Thursday, July 26, 2012

Bitten (rather painfully) by the travel bug

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, Weekend Edition on Friday, 7/20/2012

Surely you’ve heard the saying, “Be careful what you wish for, because it might come true.” Sometimes we get what we want, but not exactly in the way we had envisioned.


Immediately, the “The Monkey’s Paw,” a 1902 short story by English writer W.W. Jacobs comes to mind. In this tale, an elderly couple is left with the titular talisman (from India, of course) that can grant three wishes to its owner. These folks are simple and humble people, so all they wish for is enough to pay off the last mortgage payments on their house. (I know. Nowadays, that could be a LOT of money.) While their wish is granted, it is done in a horrific and chilling manner.


I thought I had learned to stop wishing for things. I once had wondered why my life wasn’t exciting. Then, my husband had a massive heart attack. That generated plenty of “excitement” and anxiety and general upheaval. I thank God he is better. And thank you, again, for praying with me then.


Nowadays, if I want excitement, I go to the grocery store and try to use a coupon. If I want a lot of excitement, I try to use one that has expired. (Those are usually the only ones I can find, anyway.)


Here’s another exciting thing I do. Sometimes, I drive to the post office to try to mail off a massive package at 4:55 pm. To enhance the excitement level, I make sure the package is going abroad (namely, India) so that it also requires a customs declaration form. I could tweak my timing and get there at 4:59, because Sharon, who works the window, hasn’t attempted to close that corrugated metal window on my hands. Yet.


So, I thought I had learned my lesson, but I guess some of us would rather be teachers than students. It’s more fun doling out lessons than having to learn them. (Incidentally, I won’t be writing this column weekly beginning next month so I can focus on teaching math at Warrenton Middle School. Thank you, Katrina of my local library, for asking and for telling me that you’ll miss reading me every week.) Apparently, I needed a refresher on the lesson on wanting things.


Did I wish to travel this summer? Did I yearn for the excitement that comes with venturing to new places? Did I wish this aloud, and did someone hear me? Perhaps. My family and I will have spent four of the five Sundays this July driving down to Lynchburg and back. Before this month, I had never gone to Lynchburg. When this month ends, I may never want to go back.


My eldest son is attending the Governor’s School for Math, Science, and Technology that is held for four weeks in July on the campus of Lynchburg College. Courtesy of the storms that struck the Mid-Atlantic a couple of weeks ago, he is getting the truncated version: three weeks instead of four. The problem is, that wasn’t quite clear to us on the morning of July 1st, when the program was to have begun.


I should say thank you to Fauquier County Public Schools and the Commonwealth of Virginia and those who make it possible for rising juniors and seniors who are gifted in a particular field to be able to attend this free of charge. That’s right – all four weeks of room, board, and classes cost the parents and students nada. As in nada-thing. As you might expect, it’s competitive, and students may only attend once. College campuses throughout Virginia host these summer residential governor’s schools for languages, performing and visual arts, and various disciplines. My elder two daughters also attended: one at Virginia Commonwealth University and the other at Virginia Tech. To learn more, email Raye Rector, Supervisor of Advanced Programs and Fine Arts at the FCPS office.  rrector@fcps1.org.


You may recall that the first round of storms that lashed our region left many of us powerless, as well as without electricity. Ours was out from Friday night until Saturday evening. The first and second order of business that Saturday were to get ice from Walmart, followed by having the dog boarded so we could get our eldest son delivered and moved into his dorm room at lovely little Lynchburg College the next day.


Incidentally, if you need an in-home pet-sitter, call Karyn Brown of KB’s Pet-Sitting at 540-272-3287. She is a great gal who just started her licensed and insured business, and she has twenty years of experience. Karyn has a gentle and loving spirit that is perfect for working with animals and children. If you have either of these in your home, you will know that the lines between the two meld: Your children can often behave like animals, and your pets become like children, except with less attitude and fewer fashion corrections.


This is the one glorious weekend in July that we are not going to Lynchburg. We’ll be in Baltimore, instead, moving my eldest daughter out of her apartment. Anyone else have the urge to travel?

Monday, July 16, 2012

The long goodbyes


Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, Weekend Edition on July 13, 2012


The other day, my friend Rose was frantically waving to me from a car I didn’t recognize. (Hi, Rose!) I don’t associate her with that new car, so I wasn’t really looking for her. I don’t know why it’s so exciting to see your friend in a car on the road, but it is. You might just have wished each other goodbye from where you last were, but as you ride off in our little traveling capsules, you’ll feel compelled to wave vigorously to each other. And you will be genuinely happy about it.


My husband has always attributed this clinginess of mine to some genetic deficiency on my side of the family, because we can’t just say goodbye once. It’s what he calls “separation anxiety.” It’s similar to the trauma that two-year-olds experience (and inflict) when leaving their parents, only now in my mid-forties, it’s just a little more sophisticated. When I’m leaving my parents, I no longer cling to their thighs and shriek. I’m taller now, so I cling to their necks.


The farewell scene in my home takes about half the time of the visit itself. We have stages of goodbyes. Just like at the airport, there are different stages of departure; you can’t just hop on the plane and go.


“All right, then – thanks for coming over.” These are the kitchen goodbyes. The kitchen is the center of the home, so naturally, we have been buzzing around there.


Out in the foyer, there will be another round of hugs, because they’re about to leave your house, for crying out loud. And speaking of crying out loud, please don’t – at this age, some sniffling and a little eye-welling are sufficient. Besides, mascara streaks are unbecoming. Mascara? Oh, wait – we didn’t take a picture!


We have to have the picture, because what if we don’t see each other again for a really, really long time. What if, and there is always that underlying fear as your parents age – what if, this is the last time? No, no. Don’t think like that, because then you will be sobbing before you know it. You will think of the times you were a teen and downright evil to your parents. You will think of all the sacrifices they have made for you. Don’t let your mind wander.


Run and get the camera. Shoot the Look of Death at anyone who dares to roll his or her eyes about taking pictures – spouse, children, or the dog. Only your parents are insulated from this look, because they, like you, love taking pictures - lots of them. A genetic trait, perhaps?


Line everyone up in that one spot the realtor had billed as “the dramatic entryway.” Jackie, you have no idea the drama that goes on in this entryway every time people leave.


Pose in different permutations and combinations. All the kids with the grandparents. Just the kids. Now just me with my mom and dad. Now add back the kids. Hey, we forgot the dog! Do a remote visual check on husband’s patience and blood pressure. Okay, it looks safe to get that one last shot, but no more. Exasperated children and an annoyed photographer do not make for good pictures.


Then, in traditional fashion, my dad pulls out one of those bank envelopes. He always gives the children money. In my parents’ eyes, my husband and I are children too. Out comes a $20 for each of us. We protest feebly, but it’s no use. It’s never any use. They always give everyone money, even if they know they will see you next weekend. Everybody gets the same bills – sometimes tens or fives, but mostly twenties, and that makes me feel guilty. It’s expensive to leave this house.


Then commences another round of hugs and goodbyes. Oh, wait! Where is that little bag of the leftover goodies we were sending with them? (It is only about a fifth of the goodies that my mom still makes to bring over.) More hugs and then we all wander out because we can’t just ship them out of the house like strangers, can we? They’re family, and we have to see them to the car. Hugs before getting in the car, of course.


And then, they get themselves settled in, and the windows come down so we can say goodbye again. Quick, reach your head in for another hug around the neck and run around to the other side of the car. Your dad gets out of the car to hug you, and you know your mom would have done the same, except for her knee problem and that cane.


Even as they drive off, we are waving frantically. So, here it is, I start my goodbye to you. But don’t worry, it’s just the kitchen goodbye for now. If you’re lucky, I won’t have forgotten something and have to come back to start the process anew.


The editor has graciously asked me to write once a month when the school year begins. I’ll see if I can’t keep up with a column every other week once August and the school year kick in. For now, know that the first round of hugs has been initiated.

Wednesday, July 11, 2012

We interrupt this column...and your electricity

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, Weekend Edition on July 6, 2012
 We interrupt the previously planned column, just like the way our lives were interrupted, by the powerful, history-making storm that recently swept the Mid-Atlantic. I’ve been getting so many calls from the National Weather Service lately that we’re on a first-name basis.


I realize that I complain about many things; in fact, having a column can be the equivalent of being a professional complainer, although I don’t actually derive a living doing this. (That’s what husbands are for, after all. That, and for fixing up every mysteriously dented towel rod in our house.)


I’m not going to complain about being left without power two weekends ago, because when I wrote this, there were still thousands without electricity in the midst of a sweltering week. There are two-dozen people who lost their lives to this storm; some lost their homes or their cars. All we lost was some time and a bag of shrimp.


There is nothing like losing something to make you appreciate it. Electricity is just one of those things we take for granted in our lives, like clean, running water, the Internet, and good health. It’s like the statement: “You never know what you’ve got until it’s gone. Toilet paper’s a good example.” Unfortunately, I don’t know who gets the credit for this profound quote.


The weekend before last, I had to go without electricity to our home for less than 24 hours. Here’s what I learned about myself. I am a big baby. I am spoiled. Once in awhile, I should realize how so many other people in the world have to live.


That Friday night, my daughter had called from her apartment in Charlottesville.  She had lost power and said that from her fifth floor apartment, she could hear the wind howling. The garbage dumpster below was shaking. When I looked up the weather online for her, I saw that we were all in the path of this severe thunderstorm. Shortly after it reached us, it would be paying a visit to Baltimore where my eldest daughter was.


I’m not proficient with managing a conference call, but I do know how to use the home phone and the cell phone simultaneously. So it happened that both my elder daughters and I were discussing the weather in this swath of nearly two hundred miles. So at least we had a warning, but not everyone was or is so fortunate.


My husband had the power pack charging, the lanterns out, and our flashlights handy. I am so glad this man is around. About that time, our dog started shuddering violently. She is terrified of thunder.

Shortly after our conversation ended, the power failed. We all fell asleep with the power out and the backdoor open. (It’s okay; you’d have to be Spiderman to get in through our backdoor until we have a deck or stairs or some other form of access installed.) The next morning, our first trip was to the local Walmart to get bags of ice. We had a vehicle to drive. It was tanked up. There were reasons to be thankful. Neither Spiderman nor any others had paid us a visit during the night. Our dog, for once, had not peed on the carpet. Yes, we had many reasons to be thankful.

We got to the store that was surprisingly busy. I was relieved to see that they had power and people already working there that morning. What if we were to awaken to a disaster and there were no essential services? No stores open? No place with electricity or air conditioning or ice and water to sell?

Many other people had had the same idea to come and buy ice. There was a lady who already had a fully stocked cart with all manner of things at about 7:15 am. I was impressed at her shopping finesse. How had she hit so many different corners of the vast store? She told us that she had been there the night before when the power went out. She had had to abandon the cart because she was unable to make her purchases then.

The elderly gentleman with the captain’s hat ahead of us laughed heartily when I responded to the cashier’s “How are you?” with a “Fine…Well, no actually, we are powerless.” He must have been too, because his cart consisted of water, ice, and batteries.

I think these storms help us to realize that, despite all our technological advances as a society, we are utterly dependent. And despite our numerous appliances and batteries, we remain pretty powerless.

Friday, July 6, 2012

Of Billionaires and Banquets


Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat on June 29, 2012

When was the last time I got to shake hands with a billionaire? Yes, that’s billion with a B. A big B. It was the same night that I had dinner with the former daily columnist of The Washington Post.

No, really. And here’s the more incredible thing; it had nothing to do with my merits (or demerits) as a writer. I know. You’re probably as shocked as I am. So while I would like to give you the impression that I was having dinner, tête-à-tête, with columnist Bob Levey, the two of us hobnobbing about the trials and travails of putting together 700 or 850 words to form some cohesive, yet entertaining or informational or opinion-laden piece, that would not be accurate. Heck, it wouldn’t even be true.  Read about Bob Levey.

I just happened to be there, a genetic bystander, while my eldest son (who is my third child) received an award from Junior Achievement of Greater Washington in their 2011 Junior Achievement Essay Competition, sponsored by billionaire philanthropist David M. Rubenstein. Visit Junior Achievement of Greater Washington's Essay Winners' page.


My son’s award, first place in Virginia, came along with a $10,000 college scholarship. In fact, eight other students had each also received a $10,000 scholarship. That’s first, second, and third place in each of the three regions: Maryland, Washington, D.C., and Virginia. One student, the grand prizewinner, received a hefty $ 20,000 scholarship. Not only that, but to encourage participation, three schools (one in each region) with the highest number of entrants received a cash award of $6,000 each. That’s $128,000 in cash prizes. I haven’t even considered the cost of the dinner for members of the organization, the judges, plus up to fifty people associated with the students (their parents, school principals, and district superintendents).


While Dr. Lewis and Mr. Sites were unable to attend due to other official obligations, the head of the English department at Fauquier High School, Mrs. Carolyn Parks and her husband Mr. Larry Parks, attended. Mrs. Parks had sponsored my son Sergio in the Rotary Club of Warrenton’s speech contest in January of this year, where he won first place and went on to two additional rounds in the region and district, winning first and third place in those respective competitions.


Now back to that sumptuous dinner we were treated to at the Capital Hilton. My husband had taken the day off. Clothes were collected from the dry cleaners. Cameras were loaded with batteries and tested to make sure the charging on the batteries “took.” Yes, indeed, we parents were a little excited.


For my son, the day dawned with two comprehensive AP tests to be taken. (Advanced Placement classes are the ones taken in high school that have a specific exam attached at the end of the course.) Depending on the score, with 5 being the highest, a student’s chosen institute of higher education may give them college credit for those courses, so it is definitely in the student’s interest to do as well as possible.


The food was delectable, with the little pats of butter each shaped like the Capitol building. They served slabs of cheesecake the size of a Nerf football. You’re right; it doesn’t take a whole lot to impress me. After all, I’m still delighted that all of my children are, and continue to be, potty trained. The youngest child is seven, so this “achievement” was some time ago. But still.


When I shook hands that night with Mr. Rubenstein, I had only a vague idea then of who he is. It was later, when I read through David Montgomery’s piece in the May 14th Lifestyle section of the Washington Post that I realized the level his of giving.  Read the Washington Post article on David M. Rubenstein.


I don’t know about you, but it seems that lots of people have opinions on how others should spend their money, and the farther away that money is from their own wallets, the stronger that opinion gets.


It makes me think of Elinor Sauerwein, a frugal woman who never bought anything she felt she didn’t absolutely need. She had lived through the Great Depression. (The original one.) She lived in Modesto, California, in a small home, and never owned a dishwasher or a clothes dryer. She mowed her own lawn until the age of 92. She only allowed herself one vacation and “indulged” in the extravagance of cable television in the final year of her life of 96 years. Reportedly, she was thrilled with being able to watch the History Channel. After her death in October of 2010, when her accounts were settled and cleared, her financial advisor prepared a cashier’s check in excess of $ 1.7 million, all of which was given to the local Modesto chapter of the Salvation Army.  Read Jeff Jardine's column in the Modesto Bee.


As you might expect, I’ll have to finish this thought next week.

Monday, July 2, 2012

Great Expectations: Good Things Come to those who Wait


Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat on June 22, 2012


No wonder I feel inefficient. It’s taken a fortnight to tell you I was late for my middle son’s 8th grade awards ceremony. I tried to sneak in subtly, like a baby elephant being smuggled into a preschool classroom. For well over an hour, students were called and recognized. Some went up so many times they rivaled college students at an all-you-can-eat buffet.



What about my boy? No one had called his name. I recalled the letter I had received from the school. Unlike bulk-mail gimmicks that tease you with big-ticket prizes but only deliver a 50-cent discount on a 32-oz soda, this letter had given assurances. Hadn’t it? It’s not that I was jealous of the other students and their accolades. But who goes to a ceremony only to watch other people’s children? Teacher after teacher announced their best, or most improved, or most enthusiastic, students. Some presented a single award for the highest GPA or chose one boy and one girl. Still, my son sat namelessly in the minor sea of students. Perhaps I had had a false impression of how well he was doing.




When the all-A’s students for all three years were called, it was late in the ceremony. By the time they got to the A’s and B’s, these students were simply asked to stand as their names were called. They would get their certificates later. I got a fuzzy shot of the back of my son’s head. At least I know now to turn off the flash to avoid getting a brilliant shot of the back of a parent’s head, while my child appears dimly on a darkened background like some astronomical anomaly. No worries. I could stage the photo at home later.



The Battle of the Books sponsors (thank you for all you have done, Mrs. Howard and Mrs. Pappas!) gave awards for those who had participated all three years. So finally, my son, along with a couple of other students, was called up. As far as I could see, the teachers were finished giving their awards and the office had given out citizenship awards.
 That was it, then? For this, I had run around like a maniac all morning, buying and chopping fruit for three fruit salads I was to have delivered to church twenty minutes ago? Hopefully, the fruit salad wasn’t stewing (was I?) in the back of my car. My annoyance crowded out any gratitude. I should be thankful to have even one child, much less six, all of whom are healthy and, so far, decent people, especially when closely supervised. Furthermore, they have inherited my husband’s sharp intellect.



But the mind is full of avarice and wont to take things for granted. It looks around to see what else there is. Like the child boosted upon the shoulders, it does not realize its smallness, but rather focuses on what more there is to want.




I checked my watch: 80 minutes. Gone. The ceremony would be ending in ten minutes, I assumed, since the students were scheduled to depart for a picnic and hike. I was supposed to have dropped off the fruit salads at 9:00, and it was now 9:20. If I waited until the end, the place would be overrun by exiting parents. Besides, the fruit salad couldn’t wait forever. Neither, apparently, could I.




I slinked out and hoofed it to the car. I was a little miffed. Ah, well, that’s what happens when you expect things: It is easier to be disappointed. How much better it is to expect nothing and be genuinely thrilled if it turns out otherwise. I reached the car somewhat wilted, and hoped the three bowls of fruit salad had escaped my fate.




For the record, they were in better condition than I was. It was unseasonably cool; I had parked in the shade, and the windows were slightly down. After delivering them, I returned to my list of chores. They seemed as long as the awards list, I thought bitterly.




My son returned from school at 3:00 and suddenly exclaimed that he had left his award plaque on the bus that had been driven to the field trip. (A different bus had taken them back.) “Oh, you mean your certificates?” I said somewhat coldly, remembering the fruit salads that had not had the luxury to be as icy.




He looked at me curiously. “No, the plaque…” his voice trailed off as he grasped the implications. Then, his face dawned with understanding. “Oh, so, you weren’t there?” he asked innocently.




It turns out that he received The Student of the Year award. Naturally, it had been the last one given. Right about then, I had been giving out fruit salads.




For the rest of the evening, as I mentally and verbally beat myself up, his response was a genuine, “That’s okay, Mom.” This child can be maddeningly understanding at times. Transportation Services helped us have the plaque returned safely to school, so he collected it the next day along with a science award. I couldn’t wait through whole ceremony. What was one more day?

Thursday, June 28, 2012

How my life is like a fruit salad


Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, Weekend Edition on June 15, 2012

I headed to my middle son’s school with gladness (he was to get an award) and urgency in my heart (I was late). I wound up parking blocks away. Apparently, many other students would be getting awards, and obviously, their parents were more prompt. I had a minor complication in the back of my vehicle. I had three large fruit salads to be delivered at 9:00 am. The awards ceremony began at 8:00 am.


In the old days, parents gave their children names like Patience and Prudence or Felicity and Chastity. You don’t hear those names as much now, but parents still bestow names in recognition of what their children will bring: Joy, Hope, or Faith. We should have named our children Complication or Confusion or Conflict. Or we might have been more practical and less vague: DWT for Dropper of Wet Towels and the like. The problem with naming a child is that you have to do it before you really know the person. You are awed by the miracle of birth and overwhelmed by the profound wonder over the tiny being that is entrusted to your care. You are smitten by the cuteness factor. It’s a classic case of Bait and Switch. You don’t realize there is fine print involved. The cautions and contrary indications are cast in a small size and tossed a couple of years or decades away. Naturally, you’re not going to heed these warnings. Besides, the foreground of your immediate vision is so thoroughly occupied by the darned cuteness of Tiny Being that you will not consider what TB will (or will not) be doing a few years from now, when you have come to your senses and he or she, likely, has not.


So, Complication will always be a part of our lives. So will Confusion and Conflict.


About the fruit salads: When the request for dishes had made its way around the church circuit, I first adopted the Dodge and Duck technique. Surely, I was too busy, right? When the requests came around a second time, I tried the Wait and See method. You never know when other Duty Dodgers might be flushed out of their hiding places. Why risk exposure too soon? Once the need is met, you might realize you were never really required in the first place. Weren’t you supposed to sort out that bag of socks in the garage, anyway? On round three, the guilt is overwhelming. This is how parenting works. First, you try to dodge things. Then, you wait them out. Finally, you get guilted in.


On Round Three of the requests, I allowed Guilt and Compassion a seat next to me. Hadn’t so many people lent me a hand in my weeks of need? I could let Guilt climb aboard, but I wasn’t about it allow it to usurp control from Logic. I chose the easiest thing to make: Fruit salad. Fruit salad is great because nothing has to be cooked. You can simply take out your frustrations while chopping up fruit. You toss it all together, and voila! Fruit salad! If I were organized, I would have made and refrigerated this the night before. Instead, I was parking the car at 5:57 am to buy the fruit on the morning of.


Needless to say, it was a harrowing morning. The middle and high school bus leaves at 6:57 and the elementary bus at 8:03. Fortunately, my eldest son was home that morning to help with getting the youngest two out the door while I frantically peeled and chopped fruit.


By the time I loaded the fruit salads into the back of the car and changed so I would not be an embarrassment to self, to my child, or to civilized society in general, I had two minutes to get to the school. We only live a mile away, but there are limits to travel, even behind the wheel of a gargantuan vehicle. These come in the form of police cars, posted speed limits, and pedestrians in crosswalks.


As I approached the school, I knew I would need to park at the side of the street. There was no point in even turning in to the school parking lot. That much I have learned over the years. Other things, not so much.


I passed over an excellent parking spot, thinking that surely, there would be one closer. Ah, instant regret. Every slot thereafter was filled. Life is so much like that: There’s no backing up. It’s best to concentrate on what lies ahead, and not be so darned picky next time. I parked blocks away, but in the shade, and left my windows cracked a bit. I didn’t want those fruit salads to turn into stew, after all.


By the time I hustled myself into the auditorium, I felt like an asthmatic bag lady. The eighth graders were filing in, as they were announced. My son, along with the other band members, was on stage playing the processional. The chances I could slip in undetected were slimmer than any of the fruit I had sliced that morning.

Thursday, June 21, 2012

The Code of Motherhood

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, Weekend Edition, on 6/08/12

The Code of Motherhood, Section 5.42, states that a mother, (a truly good, loving mother, if such a creature exists) will, at all times, (barring death or dismemberment), “be there” for each and every performance of each and every child. I do not speak of the dramatic performances some children employ at home to register dissatisfaction or rage in order to get what they want. (People of an older and less astute generation and those who did not understand child psychology or the proper use of euphemisms, used to refer to these displays of independence and willpower as “throwing a temper tantrum” or “having a fit.”) These are not the performances I refer to. In fact, the Code of Motherhood specifically excuses, and possibly even forbids, you from having to witness such performances.

 
No, the performance to which I allude is the type in which you typically pay for your child to learn some amazing feat or skill and then pay again to attend a recital in which they perform these amazing feats or skills. By default, the Code requires you to photograph these furiously. If you are really a good mother, you will also buy the DVD or videotaped version of this performance for a mere $ 35. This will be a DVD that will sit on your shelf because you will never have time to dust it, much less to watch it. When you are in a mood or situation in which you are finally able to watch this, typically with a proud grandparent or a curious friend about, you will realize that your memories are warped. The DVD is inexplicably scratched. On replay, some sections are pixelated or slow down or tend to repeat like some sort of an electronic stutter. In other words, the DVD you never had time to dust has beaten you to the task and has bitten the dust.

 
The third type of performance is free, but don’t let that fool you. It is equally critical that you attend this as well. It is typically held at school or after school. If you are following the Code correctly, each child is supposed to participate in some sport (other than running his or her mouth) and some form of music (other than playing you like a fiddle). Drama, scholastic bowls, chess tournaments, and exploits with robotics may also be involved. According to the Code, so should you.


I have already failed entire sections of the Motherhood Code, but this is not the sort of test on which you can give up. You test daily, and your grade always hangs in the balance. You need to keep trying to pass. Even if you have passed in the past, you can’t get all smug and complacent about it. The standards will now be higher. You will be required to volunteer at these events by baking goods and raising funds and possibly shuttling children about. Don’t think you’re just going to get away with plain old showing up anymore.


Last week, I mentioned that I attended my daughter’s college graduation with no batteries in my camera. Smooth. This week, I pulled one that makes that stunt look like saintly behavior.




According to the Code, I would have to attend this event/function/performance. Also, because I am currently not teaching or commuting, and am always looking for any opportunity to flee from housework, I would gladly attend. By the way, did I tell you that I will be teaching middle school math in the County in the fall? I’m not sure if that’s supposed to be a secret, so I will be vague about what school.


I’m trying to be careful because we have recently seen that while the Principal of a school, via the County, can giveth an offer, the Principal can also taketh away. Even though I’m not coaching any sports this fall, I would like to be careful. And employed.


Next year, the Code may allow me to miss a performance or two. But for now, I have no escape clauses. Besides, what were my alternatives to attending: Studying for another exam, paying bills, de-junking or doing housework? I could wing the awards ceremony, even if it started at 8:00 am, and my younger children’s bus leaves at 8:03 am. Arrangements could and would have to be made. Don’t forget that the Code of Motherhood, Section 7.9 states that you will spend one-third of your time making arrangements (not the floral kind), so you can use the other two-thirds of your time in a neurotically efficient manner. More next week…
I had received a letter in the mail advising me to attend the 8th grade recognition ceremony because my son would be receiving an award. The letter was conspiratorial in nature: The students only knew about the ceremony, but no specifics of what they were to receive. Naturally, I can keep a secret. Just because I share numerous idiotic secrets in a county-wide column, does not mean I can’t keep one or two of them.

Friday, June 15, 2012

Whizzing by in a flash? Not without batteries...

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, Weekend Edition, Fri. 6/1/12

Last month, my eldest daughter graduated from college. Both of us wondered when and where those eight semesters went. Everyone tells the student how quickly the education went, but if I recall clearly, that final semester seems interminable for the student herself.

 
By primary and secondary schooling standards, the time spent on courses in college is stripped to skeletal levels. All the fleshing of time is picked clean off the subject and the class is reduced to the bare bones of lecture, lab, clickers, and exams. In college, the student is expected to flesh out the subject by reading tomes every week. It helps to understand what is read, too, of course. So, no reading when sleep deprived or while intoxicated or while checking text messages and status updates.

 
Ever notice that the more a student pays for education, the less there seems to be of it? It’s like those fancy dinners that are served on plates with miniscule portions. Many colleges and universities have mind-boggling price tags, yet the students seem to be forever on break. They start school late, end by early December, it seems, and they don’t return to school until the end of January. There has to be the week off at Thanksgiving or in the spring, and by early May, they’re out.


For this, you need only go to school for a mere 16 weeks a semester to complete an entire course. For most classes, you won’t attend class daily, either. Perhaps, you will go to class every other day. Some cheeky students may not attend class at all if there is a liberal attendance policy. Public education at the elementary and middle and high school levels is free for the student, but the students are required to attend. Higher education, of course, is not free. Far from it. Light years away, in fact.


We were in Baltimore to attend the ceremony at Johns Hopkins University where my daughter graduated in electrical engineering. We and many more people than parking spaces flooded that part of the city. It was interesting to watch the procession that began at 8:40 AM from the point of view of the shoes that were donned beneath the uniform gowns. If I had taken the correct camera with me, I could have made a whole mini-commentary based on the shoes chosen for the event. It would have been similar to the ones that fashionable papers sport, showing the various hats chosen for events like Gold Cup. In addition to capturing the triumphant glow on my daughter’s face, her hair that had coiled itself in ringlets in response to the hot and humid morning, I wanted to track which students chose to march in flip-flops, and which ones were planning to spend the next four hours with their feet strapped into clogs or stilettoes.


Instead, when I whipped out “my” camera, I felt its odd lightness in my hands, indicating that it held none of the required AA batteries. I made vile mental commentaries to and about myself. While we could see and shout out at my daughter, I did not capture it with pictures. In this day and age, it practically means it didn’t happen. If you have no pictures, do you have the memories? We have a mile of videotape, the Super 8, but we did not have our stills. I considered befriending another, better prepared, parent to take a picture and then email it to me, but decided to restrain my usual chatty self.


My husband would probably resent this divulgence of improper planning. He would recoil at the breach of privacy this would entail. I had the argument with myself to save my husband the effort and decided that he was right.

 
Maybe when our eldest decides to do a graduate degree, I will double check my camera for batteries. It would just take a couple of years to do the degree and it would stave off the paying back of student loans for a little while. What’s a couple of years, anyway? It would, undoubtedly, fly by.

Saturday, May 19, 2012

Local fame going to the dogs

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, Weekend Edition on Fri. 5/18/12.

“A local celebrity.”  That’s how I’ve heard myself described on several occasions now.  (None of these occasions involve me chanting in front of a mirror, thank you.)  It’s the way others have described me.  Each time this happens, I have to turn and check to make sure it isn’t the mayor or the school superintendent standing behind me.  When I hear someone say I’m a local celebrity, I have to laugh.  It would be flattering if it weren’t downright funny. 

People recognize me at the grocery store or at the library or a school event, or wherever my errands and my lethargic legs take me.  They act amazed; yet I don’t know why.  All I do is write some drivel about myself or some embarrassing episodes about my kids.  For this, the editor saves me a spot every week into which I slide at the last possible second.  True, there is the one nice picture of me, which is static and in good control, not packing on pounds or sprouting gray hairs the way the real, living, me is.  I don’t think we’ll change the picture just yet since people can still recognize me as “Are you the lady in the paper?”

My likeness and my words may be in this paper, but I’m no celebrity.  If you want to see a true “local celebrity” in action, drive by my neighborhood any weekday around noon.  The real celebrity is our hyperactive Jack Russell (isn’t that redundant?) terrier, pre-named Betty Lou.  She is the one tugging ahead of me.  I, your humble servant, am the one trudging behind, possibly carrying dog deposits if she has chosen to relieve herself of weighty, pressing matters.  She is groomed and beaming at the world.  I am tired and unkempt, hunched over, and scooping up canine crap into an inverted plastic bag.  Who’s the celebrity?

This dog, I am convinced, is the winner, hands (or paws) down.  She has other people making sure she is fed, groomed, and looking good.  She only goes out in public after careful preparations, chief of these would be the leash.  A leash is to a dog what a public relations manager is to a celebrity.  It keeps them in check and makes sure nothing gets released when it shouldn’t.  Betty Lou also has a personal trainer – several, in fact.  We are not yet certain of the efficacy of the training because it varies dramatically from trainer to trainer.  Some like to blame the incompetence of the trainer, while others (usually said trainer) like to blame the limited intelligence of the dog.  Our canine has no truly useful skills.  I suppose if we lived on farmland and needed her services in tracking down vermin, she might deign to be of service.  But she serves no such purpose in our home.  Basically, her value is to amuse and to entertain.  Again, I make my case that Betty Lou has all the qualifications to be a celebrity.

It is true that our dog happens to be a blogger.  She goes out daily and reads all the posts.  Some pique her interest, and she rushes deeper to get a better sniff of the topic.  These often require a second read-through.  With others, her ears express alarm or dismay at the news and she stands alert for a moment.  No matter how large or small, she always makes sure to post her own response to whatever olfactory remarks the original or previous blogger posted.  She has a set of posts that she reads daily, and she makes sure to leave comments at each of these sites.  I am sure she is well known in the community, even if she has not personally met all of her readers.

Betty Lou also has an unhealthy interest in being well liked by people.  At home, she might lie around and struggle with depression.  She might have a drinking habit (although right now it’s limited to water) that you don’t know about.  She may behave somewhat snappy when tired, or eat all the wrong sorts of foods.  (We once caught her literally walking across the top of the dining table, like some sort of a cat.  Perhaps she had planned to be dancing on the tables in our absence, but I suspect the allure was a someone’s leftovers.  My children are careful to push their chairs in now so she can’t gain access.)  She might be hiding all sorts of bad habits at home, but the moment there is another human hovering in the area, she puts on her best show.

The one thing she can’t stand is other dogs.  Some people say her dog aggression may have to do with her upbringing.  (We got her from a dog shelter.)  Others say it is something about the breed that has to be worked out of them.   In either case, I suspect it is jealousy.  She wants to be the star.  And at home, she is.

Sunday, May 13, 2012

Happy Octopus Day!

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, Weekend Edition on Friday, May 11, 2012 

Sunday is Mother’s Day, and if you have the fortune of having your mother around, show her a little love and appreciation, no matter your age.  I’m sure you think you are that perfect offspring, one whose very existence makes motherhood meaningful.  Don’t flatter yourself.  Get her a few flowers – handpicked ones, even little wildflowers, are fine.
 

You might be cute and you might be sweet, but you should realize that birthing you probably involved some level of pain.  Even if you were adopted, and have no contact with your birth mother, your adoptive mother probably endured pain too, though it might have been more emotional or bureaucratic than physical in nature.  The pain associated with acquiring you, in whatever manner, would have rapidly paled in comparison to the pain that arose from your maintenance and upkeep.  And look at yourself now.  You have been nurtured to a point where you are a decent and caring person who is intelligent enough to read this column.  Get her a card or make one.   That would validate the decent and caring part of my theory about you.


When I think of mothers, I think of the octopus.  On so many levels, mothers have to be like the amazing octopus.   You might think that’s because the octopus has eight arms, and so often, mothers seem to need them all to juggle the demands of the brood.  If an arm is lost, it can grow back later.  I view this as an analogy for women who make sacrifices for their young.  For some, it might be their careers.  For others, it might be their figures.  For a sad few of us, it is both.


Hopefully you did not think to yourself that the octopus, being an invertebrate, has no backbone, and therefore the analogy shows your mother to be some sort of soft and spineless individual.  Never forget that the octopus has a hard beak for dealing with prey (and possibly rude children like you), and is capable of injecting poison.   Rather, you should realize that the soft-bodied cephalopod is consummately flexible.  This means you can keep tossing things onto its to-do list, and somehow, your trusty octopus, will juggle it in.  Like many modern women, the octopus is able to get into and out of tight spaces, with some exceptions made for parallel parking SUVs in Old Town.


The octopus, like your mother, is highly intelligent.  In laboratories, it (the octopus, not your mom) can find its way in mazes, (think of driving and directions) and can unscrew jars to get to a snack.   While the advent of the GPS seems to have suppressed my intuitive sense of direction on the road, I can still find, and get to, the snacks.


The octopus can be playful and changes colors to indicate its mood.  The octopus is a master of camouflage, adapting itself to not only the coloring of its surroundings, but also to patterns and movements of other creatures.  In other words, the octopus can figure out how to get along in differing environs.   Also, the octopus tends to fortify and decorate its lair with shells.


The octopus can jet around quite fast.  Have you seen the speed at which your mother can/could move when expecting company?  How about when behind the wheel?  One of those arms is attending to the steering while another is wiping up a stain on the seat beside it. A third arm is sending a snack to the backseat, while the fourth arm has just confiscated the toy is being fought over.  Arm five is adeptly handling the cell phone, while arm six is adjusting the music in the car to suit everyone’s taste, except the mother, because she is just used to making sacrifices like that.  Arm seven is able to wield a hairbrush and makeup for a quick touchup before arrival and arm eight of course, is suctioned around that omnipresent coffee-cup.  


You’re thinking this image is ridiculous because nobody’s listening to the radio anymore; the kids are listening to music individually or watching a DVD back there.  Or maybe you’re wondering why the hairless octopus needs a hairbrush when just the lipstick will do.  Or maybe you know that the octopus is deaf.  And that’s not due to the noisy children.  Another breakdown in the analogy: the real octopus is a solitary creature.  I haven’t known many women who were like that.  Or maybe I don’t know them because they are solitary.


I started thinking of the octopus several years ago, when we got a book called Nico’s Octopus by Caroline Pitcher.  (http://www.amazon.com/Nicos-Octopus-Caroline-Pitcher/dp/1566564832.)   It’s a beautifully illustrated, touching story of a little boy (Nico) who finds an octopus and keeps it for a pet.  Nico learns much about the octopus, but the most heartrending is in her transformation to motherhood. 


The mother octopus lays around two hundred-thousand eggs and hangs strings of them from the ceiling of her lair.  She guards and fans these eggs to keep them oxygenated.  For the entire month or two, she does not hunt and does not eat.  Shortly after the babies emerge, the mother dies of starvation.  In humans, the decline is not as rapid, thankfully.


Make sure you thank your octopus this weekend.

Thursday, May 3, 2012

The Bison and the Hick on the Plains of Ohio

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, Weekend Edition on Fri. April 27, 2012

Before we know it, SOL testing, like any other spring-time allergen, will be upon us and our children.  I remember the year we had moved to Ohio in 2001.  I was still a die-hard homeschooling mom then, so I only sent my children into school at the end of the year to take the proficiency tests alongside their public-schooled counterparts.


 My fourth-grader came home that day looking a little ruffled.  And it wasn’t the test that had ruffled her.  It was something else.  As mother, inspector, corrector, and protector, I needed to investigate.


Being an Indian mother, my greatest fear for my children, after academic failure, is the possibility that one might grow faint from hunger.  Correction: that a child of mine might even experience it.  Perhaps she was just hungry.  People who are hungry, sleepy, tired, stressed, or in pain can be a little crabby.  I think that sums up about 90% of the human condition for 90% of the population.  (Self included.)


Immediately following the debriefing on the difficulty level of the test and how well she felt she had fared, I honed in on the next burning question.  Had they been served any snacks?  “Not really,” she said.  “They just gave us some kind of a hick drink.” 


A hick drink?  What was a hick drink?  Sweetened ice tea?  An “Arnold Palmer” with its interesting blend of lemonade and sweet tea?  Besides, wherever had this child learned such language?  Surely, I had never referred to Ohio as such.  Granted, we had left gorgeous, hilly, water-clad Northern California for Central Ohio.  Central Ohio was flat.  There was a simulated beach within driving distance.  At the edge of a dam, a “beach” had been created by volumes of finely ground gravel dumped onto the shore.  The wake of the motorboats created a sort of wave action for those of us soaking in the pebbles and the sun.  Note I did not say “the sand and the sun.”

 Ohio was family-friendly, of course.  It was family- friendly in the same way that a stray mutt has to be.  It’s a matter of survival.  Ohio could never rival California in natural splendor, resources, attractions, or weather.  It was like comparing the voluptuous Marilyn Monroe to the charming Shirley Temple.  You can’t.  People always rushed to conferences in California, but no one bothered to convene in Columbus.  Still, Ohio was our new home, and I had never called it a “hick” place.


I stalled for time and probed further, “What do you mean, exactly, when you say it was ‘some kind of a hick drink’?”  Somewhat exasperated, she said it was a fruit punch of some sort.  Then it dawned on me.  She had been served a box of “Hi-C.”  I knew that it was pronounced “High C” as in, allegedly high in Vitamin C.  Among my many nutritional transgressions, which I have been guilty of, and can currently be accused of, serving boxed Hi-C drinks was not one of them. 


I remembered the TV jingle from my childhood, “They’ve got Hi – C!  They’ve got Hi – C!...”  My children were not avid or addicted watchers of children’s TV shows, so there was no exposure to the modern commercials either.  Hence, she thought “Hi-C” was pronounced as “hick.”


But that wasn’t what had miffed her.  Before the round of tests, while my daughter familiarized herself with the desk-and-attached chair, a student informed her that the teacher’s name was Mrs. Bison.  Need I mention that the teacher was unusually heavy-set? 


My daughter practiced her best manners by addressing the teacher properly and formally.   “Um, Mrs. Bison, I was wondering if I could sharpen my pencil,” she began as she presumptuously started toward the pencil sharpener.



The teacher’s sunny disposition took a mercurial U-turn.  The happy, hefty, woman suddenly bellowed, “Young lady, sit down in your chair!”


Having been homeschooled, my children were not used to being yelled at…by others, that is.  I did engage in plenty of yelling, but that was as natural in our home as running water.  It didn’t really count; it was just my natural dialect and a means of efficient communication.  Being yelled at by an outsider, though - that was something different, entirely.


Of course, you guessed it.  The woman’s last name was not Bison at all.  It was something confusing and hyphenated, like Neiler-Byce or vice versa.  (And not Versa-Vyce.)  The other student must have gotten a good laugh later, I suspect.  I am assuming a child who was naughty enough to have set my daughter up would also have been clever enough to suppress his laughter.  Like a little criminal, you know?  He probably laughed and bragged later how he had gotten the visiting student to call the teacher a Buffalo kinswoman.


I wonder if that kid is still laughing.

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

Black Friday Shopping – the Best Training Grounds

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, Weekend Edition, on Fri. 3/30/2012

I’ve never been to a Black Friday Sale the day after Thanksgiving, but I think I know how those shoppers feel.  In lieu of conducting interviews and doing background reading, I’m going to base my understanding of said shoppers’ psychology on myths, legends, and sensationalized media reports.  For a column like this, that’s practically the same as conducting interviews and doing research.


We’ve all read about shoppers stampeding for discount electronics and people emerging from the fray with the last $ 15 DVD player clutched as tightly as if it were the Golden Goose herself.  The victorious shopper might end up wearing the imprint of the less successful bargain shopper’s shoe stamped on their backside, but who cares?  Shopper Superior has got that DVD player at what amounts to a steal, so if a little violence was involved, that’s to be expected.


Of course, you’ve read those stories about those kinds of shoppers.  Admit it.  Reading about someone’s egregious or bizarre behavior usually takes precedence over reading about the advances in medical research, developments in the Middle East Peace Process, or the latest blip in the economy, like watching for vital signs in a patient who has been comatose for years.


Let’s examine the characteristics of these shoppers: They line up at ungodly hours; they tend to pounce on any bargain that isn’t moving; they tend to pounce on any bargain that might be moving, too.  Sometimes, unfortunately, getting to the bargain requires that they step over, or possibly even on, other shoppers who might be slower and less efficient.  They are a little desperate.


As a bona fide substitute teacher for Fauquier County, you can have the experience of being a Black Friday shopper every time you try to land a position.  The system works like this: all the substitutes have access to a website where “jobs” are posted whenever a teacher posts his or her expected absence.  Since this is web-based, it can happen at any time.  Access to this website is restricted to those who have submitted an application, completed the training, had their backgrounds checked and their fingerprints cleared, and submitted transcripts and reference letters.


At last count, there were 770 substitutes for the 898 teachers employed by the school system.  This means that you, along with 769 other people, might be viewing this webpage all at once, waiting for that sole vacancy to be posted.  If you click on the job first, and immediately pounce on the button that says “Accept,” you get to be that teacher’s substitute.  After you accept, you can bother with the minor details of which school, what day, and what time to report.  Also, very helpfully, the teacher’s name, the subjects taught, and any other notes are posted.  According to more heavy-duty research conducted for this column, the average time that elapses between a teacher posting a vacancy and it being nabbed by a substitute is eight minutes.  Eight minutes. 


But that was back in the days of the Pony Express, I believe.  That data was announced in the fall, and it had to have come from last year.  I would love to get updated data, because I have watched that Aesop website off and on, and there has only been one job that sat there longer than three minutes.


Once, when I was young and innocent to the Aesop system, I was looking at the details of a job.  I turned momentarily to ask my husband whether he thought this sounded like a good idea.  By the time I turned my head to click “Accept” the job was gone!


If you are the careful and considerate sort of person who is going to contemplate whether or not you truly feel qualified to serve as a substitute for a language class in which you have neither expertise nor experience, you can forget it.  Someone else will have clobbered the job first.


Most of the times, the “Search for Jobs” page of the website is blank except for a message in red:  All qualifying jobs are currently filled. However, please review this web site periodically for new job listings.


The wording here should be revamped to: “Sorry, Slowpoke, someone else beat you to it again.  Why don’t you keep hitting refresh, and work on improving your hand-eye coordination in the meantime?”


So watching this page is imperative.  It is also vital that you have nothing else to do , like actual work, that could interfere with your latest work of watching this page like a hawk, or like a vulture.  When a job is posted, the whitespace will be filled with glorious data announcing details of the vacancy.  It’s like seeing a shooting star!


At this point, you have five seconds to jump on it.  Let’s hope your fingers and your internet connection are fast.  And woe to you if you have never been a Black Friday shopper.

Sunday, April 1, 2012

Vineeta’s “Adventures in Vulture-land”

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, Weekend Edition on 3/23/12

Last year, I was teaching five different subjects a day.  Now, I am on a self-inflicted sabbatical.

Last semester, I was writing three to four scholarly papers per week with references and in-text citations in order to obtain a teaching license. Now, I am only writing this weekly column.  The only references I need to make here are snide ones.

Since I am neither teaching nor doing the onerous research-based writing, you might be wondering what I am doing with all of this extra time.  Sometimes, I wonder that myself.

I now have the Virginia Department of Education’s teaching license in hand, so I am supposed to be job hunting.  This column is my leisure activity, and therefore cannot be counted as real work.

I am preparing to take another Praxis II Exam next month to add to my current endorsements for Middle School Math and Middle School English.  Phase II of the Career Switcher program, which requires “only” three papers a month, additional training and classes, and establishing our own teacher’s website, will kick back in this May.  (It will probably give me a kick in the backside right about then too.)  I’ve been helping with a seminar on electronics that my eldest son is leading at Mountain Vista Governor’s School.  I’ve also served on the Middle School Math Textbook Adoption Committee with middle school teachers and other parents under the County’s Instructional Supervisor for Math, Kim Raines, who is a National Board Certified Teacher with years of experience.

Yes, I still have children, a household, dirty dishes, and mountains of de-junking.  Writing this column and padding my teaching portfolio are all just elaborate schemes to avoid this sort of domestic drudgery.  Fortunately, I have one of those academic, intellectual sorts of husbands who values learning over an immaculate house.  He’s thrilled when I can discuss the latest reading that I’ve done in electronics and doesn’t seem to notice that the house may cave in on us at any moment. 

Once, when he was in his microscopy stage, he came in off the front porch absolutely thrilled.  The two big planters that flank the door had been devoid of any decorative plants for quite some time.  They were filled with stagnant water.  “My gosh, Vin, this is great!” he gushed as he rushed to grab a Petrie dish to collect a sample.  “We’ll probably see some larvae in here.”  He asked me not to disturb the planters.  It’s pretty tough keeping up with such domestic demands, but I try.  Or don’t.  It works – so far.

I have found another way to keep abreast of teaching while avoiding housework: I am now on the substitute teachers’ roster for Fauquier County Schools. 

Years ago, I had been a substitute teacher, but fell off the roster.  Two years of inactivity as a public school substitute while I worked full time in private schools was just enough to do the trick.  You know that saying, “I’ve fallen down and I can’t get up?”  Once you fall off the roster, you have to go through the entire process of registering, attending the day-long training, having your background checked, and getting your fingerprints cleared all over again.

And that’s not a bad thing.  I doubt anyone would complain about those who spend time with our county’s school children being scrutinized as carefully as possible.  Sometimes, even that has not been enough.  No man knows the heart of another.  We can check and be checked as much and as carefully as possible.  And that’s a good thing. 

The screening may not be quite perfect, because guess who might have been in your child’s classroom recently?  Yes, you’re looking at her.

So far, I have subbed at Mountain Vista Governor’s School, Kettle Run High School, Warrenton Middle, and P.B. Smith Elementary School.  It’s a great way to interact with our best and brightest, even if they’re not acting their best and their brightest. 

Sometimes, students confuse the teacher’s day out of the classroom as their day off.  Sometimes, students confuse the substitute for a warm body with a pulse.  I realize that basic physiological functions help qualify me to be in the classroom, but it needs more than that.  Much more.  We are valued and needed professionals, absolutely vital, or so we are told.

Yet being a substitute makes me feel something like a vulture.  It’s not just for the bird’s appealing looks, or its claim to elegance.  It’s the bird’s remarkable ability to polish off leftovers of questionable freshness.  It’s that waiting for something to fall.

I don’t want your child’s teacher to be sick, or have a sick child, or to be hauled in for jury duty, or professional development, necessarily, but that’s how I can get into their classroom. Somebody needs to be out. 

According to the FCPS website, “Fast Facts 2011-2012 School Year,” our schools had 11,205 students enrolled last year, taught by 887 full-time teachers.  Guess how many substitute teachers are on the rosters right now?  770. 


So not only do you have to be a vulture, you have to be a quick vulture – or a well-liked vulture – one who is specifically requested.  More next week.