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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.