and unpacked quickly.

I love, love love traveling. But, this TSA schtick is starting to get old. The next time I fly, which will be in a few weeks, if I get TSA-picked-on again, I will be filing a DHS-TRIP form. Other than that, the delays and gate changes and even the bird are all entertaining. (That lady's butt, not so much.)

AND SO IT STARTS

Back to school, yet again. 
Only one or two more "first days" 

(hopefully, one)

 to survive -- 

the multiple online trainings, 

the speeches, 

and the overpaid and undertalented presenters. 

Most of us spend the time on our devices. 

I play a few rounds of Rummy 

and complete a Sudoku or two. 
We're not trying to be disrespectful. 

We're trying to stay awake. 

The nights leading into the first few days 

of school 

always involve restless and sleepless nights. 

So, most of us do the best we can to 

make our surroundings more palatable. 

Posters go up, color gets splashed around, 

and plants go in the window.

Then, the students show up,

splashing color into the room,

taking up the empty space,

and bringing to life the void

that occupied the space since June.

Back again -

For now.

ROCK IT LIKE A HURRICANE

The hurricane skirted by our coast recently. It brought with it waves, excitement, daring, stupidity, and tragedy.

We live in the Merrimack Valley, which means that the mighty Merrimack River is our major waterway. It empties into the Atlantic Ocean in a channel that is known for its treacherous undertow. This means that people who jump off the jetty to swim often get pulled out or under, only to wash up as bloated corpses days or even weeks later. Seriously. They slip in the water without a care in the world and then get swallowed up into oblivion.

I've boated through the channel on a good day, which means everyone except the captain lies down on the bottom of the boat for balance and safety. Every time we hit a swell (they're continuous), the boat goes perpendicular, and we are "standing" and watching the boats behind us attempt the same maneuvers. It's an experience not for the faint of heart. We lived through it and no one got tossed overboard. 

Do boats go through there every day? Sure. Are there calm days? Sure. The problem is that the ocean up this way can look deceptively placid even when it's aiming to murder you.

Rip tides are a frequent event up here. Not frequent enough to keep us out of the ocean, but frequent enough that every summer a few people get caught in the rip currents and either have to get rescued (if they're lucky) or have to be recovered (if they're not). Sometimes the rip tides can be spotted from the beach -- an area suddenly looks flat, or waves crash on the shore all except in one place where they just . . . don't. 

In all the times that I've been to the beach, once (and only once) have I been involved in a rogue wave situation, and my friend and I were lucky because it only involved us chasing our chairs and our flip-flops into waist-deep water as it receded. Thinking back on it now, though, we probably should've called it a wash and let the stuff go with the major undertow that sucked the beach dry after the wave crested.

But, like the coastal water babies we are, we can't resist hurricane-induced surf.

We head out to the beach and notice that the waves just keep coming in and coming in, right on top of and with each other. It's fascinating to watch and even better to hear because the roar doesn't stop for a breath; it keeps sounding like an unhinged alarm clock. There are two surfers in wet suits (dumb to attempt surfing this but smart to be suited up) and one who just walks into the ocean wearing shorts and a t-shirt. We see them go into the water, but we don't see them come out for a very long time. Finally, about twelve minutes goes by and one of the wet-suited surfers reappears near the shoreline. My only worry is that if we can't see them, rescuers can't, either. 

After a while, we head toward the inner areas, places that are still windy and choppy, but are marshes or small bays or coves, more protected from the wide open stretches of beach. There are two windsurfers taking full advantage of the steady, strong breeze. They are smart -- they're staying along the edge of the water, along a parking lot, a residential street, and houses. In other words, they are both protected and visible. And they are flying. Literally. Maybe four to six stories in height.

It is pretty cool to watch and not nearly as nerve-wracking as watching the surfers disappear into the Atlantic Ocean.

Later, when the hurricane makes its closest pass, the news stations report on swimmers drowning (people in the violent surf who probably shouldn't have attempted the thrill) and at least one boater lost at sea after passing through that turbulent (on a good day) channel. None of these people had any business being in or on the water in such conditions, but we all misjudge (sudden rip tides and rogue waves and sharks and jellyfish). 

After all, it's not like the hurricane actually hit us, right? Wrong. 

The sea is its own master. It can turn on its wrath with the rapidity of Poseidon punishing Odysseus. The ocean doles out waves and excitement and daring that often make great photo ops, but it also indiscriminately punishes stupidity and delivers tragedy. It demands and deserves respect and will always exact revenge in the face of hubris. If you're lucky enough to be its witness, the camera is a better option than a wetsuit, swimsuit, or life jacket. Just as long as you rock it like a hurricane and don't roll it like bloated roadkill.

SCENIC NON-VISTAS

Eastern New Hampshire's idea of a scenic vista and my idea of a scenic vista are sharply different.

I am galivanting around the Lake Winnipesaukee area for a few days. The weather is iffy, but the rain mostly holds off for me to take a few side trips in the mountains. For a couple of years now, I've been itching to drive over toward Alton Bay and check out the two "scenic overlooks" that Google Maps claims are worth stopping to see. After all, they have "camera" icons marking them.

I've been to the Mount Washington valley. I've also seen the views from Whiteface in Lake Placid. I've been to the top of Pack Monadnock, Bradbury Mountain, and even Mount Agamenticus -- smaller mountains, but still with worthy views..  I've seen the hundred-mile view in southern Vermont. There's a hike in Simsbury, Connecticut, that's also worthy, especially if you climb the stairs of the Heublein Tower once you reach the top. There are great views from the Poet's Seat tower in Greenfield. When I lived in Southern New Hampshire, we could easily see mountains just driving around our small town. I'm also a bit spoiled because very little compares to the middle of Lake Champlain with the Green Mountains on one side and the Adirondacks on the other, wrapping people up in a complete circle of beauty. The ghostly image of Mount Rainier from the Seattle Space Needle was pretty dang cool, too. 

I start my misadventure in Meredith, NH, where there are some sculptures around town. The views are battling with the passing storms, providing some dramatic cloud cover. I snap a few pictures, then head back toward Gilford, where there is a thick, heavy, dark gray cloud hanging over the entire area, and I make it out of there just as the rain lets go. I'm on my way now, heading east toward Maine, with my GPS locked and loaded for "scenic view" number one.

The first thing that I notice is that the view is more of a hill than a mountain, and it's so overgrown that there really isn't much to see. I give it a "meh" rating and hope stop number two is more impressive. This second scenic overlook has just me and a dump truck driver, who is in desperate need of a cigarette. I jockey for position along the weedy and bush-laden guardrail and away from any ash and fire potential. If I stand just so, at a certain angle, I can almost sort of maybe make out part of the lake and some small mountains. Mount Major is behind me and under the road I'm on, so I'm still looking back toward the same view that I had in Meredith, just from a different angle.

Disappointment is the day's buzz word. The weather is iffy, anyway, but I am truly surprised that these two overlooks have been . . . overlooked for upkeep. If I hadn't grown up around here and been trekking to the White Mountains pretty much all of my life, I suppose I wouldn't bother coming back. Certainly nothing to see here. Even the Madison Boulder is more impressive than this view. Okay, to be honest, the Madison Boulder is damn impressive on its own, but that's a story for another day.

I don't know. I guess Alton's idea of a scenic vista and my idea of a scenic vista are a couple of mountains apart. I'm still glad I made the trip, but I doubt I'd go route 11 ever again if I can avoid it. It's interesting and it's scenic in a backroad New England kind of way, but, if you're looking for photo ops and expansive views, don't get tricked by the signs.

SUMMER WINDS DOWN

As usual, the weather for the last two weeks of my summer break are "iffy" - at best. So, when a sunny, warm day rolls around, I try to take advantage of it. It's Saturday, the second to last Saturday before the complex's pool closes. With the air temperature reaching the mid-80's, I grab my towel and a book and head to the lounge chairs, expecting a weekend-sized crowd to be there.

No crowd. Not a single soul other than the lifeguard.

I am there for about fifteen minutes when one of the regulars shows up. He immediately grabs the same two lounge chairs I always see him using on the opposite side of the pool. He flings towels over them, puts in a Dunkins order on his phone, and promptly disappears. Apparently, he is high-hosey-ing those chairs, just in case.

Just in case of what, exactly, I'm not certain. I am still the only person here.

I usually read for a while, swim for a bit, then read some more. I decide to hit the water only to discover that the heater has been turned off. The water is a cool (and I do mean cool) 74 degrees. That is pretty close to the temperature of the ocean water. A quick cool-off is needed, but then I'm right back out again.

I hang around reading for another half hour. By this time, Chair Claiming Man still has not shown back up. The empty loungers have been warming two towels for over an hour. Even more interesting, I continue to be the only person poolside. As I'm leaving, I hear a family unloading their car on their way to the pool (good luck -- it's pretty chilly), and I pass a neighbor on her way to the lounger chairs. At least the lifeguard won't be bored while waiting for Dunkins DoLittle to make his reappearance.

I know exactly when the weather will return to Summer Mode, with perfect days in the 90s: The first two weeks that I am back in school, suffering through mindless professional development, useless meetings, and lunches with at least one person who was supposed to be transferred elsewhere . . . but wasn't. (I'm way too old and jaded to be diplomatic, so I'll have to eat at my desk instead of the lunch room because ain't nobody got time for her shit.)

Maybe I'll bring a towel to work with me and claim a few chairs for myself. Perhaps I can escape reality through the same portal my pool-mate did. It will appear that I am there (at work), but I will be somewhere far more interesting. It will be like pulling a magic trick at lunch: I'm there, but in an alternate dimension, perhaps back in Summer, where the weather is way too warm and the water is way too cold.

SUMMER SHENANIGANS CONTINUE

My siblings and I like shenanigans. We are always getting into some kind of adventure or, as often happens, trouble, but it keeps us spry. It's the kind of stuff we pulled as youngsters. 

Of course, we aren't as daring as we once were, like suffering lacerations and a broken nose while on roller skates (the old four-wheel type) tied via long rope to my sister's bike. Or trying to throw another toddler out the second-story window at church nursery school one Sunday morning. Or building giant snow horses instead of snowmen so we could scale the icy things to play on them. Or taking our downhill skis through the very hilly and tree-filled backwoods around our property -- amazing that we didn't smash our helmet-less skulls.

Now, we are into tamer pursuits, for the most part. We did replace skiing through the woods with sledding at supersonic speeds past stumps, trees, and boulders (still helmet-less), and playing snowball baseball by swinging shovels full-tilt. 

We still have a smidgen of daredevil in us.

When my sister and I take in an easy hike to Cascade Falls, we don't expect much. We have had exactly two days of rain in the last three or four weeks. Imagine our surprise when there is actually water running over the rocks. This is where normal people would snap some pictures and stay on the trail.

We are far, far from normal people.

Instead, we go off-roading. After all, we are both wearing sensible shoes. We take to balancing on the rocky and jutting surfaces as if we are the Flying Wallendas (and, a couple of times, we almost become them).We tiptoe over crags, jump over small water features, and climb up small rock faces, all in the name of shenanigans.

We do get some artistic photos. My sister leads the trail, for the most part, so I get a lot of pictures of her rear-end. We work our way along the rocks and through small paths made by others who ventures off the trails as did we until we reconnect with the trails we are supposed to be on. (Don't panic! We were both Girl Scouts, and I was an Assistant GS Leader to two different troops. We only stepped where others had and did not damage any wildlife.)

Surprisingly, we end up on the family-friendly trail after crossing a bridge. We are greeted with Ruby the Rock Snake, a human-created sculpture of rocks laid along the trail to extend Ruby's length, and a concrete block game of hopscotch. Naturally, we dive right in to both activities and are pleased that we are still able to hop and scotch with the best of them.

I'm sorry to see Summer winding down, but that just means a whole bunch of new shenanigans once the season changes. 

STOPPING TO SMELL THE (REAL) ROSES

I'm notorious for stopping in random towns and random places when I'm out driving around because, to be completely honest, I despise the highway. Traveling by interstate may get you where you're going a lot faster, but the scenery is blasé, to be polite. Monotonous. Repetitive. The view from I-95 in Maine is often the same as it is in Connecticut, North Carolina, and Florida: Trees! Some houses! An occasional cow! Pretty standard stuff.

So, I like to wander off the overly-beaten path. Oftentimes, I get lost. (I get lost a lot, actually.) Sometimes my travels lead somewhere unexpected, like finding an old schoolhouse in the middle of being lost in Vermont, or having a quiet lunch by myself while being lost along the edge of a vineyard in New York. 

Perhaps, it even means passing by a sign pointing to a place I didn't realize existed in its location. This is how I stumble onto New England Botanic Garden at Tower Hill.

I knew there was a botanic garden in Massachusetts, but I thought it was closer to Boston. Instead, it's tucked into the middle of the state, much closer to Worcester (but not too close). It's off a backroad, but an easily accessible backroad, and there's no hectic city traffic to confuse my nonexistent sense of direction. After passing the sign a half dozen times in the last month or so, I decide that a hazy summer afternoon of temperatures in the high seventies means that it's time to stop and, quite literally, smell the roses.

And smell the other flowers, and the plants, and the trees, and the rocks, and the statues. Well, I do not smell the sculptures because that might be too weird, but the place is a treasure trove of vision, smells, and serenity. I'm wearing my comfy and sturdy flipflops, so I at first stick to things that say "easy walk." Then, I see "moderate" and decide, yeah, I can do that, too. There is one trail marked "difficult" and it's the summit trail. 

It's only a bit of a quick climb through the woods over ruts and rocks and roots, and the elevation isn't pitched too sharply, so my trusty Clark's sandals and I take to the trail. It turns out to be so worth it. At the top it is only me and an older couple. They've hiked up to celebrate their fifty-fourth wedding anniversary. They take the bench, and I stand in awe of the view. We are looking out over Wachusett Reservoir with the smoky image of Mount Wachusett sixteen or so miles off.

After that, I feel pretty invincible, so I hike all the way down to the pond, which is a silly idea in the afternoon sun and heat with nothing but an uphill climb to get back to the visitor center. This is when I have my Robert Frost Moment. I come upon two paths that diverge right there at the woods; one is well-established and one is less-traveled. I now have two choices: Do I hike back up the steeper, groomed path through the shady but buggy woods? Or, do I go for the grassy, meandering, full-sun path that rises a little more gently back to even ground?

Of course, I decide to go field-bombing. I swerve off to the left, just me and some butterflies and some haying grass, and start the trek back to even ground. About halfway up, though, the sun really is too much, so I find a connecting path and walk the last hundred yards in the shade. Technically, I took the path less-traveled, but I kind of worked my way back to civilization before I keeled over from heat stroke.

I will wander back there again, though. I realize as I'm leaving that I missed a part of the garden. I also didn't spend a lot of time perusing every little placard. I'm more of a looker than a learner when I encounter museums and places with lots to see. I'd rather take in all the visuals than synthesize information. (Explains why my nephews and I zoomed through the National Gallery of Art in D.C. -- gotta see everything!) In the end, I might veer off the beaten path, but I'll make sure every detail gets a perusal, and, if I miss something, it's just another reason to return.

IT'S JUST AROUND THE CORNER

It has been hot this summer. Wonderfully, fabulously hot! The last few steaming days were lower humidity, so the heat has been pure enjoyment, even at 97 degrees. 

Not every day has been perfect, though. Nearly so, but not completely. 

The one day and evening that I need to be outside (local Drum Corps show for the nephews), it pours and pours for hours. We've also had a couple of crisp nights with temperatures in the fifties. For the most part, though, this summer has been perfect.

Until a hike in the woods.

It starts out innocently enough. Warm temperature, occasional breezes, almost completely empty trails through the woods. We encounter fairy houses hidden in offshoot trails, we trek over wooden walkways and mini-bridges, and there is enough water still running through the very low river. 

But, then -- we spot something. It's just one thing at first. An anomaly, right? Except, it's fresh, still soft and not brittle. And another. And another yet. 

Autumn leaves. Freshly turned foliage. On the way home, we spot entire bushes already half-turned to fall colors.

Oh, Summer! How could you? You fickle and callous season. Pretending you want to roast us inside of our own skins and then you pull this -- this nasty trick of October right here at the start of August.

I suppose it was bound to happen. After all, I did see a joke post about putting up a Christmas tree now that August is here, and I thought, "You know, that's a dang fine idea!" (I probably shouldn't mention that my downstairs neighbor keeps her tree up and lit all year long.) Those of us who jump from July Fourth to Advent with zero regard to Labor Day, Halloween, Veterans' Day, and Thanksgiving are the ones who are causing all of this. So, I apologize.

I am sorry that I had thoughts of the holidays. I'm sorry that I watched Christmas in July on every sappy movie channel available on my TV service. I guess it's my fault that the leaves are starting to turn. I do believe that we have a couple more weeks of swimming before the snow falls, so I promise not to take out my snowshoes and admire them or make sure my ice skates (both figure and hockey) are sharpened.

Watch out, though. I swear to you, I saw it in the woods today. Autumn is just around the corner. FYI.

NO SUCH THING AS THE SILVER LINE

I ride the subway, or, as we call it here around Boston, The T. I don't ride it every day, but I ride it enough to know my way around. Much like the city streets of Boston, the T often makes zero sense.

Last year my friend and I were in a T station when we encountered a Texas mom and her teen daughter. They were in a suburb (Chestnut Hill) to check out Boston College and had come into the city easily enough on the Green Line. However, they stood dumbfounded at the map trying to get back to the campus in Chestnut Hill. 

You see, Boston actually has four different Green Lines: B, C, D, and E; and D has a northern nook and a southern branch. Worse, all four lines connect in the middle for several stations, and you have to get to the train with your letter on it. 

Worst of all possibilities, because it does go from bad to worse to worst, part of the Green Line operates through the streets with single carriages, meaning riders are literal sardines around the Museum of Fine Arts (the E Line) and Boston University (not ever in the entire world to be mistaken for Boston College -- the Bean Pot Hockey Gods spit on you for such infractions). This whole sardine routine makes the T resemble an overcrowded Bangladesh Festival Train. 

Getting back to our Boston College tourists, even more complicated: Chestnut Hill T-stops (by name) are on both the Green Line B and the Green Line D routes. 

We here in Boston understand the T. 

For example, the Silver Line doesn't truly exist. Oh, sure, there are buses at the airport that operate as "The Silver Line," but I swear to you, they just circle the airport in a Mobius loop like the old folk song Charlie on the MTA (its pre-MBTA title). Do not ever be tricked into boarding anything that says Silver Line -- you will disappear into another dimension and may never be seen nor heard from again.

Summertime Boston is a hopping place. I am meeting my son in the city, so I take the T in (Orange Line -- the only one that actually makes sense) and hoof it from Haymarket. The train is not that crowded even though Boston itself is wall-to-wall people. We have a grand old time, end up at Kelly's in Medford (for you out-of-towners, it's a pretty famous local chain). After we are done in the area there, known as Station Landing, we trek on over the skybridge to Wellington Station. My son will go south back to Boston, and I will go north a few stations back to my car.

It is no small (or even large) lie to say the T gets loaded with people sitting, standing, shoving, and clutching. Yes, the T has multiple color codes, multiple stations, and even multiple branches of the same lines. However, for a Saturday night around 9:00 p.m., the trains should all be hopping and jumping and jiving.

But, this . . . This is my surreal subway ride. I thought maybe I'd finally made it into Final Destination. No one. Not one damn soul. Nobody. Sure, being on a nearly-deserted subway carriage with one or two tough-looking  people is far more dangerous and frightening, but this was nearly next-level psychosis.

I guess the moral of this story is: You can't get there from here; sometimes you can't even get from here to there; if you ride the Green Line, remember what train letter you are on; there is no such thing as The Silver Line. Take that to heart, and you'll be fine.

WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE

Plants hate me. 

That's not entirely accurate. Like any idiot, I can grow Pothos and aloe plants. They only need to be watered every one to two weeks. These plants can and should be allowed to dry out. Good thing because I am a terrible plant mamma.

For Christmas, however, I received the gift of a miniature herb garden. To say that I have been terrified to open the box might be an understatement. After all, every year I buy a lush basil plant only to have it wither and die, despite my best intentions. I have since decided that my yearly basil plant will be for Caprese salads and not much else. Once it has been properly plucked, then it has served its $6 purpose.

Sure enough, I finally decide that it's time to start those herbs. Dagnabbit, I am determined to grow something other than mold. I carefully follow the directions. Of course, I have way too many seeds and just dump a bunch into the small containers, but, hey, at least I'm trying.

I am careful not to over-water. These things are not my usual hands-off style. I keep them facing the sun. I put them on a bed of foil to catch any excess water so they don't dry out too much, just in case. I move them around and rotate their sun activity from my porch.

And, now? Well, folks, now I'm in real trouble because the dang herbs are growing. Not all of them. The rosemary has decided to commit suicide. But, the others? Sprouts of green!

I'm scared. I need to re-pot the plants soon. I need to get fresh soil and bigger containers. I need to pay more attention. I need . . . I need . . . I need a plant nanny!

For now, everything seems to be alive and thriving. A few days from now may have a different outcome, but, I have to admit, it's rather heartwarming to see that it has been two whole weeks and I haven't killed off anything (except poor, dearly departed rosemary) yet, including the basil.

If you see my name and face on any Wanted posters at the garden stores, though, you'll know things went south quickly.

WRAPS AND BRACES

I am falling apart. Fighting it, but falling apart, just the same.

This morning I wake up with calf cramps. Seriously. It feels like I've run a 5K or perhaps restarted judo classes. When I try to stand up on those sore calves after sleeping (yes, sleeping), my right knee gives out. It feels like something is caught under the kneecap and is driving itself further into my leg with knife-like precision.

From sleeping.

I think back: What on earth did I do yesterday to cause such overnight stress? Let's see, I took my car for a check-up and sat in a chair playing Sudoku on my phone. Then, I went to the grocery store for the dozen items I needed and walked behind a cart for about twenty minutes. After that, I did some light housework -- you know - washing dishes and whisking pudding in a bowl. Super strenuous activities like that. Oh, don't forget that I worked on some writing for a while, interrupted for a short time to watch Jeopardy. Extended ass-sitting, as it were.

It's absolutely insulting the amount of sheer complaining my body engages in from doing absolutely nothing. Nothing, as in not a damn thing. That kind of nothing.

What is worse is that I have a treasure trove of wraps and braces just for occasions like this. Of course, these battle remnants came from real-life situations, for the most part. Let's see, I have in my arsenal:

Ace bandage (universal sign of an oowie); one blue wrist wrap (small); two pink wrist wraps with thumb holes; a wrist wrap with a complete thumb-stabilization brace; an elbow wrap from doing something to a tendon while I slept holding my granddaughter's hand -- an injury that took four months to mend; two ankle support wraps from pulling my Achilles tendons (both of them) during a particularly vacuum-ous mudhole during the Muddy Princess 5K Mud Run a few years back (I hurt myself but saved the sneakers); a heavy-duty ankle brace. 

I also have bouts of hip bursitis and my feet often give out (one from a serious cut that damaged nerves and other pretty things when I was a teenager, and the other from an Austin bunionectomy). Sometimes while teaching at school, there will be loud pops or snaps that scare the children. It's okay, I assure them. It's just my back or my hip or my knee or my elbow or . . . 

Life is grand, folks. It's all fun and games until you need wraps and braces just to get out of bed.

WEEK #2 OF THE ESCAPE

Week #2 of the Summer of My Brain Regeneration sees me back at the dentist, where I will be spending more time this summer because aging jaws and teeth need more maintenance than infants and cost more than a year at college. This week's foray into the dental chair clocks in a 2 hours and 15 minutes. Thankfully, I had hit the ladies' room before sitting in the chair. 

Hoping that the temporary crowns (multiple, yes, indeed) hold and the jaw infection is cleared up, I spend the next day shopping (not buying much) and out to lunch then back for a quick swim at my friend's pool. My editorial commentary on shopping is simply: I miss the Christmas Tree Shop. My friend and I go to Ocean State Job Lot, and, I have to be honest, their prices for the crap they're attempting to sell? Ridiculous. Highway robbery. A crappy, cheap, already busted beach chair for $45? I don't think so, folks. I did buy some bath soap and a bathing suit for my granddaughter, but that was pure luck on my part.

I promised myself to get outside every day, get out and do something, but I spend one day at home working on a few projects. I do walk down to the Amazon hub to pick up a package, so I guess that counts. The next day I do a half-stay-home and half-get-out day by running errands in the morning and cooking several meals (prep) and making ice cream (seven flavors, but I guess I'm not a chocolate peanut butter ice cream girl, although it is delicious -- just not my personal favorite) in the afternoon.

Independence Day brings an annual zoo trip followed by lunch. I like fireworks, but not up close. I end the night with the lights out and watch the NY over-the-Hudson fireworks because Boston simply cannot even begin to compete with NY on that front. I still hate the Yankees, though. Nothing personal -- It's a Red Sox thing.

Also this week I hit the complex's pool a couple of times, although right now it's as cold as the ocean water. My hope is that I tan my legs enough that my varicose veins won't be so prominent because, like my aging jaw, aging legs aren't anything to joke about.

I only check my work email twice. I also tell myself that opening a new tissue box for my home use in no way, shape, or form will steal tissues from my students in September, especially since I paid for the tissues myself and September is still weeks away. 

In conclusion, Week #2 seems to be much better for my mental state. Of course, the forecast for the next week is iffy, and planning anything remains problematic. I'm hoping for some good stuff next week -- It will be the first week of the summer that doesn't have anything (doctors, dentists, other appointments) planned in stone. While I find this lack of direction both daunting and compelling, I hope to have something exciting to cap off my daily "get out of the house" activities. Suggestions welcome!

CHASING SUMMER

I am trying to do something meaningful and/or entertaining every day this summer.

I am inspired by my retired friend who says that she makes it a point to leave her house at least once a day. I think this is spectacular advice, for the most part. After several challenging years at school (thanks, Pandemic, for putting that roller coaster into motion), I need a mental break this summer. I am trying desperately to hold off on my own retirement for financial reasons, but it has been decades since I came this close to walking off a job.

So, this is my summer of Temporary Freedom, or, as I like to call it, My Stay of Execution.

For the first seven days out of school, I take my friend's advice and get out of the house every day. I hit every compass direction: I go south; I go west; I go north; I go east. I put adventure into every day. Finally, on day #8, I decide I should tear my living space apart. In addition to ramping up the fun factor in my life, I am equally determined to reduce the clutter factor. Of course, it certainly helps that day #8 has crappy weather -- starts out rainy then just stays blah all day long. 

I don't know if I'm chasing happiness or sanity, but I'm hoping to catch both as the summer flies by. 

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.