Why Primrose Hates Phones

We ate at 6:00 every night. My dad and stepmom both worked at the Wyoming Medical Center in Casper, and unless Dad had a screwy shift, he was usually home by 5:15 or so. We always left him alone for a bit while my stepmom cooked dinner - he needed time to decompress after working in the ER.

A house with three boys is a chaotic place, but dinnertime was absolutely sacred. No eating in front of the TV. No radio in the background. No grabbing your plate and heading off to your room. We all ate dinner at the kitchen table, held reasonable conversation, did the dishes, and then moved on with our lives.

Now, don't imagine Leave It to Beaver or an overly stern, hear-a-pin-drop atmosphere, because that's not the case. We held heated political debates, talked about the Broncos, and always made sure to compliment my stepmom's cooking.

But one thing would bring conversation to a screeching halt. The table would go from lively and bright to deadly in less than a second. Someone could be in mid-sentence, about to reveal some inner truth about Elway's passing ability, only to have the wisdom rendered utterly moot . . . by the telephone.

When the phone rang during dinner, Dad's face would fall. It was anger, yes, but I realize now there was sadness there, too. My brothers and I would invariably glance at each other, wondering which idiot friend of ours violated Rule #1: No calls between 6 and 6:30, ever, for any reason, even if it's about a girl. And that made us think to ourselves, Oh God, please don't be a girl calling.

Dad was brutal. Just mean. It didn't matter who it was - wrong numbers, best friends in grave peril, charity for three legged cat shelters, all were treated with equal disdain. Calling our place during dinner had to be one of the most awkward experiences of your life in the 1980s, up to and including velcro shoes.

Now, in fairness, when Dad was in a good mood, he'd just toy with the caller for a while before handing the phone over to one of us, smirking. And as he's aged, he's changed his tune a bit. These days he's practically friendly with random callers - I think he enjoys stringing along telemarketers just to see how long they'll stay on the line after they realize they're not going to make the sale.

So now, when I think about calling students' homes in the evening, I think about how my dad used to react and I wonder: Am I that caller, ruining someone's dinner? What domestic traditions am I interrupting?

I've been a better writer than speaker since childhood, so when possible, I'll stick to what I know. 

And Now a Little Something for AP

It is so utterly pointless to say anything about how long it's been since I've posted here that I'll refrain from doing so, mostly.

It's been a productive day, and as I take a break from writing up my next AP unit, it occurs to me that my students are probably stressing a little bit about this APA research paper. Rightfully so, to some degree, but sitting here on my porch I'm reminded of a story from my Phoenix days.

Oh, my Phoenix days. Post-Champaign, pre-Seattle. Definitely a lost year. Phoenix is a city without a soul, and living there bothered me a great deal. How I got there in the first place is a story for another post, Dear Reader. For now, what's important is insight from a guy named Jim.

My second job in Phoenix* was slinging lattes for the Scottsdale elite. Tucked into a strip mall on Hayden Road, Java City is no longer operational in the Phoenix metro area, but you've probably seen the kind of place I'm talking about: smallish cafe and bakery chain, catering to the stay-at-home middle to upper class types. If I sound bitter, it's because my customers could be nice, had they chosen, but were usually snotty.

A few doors down in the strip mall, a crafty Bostonian and former flight instructor named Jim opened a lobster business. Replete with Red Sox cap and "pahk yah cah" accent, Jim's entrepreneurial spirit found him peddling live lobsters to uppity Phoenix foodies at roughly a zillion dollars per pound. His store was furnished with exactly five pieces: two enormous lobster tanks, a rickety table, a stool, and a cash register. How Jim went from Boston flight instructor to Scottsdale lobster wrangler was never clear.

One day Jim and I ran into each other in the shared alley behind our stores. I was breaking down boxes and he'd just finished unloading a shipment of lobsters from the airport. I'd had yet another stressful day - spills, snippy customers, rude, Porsche-driving high school kids, etc. I must have said something about losing my mind.

"Paulie," he said, "let me tell you something I used to tell rookie pilots about losing your mind."

This should be good, I thought to myself.

"The first thing I used to tell pilots to do, when they lost control of the aircraft, was to set their watch to the clock on the instrument panel."

Ooookaaaay, I thought to myself . . . because, you know, when you're in a tailspin at 14,000 feet, it's important to know the precise time of impact.

"And do you know why I would tell them to do that?"

"No idea."

"Because it gave them at least a little control. It gave them something to go on." 

I must have looked confused, because he continued.

"Whenever your world is caving in (whenevah yah wahld is cavin' in. . . ), you need something to cling to. Start with whatever you can. In a pilot's case, it's setting a watch. In your case, I dunno, maybe sweep the floor or something. Find something you can control, and control it. But whatever you do . . . do."

The cynic in me was speechless for a minute, no small feat when I was 24 and angry at the world. But you know, Jim was and remains absolutely right.

AP students, as we head into what will likely be a stressful unit, I encourage you to remember Jim's advice. When your lives get stressful, take action, however small, on that which you can control. You cannot write an 8 page APA research paper in one night. You can, however, spend 15 minutes trying to track down a source or two. You cannot reasonably expect to understand every nuance of APA style by checking a website in one sitting. . .  but you can check how this citation should work in this particular instance.

Alrighty. It's been a looooong day of staring at the computer, and I'm cooked. Sorry I didn't get the Do It the Hard Way essays graded. That should happen this week.

Onward!

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*My first job is also a story for another post.

On the off chance that people still check this blog. . .

It's been almost a month since I last checked in, so I thought I'd summarize our lives:

Wake up. Shower. Attend work. Return home. Eat. Study. Sleep.

Repeat ad nauseum.

Kathryn has it much worse than I do, but we're both pretty much hermits this semester. The good news on my front is that we're in the "literature" semester of AP, which is my stronger suit, and we're having a good time in LA 9 and Honors 11 as well (as far as I can tell, anyway).

Meanwhile, my two classes are interesting. I'm always astonished at grad classes . . . to be honest, after my undergrad stint at Wyoming I was used to being one of the smartest people in the room on a regular basis. Grad school? Not so much. There are some wicked smart people out there.

We have the day off and so far I've spent a few hours grading and several hours playing online games. Kathryn has pretty much studied the entire time. Yikes.

Onward!

Why 9th Grade Will Be Better This Semester

I don't have much say in which classes I teach on a yearly basis, but I did volunteer to take a few sections of Language Arts 9 this year. LA 9 is just as challenging as you might think; it asks for solid grammar chops; it requires clever lessons in order to keep students engaged; it demands infinite patience for reasons that should be obvious.

Keep in mind I was awarded a cool grant at the beginning of the year that resulted in a class set of netbooks. The paperless classroom has always been a professional goal of mine, so we spent the first semester test driving various web technologies like blogs, online word processors, and we even did a little web design. These skills are mostly useful in today's world and jived nicely with a district initiative concerning 21st century skills.

They were not, however, always relevant to the English classroom. Worse, I didn't always assess in meaningful ways, and worse than that, my online grade book didn't reflect the realities of our hard work. Perhaps worst of all, I tried a new grading scale that resulted in very few points available (not to mention displayed in the book).

Now if this sounds like typical (if routine) self-flagellation, I'll admit that I'm my worst critic. However, I'm also pretty disappointed in how LA 9 went this semester, especially considering how much fun I've had with that class in the past.

So after tomorrow's professional development, Tuesday brings changes to E 203. I've never been a fan of workbook learnin', but as with all content areas, some language arts components simply require memorization and repetition. Therefore, my LA 9 students can expect old fashioned pen-and-paper assignments. Does this mean worksheets? Yes, but they'll be tailored worksheets, and I assure you my worksheets are hilarious in a dorky English teacher kind of way.

We begin with Much Ado About Nothing and prefixes. Onward!

stuff and stuff

Back at it. This last week before finals is always a little sketchy, and I get really tired right about this time every year. That exhaustion shows up in weird places - forgetting people's names; forgetting whether or not I fed the cat; writing poorly. You name it.

In other news, it's cold out and I'm daydreaming about camping and fishing.

Semester 2, where are you?

New Year's Eve: A Reminiscence

I know I've done this before on another blog, but for the record here's a catalog of how I've spent New Year's Eves, going back as far as I can remember.

95/96 - Champaign. Began the night in Murphy's Pub, ended in my crappy little one-room apartment.
96/97 - Tempe. Matt Scholz and I scoured secondhand stores for polyester '70s outfits. Partied on Mill Ave.
97/98 - Living in Seattle, but spent New Year's in Portland. Made out with a complete stranger on the street.
98/99 - Seattle. Standing near the Space Needle when the new year turned.
99/00 - Tucson. The details are too embarrassing (and hazy) to disclose publicly.
00/01 - Lexington. Hosted a party at my apartment for some Amazonians. Truly pathetic, even by Amazon manager standards.
01/02 - Living in Lexington, partied in Louisville. Louisville, if you're not aware, is a really cool town.
02/03 - Lexington. Hung out at a coworker's house. Was a jerk to my girlfriend.
03/04 - Edwardsville. Fell asleep at 10. Slept through the new year. Wheee.
04/05 - Laramie. Had returned from Lander after an unfortunate sledding accident in Sinks Canyon left me in remarkable pain. Watched ball drop in my dorm room.
05/06 - Denver. Jenn and Phil's. Good times!
06/07 - Denver. Jenn and Phil's. Good times! Again!
07/08 - Lander. Played Wii at Chad and Melissa's.
08/09 - Denver. Jenn and Phil's. Good times! Again again!

The Day We Would Like to Forget By Tomorrow

Lander reached well into the negative 30's earlier this week, and on Tuesday (having missed Monday as my last mandated recovery-from-pneumonia day) I went outside to start my truck about 10 minutes before I left for school. That's the routine: when it's really cold I start the truck early -  not to warm the cab but to give the motor a fighting chance.

So I went out and it was frigid, the kind of cold that doesn't feel too bad for the first ten second or so, but which suddenly pierces you. Normally the truck doesn't like to start in this kind of weather, though it does start. Let me repeat that: the truck always starts. Without fail, my '99 Toyota Tacoma will turn over regardless of weather. Sure, it moans and sometimes requires multiple tries and a little sweet talk, but it always starts. The sun will rise tomorrow, the Lions will not win the Super Bowl, and my truck will start.

But on Tuesday the truck wouldn't start. Sputtered once or twice but didn't turn over.

Hmm, I thought to myself. That's odd. Hopefully the Subaru starts or we're truly hosed.

So, I trudged back inside, grabbed the Subaru key, and returned to Dante's 9th circle. I should note here that while the Tacoma's always been left to its own devices, we thought we'd treat the Outback well and keep it plugged into a block heater on subzero nights. We even bought a little timer so that we don't warm the thing all night; it's set to come on at 4:00am or so and run until 9:00am, which should give the heater plenty of time.

But the Outback wouldn't start. Wouldn't even turn over. I sat for a moment, my breath puffing out in enormous clouds of vapor and my hands well beyond numb. This was one of those moments in which one's world is clarified sharply: It's Very Freaking Cold, and we don't have an operational car.

Hmm.

I tried it a few more times, and then something even more curious happened. The key would not turn. It would insert just fine, but it would not turn at all.

Not good, I thought to myself.

Back inside, Kathryn informed me it was 20 below out. Okay, no problem, I've walked the mile to school in weather like this before, having set a personal record of 18 below two years ago. We formulated a plan: I'd walk to school and Kathryn would call her boss and let her know what's up. Meanwhile, we would just have to wait for the weather to warm up - say, to above zero - before trying the cars again.

The walk, however, proved colder than I'd remembered. Every inch of skin was covered except for a thin strip by my eyes, that that strip was stinging and remarkably painful within two blocks of the house. Luckily my neighbor, the school's band teacher, pulled up next to me and I jumped in.

"Dude," he said, "it's 27 below. What are you doing?"

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Throughout the week, we waited for the weather to warm up. On days when the temperature peaked in the single digits - and single digits really did feel warmer than one might imagine - I tried the truck. Still nothing. Worse, it didn't sound like a battery problem, it sounded like an electronic or firing problem. Worse still, the hood was frozen shut so I couldn't even see if anything was obviously wrong.

Fast forward to today. At 11:00 this morning it was a balmy 9 degrees outside, so I went out to try again, armed with a jug of water and gloves with the right index finger missing, thanks to Rigby's mid-day snack on Thursday. I managed to get the hood up, and promptly called my brother over to see if a jumpstart would magically fix the problem. He arrived, we hooked up the wires, and. . .

Nothing.

Fast forward through two teacher friends trying to help us out: One of them gave Kathryn a ride to Napa for starter fluid while the other idled his truck next to mine, jumper cables hooked up just to ensure the battery was okay. Still nothing.

Fast forward though another sharp moment in which I struggle to realize that I'm not a Sudanese refugee or Bangladeshi street urchin sniffing glue instead of eating; I am a middle class white dude whose cars are broken.

Fast forward through a phone call to a towing service that agreed that I was screwed.

Suddenly, the doorbell. My coworker with his '93 Mercury Sable that usually sits unused in front of his house - ours until we're squared away. Incredible.

Fast forward through a trip to Riverton punctuated by a stop at the gas station (more frozen things - this time, the borrowed car's gas hatch) and McDonald's.

Fast forward to Walmart, which immediately gives me flashbacks to my college days in the Champaign store's toy department. After the first hour I begin singing, to the tune of The Wheels on the Bus, "This Walmart trip will never end, never end, never end. / This Walmart trip will never end - please shoot me now." Kathryn is a remarkably good sport, although we're both getting mopey.

Fast forward to home. We try to replace bathroom fixtures in the basement and have major problems. We both begin to lose it.

Fast forward to five minutes ago, when Kathryn yelled out the door at the neighbor's dog. Barley is a Yellow Lab and incredibly stupid, even for a Lab. His favorite trick is omnidirectional woofing with no pause.

We're both ready to start over.

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We're not sure what we're going to do about the vehicles. Right now the plan is to get the Subaru towed, somehow, to our mechanic's place outside of town and get the Toyota towed, somehow, to the Toyota dealership because they do good work too. I don't even want to know what the damage is for either vehicle, although I will say this: Subarus are a dream to drive on snow, but maintenance costs are unreal. This is probably the last Subaru we'll own. The Tacoma? Well, it's been practically hassle-free for ten years now. If the motor's shot, I'll have a hard decision to make.