Category Archives: Humor

31 Years of Memories–Year 9

Posted on January 14, 2014 | Leave a comment

Year 9 from 12/28/1989 to 12/28/1990

Puff and Puff Paint

When we moved to Indian Springs, we increased our mortgage and decreased our salary by one-fourth. Not a shrewd idea, but we did anyway. Dale worked longer hours and additional jobs to make ends meet, so I could stay home while our kids were little. He saved us hundreds of dollars on the electric bill by insulating our crawl space. When our neighbors’ water pipes ruptured because of the long freeze, we were warm, we survived.  He garnered extra money as a musician, even using his accordion skills on occasion, though most of his work was on Sunday mornings at First Presbyterian Church. I found a job share partner, which meant I taught first through third periods and Pam Hopkins taught fourth through sixth.  This way, I maintained my skills in science while Meghan attended kindergarten and Allie napped or attended Mommy and Me classes with Nana Eva.

The bus picked up Meghan at our house (kindergarteners have this service), and she left wearing sweet, floral pinafores with combed hair, clean face and returned in disheveled dresses, tattered leggings with messy hair, sticky face. Meghan played hard, a rough and tumble girl, who wore dresses with pants beneath, as was the style of the kinder world. Allie wore tutus every day; lined up her Wee People on the fireplace insert, cradled her “Puff”—a fluffy pillow/blankie, and lived in a wonderful, imaginary world. Thumbelina shared a home in the backyard. Skittles people—orange, yellow, green, and red families—played with the Wee people and survived until ants or Meghan ate them.

I loved my life. I enjoyed challenging classes with semi-adult persons who responded in multi-syllabic sentences (yes, I am referring to high school students), followed by a run on the Marina State Beach, then to Allie’s world of make-believe. It was a magical time for me because I loved my family, teaching, and running.  To save money and to fix our house, I peeled wallpaper daily (layers and layers), painted when the kids played, planted a garden, set a walkway, yanked juniper and mint from every corner of our yard. The invasive species grabbed hold of our property, cropping up after each rain. I filled pillowcases with snowy-white Marina sand after each jog and poured it between the bricks of our walkway. Moved gravel from front to back (eventually back to front) and began our rose garden. Planted grapes around the pool fence—big mistake but made beautiful pictures in the fall. Made jams, jellies, sumptuous vegetable soups from the neighborhood farm at the bottom of our hill. I dehydrated anything that looked edible. I sewed all manner of dresses and play clothes for the kids. To top it off, this was the year of Puff Paint. I puff painted everyone sweatshirts for Christmas. I was at my creative best.

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31 Years of Memories–Year 8

Posted on January 12, 2014 | Leave a comment

Year 8 from 12/28/1989 to 12/28/1989—How We Got Our House
We camped during June and July, including visits to family in Southern California. When we returned, loads and loads of dirty laundry and piles and piles of filthy camp ware waited. In morning, the kids woke wanting pancakes for breakfast and lemonade with brownies for lunch. Perfectly sensible. Totally sugar. Definitely summer. I made breakfast, washed camp dishes, and sorted laundry. Meghan showed renewed interest in toys not seen for weeks and now scattered over the floor. The boys next door, Chris, Michael, and Douglas, appeared at the front door, wanting Meghan and our contribution to the neighborhood lemonade stand. They used Meghan’s Playschool kitchen, with a sign hanging from the plastic range advertising “Lemonade 20 cents,” and then ran up and down the street shouting the opening of their new business.
Meanwhile, Allie’s naptime at 11:00 was disrupted because of being home. Her summer naps often occurred in the car seat when we moved from one campsite to the next. Now, sleep in her crib was foreign—on a mattress in a quiet room. I asked my neighbor to watch the kids (fair exchange—paper cups and lemonade for ½ hour babysitting) as I put Allie in the car for a quick drive to help her fall asleep. Sure enough, a mile down the road, Allie’s eyes began to flutter and she assumed her sleeping position—car seat mode. I had a few minutes left on the clock, so I drove to where the sun was shining.
Indian Springs always held an attraction for Dale and me. Most of the time, the valley sucked in the fog like a giant vacuum. In summer, a dark line of dense clouds and mist hung over the entire valley floor. The plants loved this; we did not. I drove around the Indian Springs neighborhood, dreaming and looking at houses. Few homes were for sale this year—not a buyer’s market for sure. Whether it was the woman pulling weeds or the “For Sale by Owner” sign that caught my eye, I stopped in the driveway.

“May I see your house?” I assumed this was her place, not a neighbor’s she was weeding.

“Yes, of course, come in.” Didi, widowed a year before, had moved to her daughter’s home in town, returned periodically to check on the place. I knew as soon as I walked to the front door that this was our new home. The overgrown weeds, the unpruned roses, the sprawling mint, the gravel lawn (which I hate)—were cosmetic yard work which I love. The front doors opened to a magnificent valley view, the living room to a view of the oak forest. The layout of the house, despite the ugly orange and brown shag rug, was open and flowing. We needed to remove the layers of unsightly wallpaper, rip up the repulsive carpet, replace the broken tile, but the house would work. Most significantly, the pool desperately called for a fence, but the place was doable.
I asked the owner, Didi, “Can you take a contingency?”
She smiled and said, “Where do you live?”
I described our place and named the street, to which she replied, “Oh, I know that house. My daughter lives around the corner from you. May I see your home?”
“Sure, of course,” and by now I needed to get back anyway.
Didi followed me home to the disaster I left. Paper cups flew beyond our yard, to our neighbors on both sides and down the street. Breakfast dishes covered the counter and table. Laundry and camping gear, still not put away, surrounded the couch and the floor. Meghan’s toys, along with Chris’s, Michael’s, and Douglas’s multiplied in my absence, making one of the messier days I left. Didi and I sidestepped the debris, carefully dodging Legos, Lincoln Logs, and assorted body parts of Mr. and Mrs. Potato Head.
“This is the same model as my daughters,” she chuckled, “I’ll take it.”
“Excuse me?” Not sure if I heard this correctly. “Did you say you’ll take it?”
“Yes, we can work this out.” Didi smiled sweetly and suggested I name the price for her home. I made an offer, knowing this was far below what her list price was, and she said, “Yes, that will work fine.”
I called Dale, who was working at his summer “fun” job of crashing computer programs for Digital Research. “Hi, Honey. I sold our house and bought a new one.” Of course, I gave a few more details. “Okay, great, I’ll stop by the library for the forms.” I realized afterwards that Dale did not question me, that he agreed to it sight unseen.
Two days later, we contacted the title insurance company and escrow began. On the third day, Dale dug trenches around the pool for a fence; I enrolled Meghan in Spreckels kindergarten class. The next two weeks we packed. We paid a team of our high school football players $20 per hour plus pizza to move Didi and us. Poor guys had to move furniture to and from both houses, but they loved earning money and eating food. Boxes lined our hallways from floor to ceiling. We did it—in two weeks, with library reference books and without realtors. The title insurance company representative told us he never, in his thirty years in the business, encountered such an efficient escrow.
The bus picked up Meghan at her new house on the first day of school. We were home.

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31 Years of Memories–Year 7

Posted on January 6, 2014 | Leave a comment

Year Seven from 12/28/1988 to 12/28/1989

The Year of the Quake
Baseball fans and Northern Californians know well this date, October 17, 1989. At exactly 5:04 p.m., the earth shook for 20 seconds to a magnitude of 6.9, delaying the Oakland As and S.F. Giants World Series game, destroying sections of bridges, toppling houses, devastating lives. The earthquake reached the Monterey-Salinas area as well. We felt it. We lived through it. Here is our story.
That day, my physical science classes made ice cream, gallons and gallons of it, as part of the thermodynamics unit, while Nana Eva watched our girls. We made a variety of flavors from super rich vanilla, rivaling Häagen Daz, to cookies and cream diet version and everything between. High school students possess creative imaginations and mammoth appetites. We used over a dozen ice cream makers, hand crank of course, and by the end of the day, the metal tubs of ice cream firmed in the science and home economics freezers. Dale taught his usual schedule of biology, and then he rushed to the gym for a volleyball game against Salinas High.
At 4:00 p.m., I took Allie to her 1 ½ year old checkup, which included a multitude of shots. We left the doctors’ office, returned to the high school to watch the play against the number one girls’ seed. Meghan, meanwhile, frolicked beneath the wooden bleachers as Dale called plays from the sidelines, and I watched the game with Allie. Just as the team’s leading server threw up the ball, the quake struck. I saw the waves travel through the floorboards, across the gym floor, not sure, at first what I was really seeing. The lights went out. People dashed down the bleachers. I ran out the door carrying Allie and calling for Meghan. At least Meghan was inside with her daddy.
Swimmers, dripping from their workout, described huge waves while the pool lost a foot of water. The football team sprinted back from practice; many said the shaker knocked them off their feet. All of the sports fields, in fact, the entire school were built on sand dunes, trembled. Since this happened before cell phones, we heard about the epicenter, the magnitude, the disaster by car radio. Every few minutes another aftershock occurred and the school cleared out quickly. With the power out, I thought to rescue some ice cream out of the gallons and gallons we churned, so I ran to my classroom and grabbed what I could. That evening, we celebrated our neighbor’s birthday by candlelight and consumed copious amounts of ice cream.
Around 10 p.m., our sweet Allie was crying and miserable. Highly unusual for her, when it dawned on me, I never gave her any Tylenol after her shots as the doctor suggested. Poor little thing, she eventually fell asleep. I got into bed around 11 p.m., with the second floor of our house shaking like a cheap vibrating bed. So unnerving when you are trying to sleep. My eyes would drift and my thoughts float away, nearing sleep, when more quakes of varying intensities and durations rattled the house and me. One problem is you could never tell if a quake would subside or increase. I was ready to sleep in the car. The car might drop into an abyss, but nothing would fall on me. Dale’s solution, “Hey, if we are rolling around, let me rock your world.” What a man.
I am sure there were other significant events that year, but none shook my world as much as the earthquake in 1989 or none that I recall with as much vivid detail.

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31 Years of Memories–Year 6

Posted on January 4, 2014 | Leave a comment

Year Six from 12/28/87 to 12/28/1988

We Expand Our Family

We were masterful parents with one child, we could do two; besides, among our closest friends, it was oft discussed that you were not a “real parent” until you had more than one. As in, “Pfft. What do they know?” we scoffed as we observed other “starter” parents. Parenting doesn’t count until you have deal with sibling rivalry, sibling fighting, etc.–the whole Cain and Abel stuff.  Allie arrived April 12, 1988 after a year of extreme highs and lows—the birth of Allie followed my miscarriage of twins. We purchased a Volvo station wagon after a car accident totaled the Honda Accord. In school, my earth science students who had written to astronauts, received personal letters in response to theirs, and many letters arrived on the days following the Challenger explosion. Dale won the Sigma Chi Teacher of the Year Award for biology, I won Jaycee Teacher of the Year and Sierra Club Teacher of the Year award for environmental science, but we had difficult working conditions as he coached volleyball and worked extra jobs in computer science to make ends meet and no pay raise for us in the near future.
Allie was an easy baby. We knew this driving home from the hospital. She slept in the car seat, both of us half-expecting wailing since that was Meghan’s M.O. I remember Dale saying, “Hey, let’s drive somewhere, anywhere—she’s asleep!” So amazed were we. That year we attempted more family trips, but my personal favorite was a ski trip to Bear Valley. By then, Allie was 8 months and a tranquil traveler, unlike Meghan who screamed, “Stop, here, okay?” at every “golden arches” she saw along the road, and there are lots of McDonald’s on the way to anywhere obese.
Again, our mantra was to maintain an active life-style, in spite of now two children. Cross-country skiing was the ideal solution to family time and exercise for Mom and Dad. We bundled up our girls, in layers and layers of long underwear, sweaters, snowsuits, mittens, snow goggles, and hats, ready for a perfect snow day. The ski shop fitted our four-year old, Meghan with the exact size of skis, no poles necessary and best of all, the fjellpulken or Swedish towing sled for Allie. Inside the sled, a tiny seat sat suspended by coiled springs, in front, a windshield for protection from wind and snow. The fjellpulken attached to the waist of the “towing” parent by means of a tow bar, which stopped the sled and kept it from careening into the parent. We tucked our bundled up bundle of Allie and headed for the cross-country ski trails. Allie latched onto the edge of the windshield like a piece of Velcro—not certain what new adventure was in store. We securely strapped her in, placed additional blankets around her, along with lunch and snacks for four, frozen water bottles, diapers, diaper changing pad, wipes, toys, first aid kit, extra pacifiers, bottles, dry baby clothes, everything responsible parents bring for a simple outing.
Freshly groomed trails through the pristine pines began a few feet from the lodge, but far from the bathroom, Meghan’s first stop, of course. After undressing, “potty-ing”, and dressing, we eventually got going. Allie’s mittened fingers still firmly affixed to the windshield and her pacifier in place, we began. One smooth stride on the skis gently rocked her seat back and forth, Allie’s firm grasp loosened. Another stride, another gentle sway, one hand dropped away. By the third complete motion by the towing parent, Allie’s hands released the windshield, her eyes closed, her breathing deepened, like every time we put in a car seat. Moreover, Meghan, our rabbit, found every bunny hill on and off the groomed trail. It was a perfect snow day.

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31 Years of Memories–Year 5

Posted on January 2, 2014 | Leave a comment

Year 5 from 12/28/1986 – 12/28/1987

Cabin Camping
Dale and I were active adults BC (before children) and we were determined that having children would not alter that behavior, that we would not succumb to the couch, or to Daddy-Dockers to Mommy Jeans to elastic waistbands. Seriously. We ran with Meghan in the pre-jogging stroller, the double wheels vibrating like an old ’50 Chevy that exceeded 50 mph, with her gums (pre-teeth) chattering over every bump in the road. We played intermittent tennis games while Meghan toddled around the adjacent tennis court, certain to stop a rally whenever she stepped on our court every minute or so. We hiked, as long as ever, only not as far. In fact, we learned the incontrovertible rule of the age of the child equal to the total miles a family could hike without serious catastrophe. For example, Meghan was 2 ½ and our hikes were about that in miles (total per day) and all was well. Any farther, things deteriorated inversely to the time it took to get there.
We thought we had this parenting thing down, or at least the car camping part. Since children take to camping like a labrador to sticks, like a cat to cat nip, we headed to Dale’s property in Cascade, Montana, 30 miles from the nearest town of 500 people. A remote place, just on the eastern side of the divide, where the National Park Service drops errant bears, where hunters prowl in search of deer and antelope—this is where Dale’s cabin was and where we stayed.
It took four days to get there, four agonizing days of eight excruciating hours of the Cinderella tape played incessantly (at least 130 times going there), with Meghan screaming “play it again” each time the tape ended (18 minutes 45 seconds) and not a wink of sleep from her car seat. Finally, with the last few bumps and turns of the road, just as we pulled to the site of the cabin, Meghan mastered the art of sleeping in the car; the rhythmic bouncing on the unpaved washboard of the county road rocked her to sleep. All we had to do was find other backcountry roads for the return trip, and maybe, we could make it back in time for the start of the school year. It was late June, plenty of time.
The rustic cabin was one room with exposed insulation on the walls and plywood for floors, a wood burning stove for cooking and heating, yet this possessed more comfort than the tent. Dale built a ram pump, so we enjoyed running water and a stream fed solar shower. A hammock strung between two beautiful aspens provided the perfect napping place for our toddler, for any of us. A creek, barely a trickle in summer, at the bottom of our hill provided hours of amusement for Meghan, where she was safely entertained with mud and rocks and bugs and water. Meghan ran between swinging in the hammock to splashing in the water. It was a glorious vacation, primitive, elemental, fun.

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31 Years of Memories–One Year at a Time

Posted on December 27, 2013 | Leave a comment

This picture was at our backyard wedding in La Jolla on December 28, 1982.  I was 29 and my husband, 33. We were slightly older than our oldest daughter is now, making a near perfect circle. 31st Anniversary gifts are timepieces, but last year, I gave my husband a watch, a year too soon, so this year my dad offered the sun-dial that sits in their backyard as a gift. However, that would have put my luggage way over the top on my return flight, costing another $50, so here is my anniversary gift year by year to my husband and to our family. It’s time for a “recap” of our years together. Here are thirty-one vignettes of our lives as a couple and then a family. This may take a while, as the saying goes, so I am “chunking” my writing a few years at a time.

Memories Year at a Time

Year 1   Newlyweds

12/28/1982 – 12/28/1983           We moved to Northern California after both of us landed teaching jobs at Seaside High. We managed this feat in the week before the start of school, as jobs in education are ought to do. Had we a marriage license in the interview (we were engaged), I doubt we could have taught  in the same school, let alone down the hall from each other. I taught all life science, Dale—physical science and math.

During that time, Fort Ord was a significant military base of 22,000 army troops with a significant housing problem, which meant we had a problem as well. I packed enough of my clothes to start work, took the essentials for meals, and drove up first, while Dale stayed behind packing and cleaning our apartment. With less than a week to find housing on the peninsula, I scrambled, searching a wide range from cheap to inexpensive to nowhere-near-our-price-range.  We had no assistance from House Hunters, and most realtors helped the military, who needed assistance far more than we did. Each night I gave a summary of my search:

Me—“I found a great place—1 Bedroom, 1 bath not too far from school, but it’s $100 more than we planned to spend.”

Dale—“Hmmm. Keep looking. I am sure you can find something better.”

Welcome to Monterey. Each phone call represented another $100 decrease in our budget. Prices were going up as the apartment size was going down. By the time I located a reasonable place to live, we had gone over by $300 and the place wasn’t ready for move in. Dale was thinking I was out of my mind, that we would be living in a veritable mansion or a fine estate overlooking a golf course in Pebble Beach. Instead, our first weeks at the start of the school year, we camped out in Carmel Valley and parked our rented U-Haul in an adjacent campsite. A solar shower at 6 am definitely wakes you up and ready for work. Trying to sleep at a reasonable time, say before midnight, while other campers are vacationing or partying, was also a challenge. Eventually, we moved to our first house in Pacific Grove, a tiny, 700 square foot cottage, on a large lot with a hot tub. The large lot was useless to us, as we never stayed long enough for a garden. Our hot tub we rarely enjoyed because the raccoons, who lived in the trees surrounding us, destroyed the cover, among other things. But, at least we were in a place, not in a tent looking at stars each night through the mosquito netting.

We explored the county parks and beaches on weekends, visited Gizdich Ranch and places in Santa Cruz, enjoyed the rainy weather that year—one of the wettest seasons I can recall. Everything leather in our miniscule closet, from jackets to belts and shoes mildewed in our tiny rental that never seemed to warm up. Later that January, we moved to a cute cottage with two bedrooms, on Pine St. and a bay window that looked across to Santa Cruz. I loved that house, including the broken, termite-bitten steps in the back, the old floor radiator, and stone fireplace; it had a charm that modern houses lack. We enjoyed countless visitors from Southern California that year, as family and friends descended on our place. This was the start to our marriage.

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A Tableful of Memories

Posted on December 1, 2013 | Leave a comment

My home is an eclectic mix of children, pets, and furniture, never more as apparent as on holidays. On Thanksgiving and Christmas, we set our family table with delicious family recipes, served on inherited china and in mismatched goblets—nothing matches, of course, but none of this matters. There was a time when my children were small, I was young and stupid and obsessed with my house resembling a catalog or magazine home. How foolish was I. My family quickly changed that concept—that my tablescape should mirror Martha Stewart’s with coordinated china, crystal, and silver, and my trees trimmed with themed ornaments and strung with perfectly arranged, twinkling lights. My bulbs stick on some strobe cycle, or the entire strand burns out from one “dead-watt” bulb, which I can never isolate. My china and crystal are chipped or nearly non-existent. Silver? Seriously, silver plate.

We married during the year of the “salad spinner,” that plastic bowl that gyro-scopes lettuce to oblivion. Salad spinners were inexpensive, since our wedding fell on the heels of Christmas, and practical, judging by the number we received in December 1982. We did not receive china or crystal or silver. Thirty plus years later, I appreciate what we have. I have stories—lots and lots of them.

Awhile ago, I inherited my grandmother’s china, the Johnson Brothers set that depicts country scenes throughout the year, which is appropriate since we live in the countryside. When I set the table, I remember my grandparents, gone long ago but not forgotten. I acquired my grandmother’s recipes, such as curried chicken with cashews, apples, and raisins, her minced pie, her pumpkin pie, her crab cakes. I am grateful for her well-turned recipes, and in awe of the brave woman who held her family together during the Great Depression by opening a restaurant in Hollywood. Her amazing meals attracted stars off the movie lots and they autographed the tablecloths in her little café—people like Clark Gable, Spencer Tracy, Katherine Hepburn, and Lana Turner.

Through the decades, my husband and I have attended over thirty proms and have the glassware to show for it. We both taught high school science at Seaside High for eighteen years, “scoring the best extra duty” of prom, and now have sets of phony crystal from a multitude of proms. The unifying element is that each glass has the school name, “Seaside High” embossed on it. The long-stemmed, champagne flutes reflect the prom themes—in blues, grays, or black tints, or clear glass with fancy scroll, or fogged glass or etched in random patterns, or with gold or silver rims. Mr. and Mrs. Harrison were entitled to taking one apiece as chaperones, therefore we gathered a nice assortment.  Perhaps Martha Stewart would approve of that.

Our fine tablecloth has a story, as does our fancy crystal bowl.  Years ago, our neighbors left town, sold their home for a song, and returned to their homeland of Romania—all in one weekend. I recall the family standing at our front door early Saturday morning to say goodbye, and handing us a few prized possessions they saw no point in taking back with them. The tablecloth is hand sewn from Romania, of course, and the crystal bowl is almost too lovely for our home. It is perhaps the only “real crystal” we own, with the fancy signature on the bottom of the bowl—not Princess House or American made—but European old-style—Baccarat? It was the next family who informed us why the Romanians hastily departed and under what dire circumstances. I have no idea if they made it to Romania or to prison, but crimes and indictment were part of the gossip. Nice people.

Our Christmas tree ornaments are connected, since nearly all are gifts from students through the years—some handmade, some Hallmark. A few apples, naturally, among the lot. Many are 4H projects by our own children. Many are music instruments, such as tiny violins on a string, or gilded treble clefs hanging by a wire, as music is another significant part of our house. None match, of course, which matters not in the least.  All are priceless.

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Astronomy Campout in Yosemite

Posted on November 18, 2013 | Leave a comment

Every summer, my husband and I (both of us being high school teachers) pack tent and camp gear and head to state or national parks. When our children were young (starting as early as 6 weeks), we roamed from park to park, with our favorite sites in Yellowstone, Yosemite, Grover Hot Springs, Hendy Woods, Big Sur, and Big Basin. In fall, we camped most often in Yosemite, when the crowds are gone and the weather is not yet winter. At times, a smoky haze hovered over the pine trees from controlled burns in the valley. Other Novembers, we camped in crisp, clean air, our tents on the light snow covering pine needles. I recently returned from Yosemite, this time with high school students, some of whom had never camped.
At the start, this trip did not bode well as everyone was sick from whatever virus was spreading through the high school. We were a band of barking dogs, hacking all the way to the mountains, but Yosemite was calling. Nothing, no insidious virus, would stand in the way of this trip. Immediately after school on Friday afternoon, my colleague and I packed the school vans for the four-hour trek to Yosemite Valley. Stuffed into a decrepit, public school extended van, with no functioning radio (Imagine this with high school kids–really?), filled with camp food and supplies for two days plus behemoth telescope, as this was the astronomy club trip, we pulled into the campsite by 8:00 p.m. and managed to set up tents within the half hour—truly a challenge in the dark and with unfamiliar tents.
We fired up the Coleman stove for hot chocolate, a necessity before sleep. Everyone was out by 10:00 and truly, I mean asleep. No sounds from adjoining tents I was monitoring, until my cough medicine took over and I began to drift off. However, it was a fretful night as I darn near froze, too cold to find the car key to find my other jacket, so I huddled deep inside the length of the down sleeping bag. Even woolen cap, long underwear, fleece pants, down jacket were insufficient, so I shivered out the night until morning. On the other hand, freezing cold is part of the entire experience. The next morning after breakfast, we hiked the John Muir trail to Vernal-Nevada Falls and returned via the horse trail. The hacking, coughing, wheezing, and sneezing teenagers and chaperons pushed up the steep trail, but not sick enough to enjoy the vibrant colors, Sienna, Indian Reds, Orange Red to Maroon and every shade in between. The colors were practically therapeutic.
Following the day’s hike and dinner by campfire, we held an obligatory stroll to the open meadows at 10:00 p.m. This was an astronomy club outing after all, so we sprawled in the meadow gazing at the celestial heavens, as my colleague pointed out constellations, circumpolar stars, and the faint Andromeda galaxy. Returning to site, everyone finished off the hot chocolate while I swigged my NyQuil, determined to get a better night’s sleep than the evening before. That is, of course, when disaster hit. My colleague with an absolute stricken look on his face confessed that he had misplaced the single school van key. I immediately began to think of possible scenarios—ranging from AAA rescue to a-most-pissed-off administrator-driving-the-four-hours to our site. None of the scenarios was especially pleasant. And, that is how I fell asleep, as the second night of camping is always the soundest in terms of sleep. Something about figuring out the best sleeping position in a bag, or adjusting to the surrounding sounds and dim lights, or relaxing to the campfire smells, but this particular night it was the double dose of cough medicine that did it.
My poor partner, Philip, scoured the campsite, then retraced our steps, and trekked through the meadow disturbing lovers and wild beasts for the small key attached to nothing at all. Whoever hands a single key without even a twist-tie? School districts, apparently. As Philip informed me the next morning, I was “unconscious” by the time he returned to our campsite. True. If a black bear had decided to sample my cough medicine, I never would have known. In fact, if a black bear sampled me, I would not have noticed. Philip found the singular key in the bottom of a jacket, which he never took off after that moment.
The next morning after a heavy night of needed sleep and my cough finally dissipating, I drove back, and the sole sound in the van was snoring from all the students and Philip.

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Priceless Work

Posted on November 15, 2013 | Leave a comment

Every so often, I get the opportunity to be a counselor to my students, a role I relish beyond that of teacher. In a school of 2600 students, it is inevitable that some students do not land where they should without additional direction or support.  I remember Christine, a level 10 state champion, whose counselor never mentioned the NCAA registration because he did not know she was a gymnast.  Then Christine’s gymnastics coach never mentioned the NCAA either because he assumed the counselor at the high school would. Being Christine’s biology teacher and mother to a fellow gymnast, I assumed either coach or counselor directed the NCAA registration, until I asked her how the scouting was going.

“Terrible,” Christine replied, “I made videos of my routines, and no one has contacted me, but I have the grades and SAT scores to qualify at the Division I schools.”

“You know that NCAA coaches cannot approach you until that recruitment time of year and you registered, right?”

“Huh?” I still recall the blank expression on her face as I discussed this with her.

“Oh, you are not registered with NCAA. Forget biology for today,” (which I would never say but did on this day) and sent Christine to the library with instructions on NCAA registration.  Two weeks later, Christine had numerous recruitment letters and within one month, scholarship offers at Division I schools. She is now in her third year of competing in college.

Christine’s story does not happen often, thankfully, as we succeed with more students than not. This year, however, I scored another opportunity to be a counselor.  R., in my period six class, is a brilliant young man with spectacular talent on a stage.  A stellar grade point average (3.8), a budding playwright, and winner of Thespian awards at the state level, yet R., just as with Christine, somehow did not get the message that college is an option. R. did not get this message because he is different—not a team sport player or NHS member or CSF member, but a Thespian—creative but often not college material.

This afternoon, I directed R. to explore CSU Mentor, choosing from different options—location in California, school size, subject major—to R.’s overwhelming delight he is a perfect match for San Francisco State. Smiling as though he won the Super Lotto, R. stated repeatedly in a theatrical voice over (again repeatedly), “I am in the top 1% of all applicants.” He could not believe the online calculations, as though if he told me enough, he might eventually believe himself.  R. is now applying to SFSU, even U.C.L.A. is an option. Shooting for the moon and the stars, it is a good thing R. finished his personal statement. Tomorrow night is the opening of the play he wrote about Sherlock Holmes and performed by the repertory theatre. As R. left my class today, he turned to me and promised, “You will get a signed copy of the script.” I will be there. I will be ecstatic for him next spring when acceptance letters arrive. I know that R. is on his way to outer space and to where the stars shine. He belongs there.

Some people collect yachts or mansions or fancy cars or famous artwork or signed sculptures. I collect student work. Some day my work will be priceless.

Oh, yeah. It already is.

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Doc Martin and His Troops

Posted on November 12, 2013 | 2 comments

This is not my story. This belongs to Martin and the troops he served, the 3d Battalion 4th Marines. This is in honor of all veterans.

Nearly a decade ago, Martin enrolled in my general biology class at the high school, and later he became my teacher’s assistant for my  A.P. (Advanced Placement or college level) biology. He was a stellar student, yet typically inconsistent as are many adolescents.  Martin frequently wandered in at 8:30 for the 8:00 class, looking as though he just rolled out of bed, no time to comb his hair or to eat. Starbucks, as I recall, was his breakfast—most mornings.  In spite of his lack of punctuality and the fact that he missed half of my lectures, Martin scored well in labs and on tests.  His exams were off-the-charts superior, and in labs, he took charge, as though practicing for a future career as a scientist or physician or surgeon.  Martin only lost points in citizenship, but he did not care. Martin knew what he was going to be—a Navy surgeon and high school was a minor hurdle to get there—while, I was merely a conduit for his humor, a vector for his future.

In the spring, the ubiquitous pig dissections begin. This is often the final lab of the year, which lasts for two or three weeks, depending on the smells and conditions of the fetal pigs. I order the alcohol-based, less-toxic preserved pigs, but this means we dissect at “hyper-speed” since the pigs do not last that long before decaying. I supplement the labs with meat—fresh from the butcher shop. Most students, even the queasiest of the bunch, tolerate the “meat” labs because fresh meat is odorless. One quick day of dissection and the body parts are discarded.  Since our high school is in an agricultural area, it is easy to order beef hearts, lungs, kidneys, and brains. The hearts are the size of large basketballs; one kidney is the size and shape of a football. It is the plucks, however, that command the most attention. A team of high school “surgeons” tackle a pluck, which is the heart, lungs, trachea, esophagus, and larynx intact and connected; one pluck fits on a dissection table—forget the trays. I drape tables and floors in plastic.

Martin took charge of the plucks. He filled them with water to watch the lungs inflate, separated the individual parts, carefully studyed the connective tissue, valves, nerves, arteries, and veins. I watched Martin that day, knowing someday he would use this knowledge, since I believe no knowledge is ever wasted. Despite his poor attendance record and his borderline grades in his other classes, I agreed to let Martin stay through the entire day, assisting my other biology classes with the same labs. It certainly made my life easier, not having to wipe counters and floors all day long.

Finally, during the last period of the day, we tossed the completely disarticulated and destroyed hearts, plucks, and lungs in the trash. I pulled over the lab cart, instructed Martin and several of his big classmates to return the bloody messes into the original cardboard boxes, lined with plastic and butcher paper from the grocery store. This required some heavy lifting as the plucks alone weighed in excess of forty pounds.  I held open the elevator doors, told my students to move quickly to the trash bins, as the leaking mess was dripping over the hallway floor. My last reminder to the disposal crew was to secure the trash bin lid, as we did not want neighborhood cats climbing in that mess. Martin and his classmates returned a few minutes later, confirming that the task was complete, but Martin’s smile left me wondering.

The next morning, Jesse, our custodian stopped by my classroom for a chat. He casually mentioned that he received an early, frantic call from B.F.I., our local cardboard recycling agency. Did I happen to notice into which bin the students dropped the beef? The recycling attendants must have wondered what crime had been committed at the high school, when they saw the blood dripping down cardboard boxes, and then to open the containers and find massive hearts, kidneys, lungs, etc. in an array. Thankfully, the attendants halted the cardboard shredder just in time.

Martin became known as Doc for his troops and served tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. He is a Navy nurse and first responder and saved many Marines. The best gift I ever received came Memorial Day, 2010, when Martin stopped by with an American flag and a certificate signed by his commanding officer. They flew the flag over the Headquarters of 3d Battalion 4th Marines at FOB Delaram, Afghanistan and dedicated the flag to me. I cried when I read the parchment, heck, even now. Martin, back at you! Thank you for your service.

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