Reflection

Anonymity is an impossibility when you want to make a difference.

First Day of Summer

It's official! School is out for the summer! And even though I still have a couple days of meetings left, today I had my first taste of a work-free summer. There were a few times I nearly started panicking when I realized I didn't have any grading to do or lesson plans waiting on the back burner, but I conquered those perilous moments with a few deep breaths and a reminder that many people in the world feel that freedom from work every night they come home from the office and it's about time I can experience that feeling--and enjoy it--too.

However, I'm still of the persuasion that more than a week of this will seriously drive me nuts. Therefore, I plan to start grad school on June 5 if all goes well.

Nonetheless, I still accomplished quite a bit today:
-took my car in for its checkup and walked home from the shop for exercise
-did laundry
-watched TV
-straightened up the kitchen
-went out to lunch with teacher friends (and one of them paid for me! They showed me the best deli-type place and bakery I've been to yet...I'll definitely go back~)
-wrote four letters
-made dinner
-walked at Arboretum
-saw Over the Hedge (very cute, by the way!)
-bought a Frappucino with my gift card (thanks, Aunt Karen & Uncle Tom!)
-stopped at Walmart
-and now I'm ready for bed

G'night!

Good News!

As I was eating dinner in Chick-Fil-A tonight, I discovered something very exciting: according to The Cow, anyone shorter than 5'4" is allowed to play in the play area. (Don't worry, says Mr. Cow, if you're taller than that, you are still allowed to eat chicken!)

This tidbit of information will certainly come in handy. Just imagine, when I'm bored out of my mind this summer, I will always know that I can drive to Chick-Fil-A in minutes to have a fun-filled adventure climbing to the top of the pink, blue, green, and yellow gym-thingy.

Or, if I'm having a casual dinner with friends and a child suddenly becomes too scared to climb back down, do not fear, all of you six-foot daddies: I will come to your rescue. For I, at just shy of 5'3", may climb to the top and coax (or push down the slide, depending on how much patience I have that night) your kid down. When I'm a mother (or an aunt), this ability will certainly come in handy for use with my own kids.

Or just imagine me at 74, tottering after my grandkids (or grand nieces and nephews). "Wait for me, sh-unny!" Oops, there goes a denture. Wobble, wobble. By then I will probably even be just shy of 5', so there will be no problem whatsoever when it comes to allowing me to climb that net rope ladder. True, the cane may be a bit of a hassle. But I have definitely got that height thing covered!

Just as long as they don't add a weight requirement, I'm set for life...

Memorable Typos

Did you know that doors can shit? That your little brother can be an infarction? Or that we lived in the Untied States? Gotta love typos and the word processors that can't catch them...

SPRING BREAK, SPRING BREAK, SPRING BREAK!!!!!!

Chaperoning

I was asked by my good friend the orchestra director to chaperone the orchestra trip this past Friday to Louisville. Delighted for a legitimate chance to skip school, I agreed. Everything looked like it was going to be beautiful--the kids were orderly and well-mannered and even requested a numbering system so they could count off attendance rather than wait for roll call. (Thus, I was referred to as #29 rather than Miss Davis for the remainder of the day.)

The problem, then, lay in the fact that we had a novice bus driver. And it's not like we just had a school bus. We had one of those honkin' charter buses. The driver informed me that she was pretty new, but my fears were allayed when she said she had previously been a truck driver. I laid my fears aside too quickly. Our first problem came when we hit the first stoplight. You know when you first get your permit and your parent is constantly slamming on the imaginary break in the passenger seat? That parent was me.

We're flying along at fifty miles an hour, the light turns red, she's not slowing down, she's not slowing down--finally we begin breaking. Oh good, I think. We'll stop. The driver, however, suddenly begins to moan, "Please stop, please stop, please stop..." My grip on the seat in front of me tightens, my eyes grow wide, and I begin praying as I realize that we're not going to stop in time. Forget about the stop bar. It would be a miracle if we even come to a halt by the time we reach the other side of the intersection.

Fortunately, we had some understanding drivers who realized that their rights in a tiny five-passenger vehicle would not be upheld by the laws of nature (the laws of nature deeming that any large object will easily crush a smaller object regardless of whose right it is to be in that exact location at any given time).

After skidding through several more stoplights in a similar fashion, we made it to the highway, and I sat back in my seat. As the one in charge of the trip, I thought it my duty to remain calm in the face of our recurring appointments with death. The kids remained cluelessly happy in the back of the bus. I sat in my seat and prayed for a host of angels to protect this transport.

Other than getting lost twice on the way back, we thankfully had no more major incidents, in spite of the inclement weather we now faced.

I think we need to request an experienced driver in the future. At least one who can stop at a stop bar.

Travel Advice

So my sister and I are tossing around the idea of traveling abroad this summer (so long as we can save enough money). If we get to do it, what do you think--Italy or the United Kingdom? Spain/France or Italy? We're talking two-three weeks, hostels, cheap meals, interesting strangers, train rides, the whole bit. What's your two cents?

Memories

As I was encouraging my Creative Writing class today to recall memories from their childhood, I couldn't help but brainstorm some of my own:

1. Learning how to skateboard down the driveway and throwing the wiffleball so hard my arm hurt in an attempt to impress the boys down the street.
2. Walking home from school or the bus stop and never quite learning the lesson that what goes up must come down, and, because of that delightful law of gravity, those silly plastic lunchboxes will break every time they hit the concrete sidewalk.
3. Dropping a neighbor off at his house only to start backing the car out without realizing that he was still half in, half out of the front seat. Amazingly, I did this multiple times, quite by accident.
4. Praying for a miracle that our neighbor Sue, and not her husband, would answer the door to give us the blessing to cut through their yard, saving us approximately ten minutes of walking time on our route to Dairy Queen during the summers.
5. Participating in leg wars, name-calling tournaments, or what if you were in both the United States and Canada at the same time? games with my sisters.

Not the most exciting memories, perhaps, but that's part of the joy of writing: finding the fresh or significant approach to everyday happenings.

New Year's Day 2006
My siblings and me
Happy New Year!

Life of Pi

Just finished reading Life of Pi by Yann Martel (2001) this morning. I recommend it. Essentially, it's the story of a teenage Indian boy who survives the Pacific Ocean in a lifeboat with a Bengal tiger. It focuses on religious themes, survival, human and animal behavior, and maturity. I was repeatedly impressed with the protagonist's wit and intelligence--he's completely believable and incredibly clever. Several favorite parts: the scene where the pandit, imam, and priest all confront the protagonist about being a Hindu, Muslim, and Christian all at the same time; the carnivorous island chapter; the written transcript of the dialogue between the protagonist and the sunken ship's company representatives; and the breaking up of the book into 100 chapters (this significance is realized about 3/4 of the way through the book).

I'm not usually fond of author's notes preceding a novel, but Martel's proved to be particularly insightful, especially for those who struggle with creating a valid piece of fiction. My favorite part of his revelation is that he took one of his floundering novels and mailed it to a false address with an equally false return address, essentially sending it to post office heaven. Even for the pros, if one element is missing from the story--even if the plot, theme, descriptions, everything else is good--it won't work. Somehow there's comfort in knowing that you're not the only one who struggles with a good final product. Now, if I could just complete a story to even be able to evaluate it along such lines...

Christmas Reflections

What do you make of Christmas when it no longer feels like Christmas? As I grow older, I'm more frustrated by the fact that anything--the season, the birthday, etc.--is what we make of it. When you're little, Christmas seems to come riding in with a magic all its own extending from the moment Thanksgiving dinner ends until the last present is unwrapped and even a little later until the last Christmas cookie has disappeared, albeit in someone's stomach or the trashcan. However, I'm not finding that joy comes automatically with the season. I'm no scrooge, though, so I'll recount what has made the season joyful through 20/20 hindsight:

1. Christmas Caroling. No, the old-time tradition has not yet died, at least in the Davis household. Mom decided that, since we weren't having Christmas Eve service at church this year, we should carol to our neighbors, Christina and Clint's neighbors, and close relatives, much to my brothers' chagrin. It turned out to be an enjoyable night, with our repertoire of "Joy to the World," "Silent Night," "O Come All Ye Faithful," and "We Wish You a Merry Christmas." We had people cry, give us a donation for the church, join us in caroling to their family, shush us because the baby was sleeping, and photograph us for all posterity to remember.

2. Gift Unwrapping. The tradition in my family is to open gifts one at a time while everyone watches and oohs and aahs. We love it because, depending on the year and how many times we interrupt with a snack, gift unwrapping can last between three and six hours, and we always know what everyone received. Another tradition is that each kid receives one "big" gift. As a youngin', it would have been treacherous to have someone else open your big gift, let alone any little gift. I guess I can count it joy that I have reached the age where this faux pas, so horrid and unforgivable in the sight of the giftgiver, did not phase me. When Eric unwrapped my digital camera and then had to hand it over, I must say I handled it with much maturity, yet another sign that I'm getting too old (this mishap was due to the fact that my dad created a secret coding system to inform him of the intended recipient for the package and the contents within, but he unfortunately had major glitches in cracking the code most of the afternoon).

3. Gift Giving. I realized once again that much of the fun at Christmas is in giving the gifts, not receiving them. Seeing the surprise or the excitement of the person opening a gift from you is worth more than gold. I was a little disappointed that I only had gifts for two people this year; my dad's gift still has yet to arrive in the mail, and my siblings and I have taken up the tradition of exchanging names so we only have to buy one gift. It's all in all a better system--less money spent, better quality gift, but I sometimes wish I made six digits simple so I could buy quality gifts for everyone.

Alas, it's good to be reminded of God's gift at Christmas, and that should be the primary focus of the season; however, I miss the old time excitement over the decorations, the packages, the food. We need to start having little kids around again. Though they often carry chaos with them, there's nothing like a child to bring back the simple, unsearched-for joys of the season. No pressure on the married (or soon to be married) siblings. :-)

I'm a Star in my Imagination

Ever have those moments where you realize how embarrassed you'd be if somebody saw what you were doing? I'm talking about one of those heart dropping, blushing red all the way to the tips of your toes kind of moments.

I was in the copy room today, making my copies (last minute, of course) for the next block. When another teacher came in, I realized that there was actually a third person in the room, who, I'm sure, had been there the entire time I was there. I did a double take and then braced myself against the copier, racking my brain. Had I been dancing? twirling? picking a wedgie? Nope. I think I'm safe--this time, at least.

I suppose this fear comes from my habit of imaginatively expressing myself after hours. I wonder, sometimes, if they ever review the security cameras that I'm sure they have in the hall, for whether it's me simply staring at them with a perplexed look (is there really a camera in that black little bubble?), sliding down the empty hallways in my hose, trying to tap dance in my clickety shoes, or simply running (well, jogging would be more like it) from one room to the next, I'm sure that whoever views those tapes has to wonder what's wrong with me.

I think spending ten to twelve hours out of a cinder cell is explanation enough.

Howdy, Y'all

It's official: I can speak like Kentucky folk, or so one of my students informs me.

We are having a grand discussion about the religion of the World State in Brave New World, and as I finish reading a passage, one of my students cries out, "Miss Davis, you sounded like a Kentucky person when you read that sentence!" She proceeded to reread the specific line where my intonation had reflected the Bluegrass dialect.

Not quite as proud of my achievement as she was, I replied, "Oh, I'm so glad that after all this time I finally fit in." Chuckle, chortle, guffaw, snigger.

Let's hope it doesn't happen again. ;-)

Whew! What a weekend!

Although I miss having Saturdays to sleep in, I must say that staying busy always causes me to accomplish more. Friday night was filled with hesitant steps on the ice rink (I haven't been skating in at least three years), Saturday I woke up at the happy hour of 6 to take a student to Hazard, KY (a two+ hour drive each way; from all appearances, Hazard's not as crazy as everyone thinks), took a brisk, one hour walk, went to a friend's house for an international potluck, and then graded papers for nearly three hours at Coffee Times. Upon arriving home, I cleaned the kitchen and bathroom and fell into bed around 1:30. Sunday was church--I ran late, as usual, to first service--and then two girls from Asbury came over for lunch. We relaxed a bit, watched Raising Helen, and then it was back to the books for me until 11:00 or so. Good news: I finished grading a class of memoirs and made it half way through my creative writing stack, planned my Of Mice and Men unit, and came up with a contract for reading group.

Eternal Youth

I know this is a blessing in disguise, but I've heard this line one too many times: "You look like a student!" or, "Get back to class (ha ha ha)!" I've been trying very hard this week to look the part of a professional: I haven't worn my hair in any weird way, I've been wearing skirts, but you know, I can't help my height. Yes, folks, it's a fact of my life: I'm short. Can't do anything about that.

However, as long as people continue to make this comment as I grow older, I think I can manage. :-)

The Bluest Eye

"I don't think I could concentrate in your class. Your eyes are too beautiful." Or so said Coffee Guy tonight. I must admit, I was partially fishing for a compliment when I finally succumbed to the Kentucky Blue Bug. After pondering the idea for several weeks, I purchased my first University of Kentucky sweatshirt, a bit impulsively since I happened to be at the mall tonight, had forgotten my jacket, and walked by the Kentucky apparel store. In the back of my mind, I knew that the blue could only help my appearance since anything blue seems to bring out my eyes (of course, so does the mascara and the slightly tinted contacts--although the company tells me they're only tinted so they can be found when dropped--so it's not au natural). Anywho, it creates a bit of excitement to have someone notice me--or at least my eyes.

I saw my grandma today. Well, not really my grandma. But someone who I think would be just like her if she were alive: bubbly, vivacious, tall, thin, confident, smiling. I have these moments where random people or events will remind me of her, and I miss that I never had the chance to truly know her or for her to truly know me since her body was consumed by cancer when I was a freshman in high school. She was my first pen pal since she lived 800 miles away; we only saw my grandparents once a year. Every time I think of her, I see her throwing her head back to allow a great burst of gut laughter escape from her throat. Her laughter was sincere, and her whole body received a workout from one bit of humor--not only would she throw her head back, but she also slapped her knee and rocked back and forth a bit (not in a dementia sort of way, but a true, I'm-enjoying-this-moment-immensely kind of way), thin shoulders shaking the entire time. She would have loved to see her granddaughters grow up, to become the "fine young women" that she always told us we were becoming.

Like a Little Child

The little boy rests his head gently on his father's shoulder. Suddenly, his right leg swings back and forth; Father continues talking, hardly noticing the movement. Five tiny fingers slide around the man's neck, and calm ensues. Stillness. Rest. The thumb must taste like candy. His palm lies on his father's back, but his fingers pump up and down, giving his father comforting pats. Father returns the gesture unconsciously, laughing at the woman's comments while his thick fingers beat out a love song. Little Boy's large eyes roam the room, and settling on my attentive face, stare blatantly for several seconds before his lips slowly spread into a grin. Peek-a-boo! He stares out between the cracks of his hands, then around his father's neck. Is she still there?
I have to leave. I rise, grab my trash, toss it, and exit.

Some days I wish I could be a little kid again.

15 Minuets and Counting...

In case you are wondering about the posting name, let me explain: as an English teacher, I have my pet peeves in student writing. I also have my favorite errors. This is a case of my favorite typo. It endears the student to me when I am reading their writing, it's moving along at a good clip, it's developed, focused, etc. when I suddenly come upon a statement such as this: "And Suzy cried out to Bob, 'Hurry! We only have fifteen minuets until the movie starts!'" While this may not be particularly amusing to you, I have a brilliant image of ballerinas twirling rapidly through the air to an intense passage of classical music. While my dictionary tells me that I should not, in fact, be seeing ballerinas, but rather couples performing a slow, stately dance, I cannot help what appears in my mind. And that picture tickles my brain.

One such moment occurred today in class. It does not fail that in any batch of papers, my favorite typo appears. And, since I just created this blog and this name two days ago, it has been in the forefront of my mind, moreso than usual. Therefore, when I found that typo in one of my student's papers during her presentation, it was with great effort that I stifled the laughter of amusement welling up within me.