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Best Halloween Trick Ever

Posted on November 3, 2013 | 2 comments

My Catholic schoolmates can relate to this. I both enjoyed and endured twelve years of Catholic education taught by nuns, who wore long, black dresses with strange contraptions attached to their heads. Some of these “habits” or “uniforms” (for non-Catholic readers) seemed like black wedding veils worn close to the head; other headpieces resembled halos, as though the nuns from this order were especially saintly. These same wonderful sisters pulled anything a child needed from the copious pockets hidden within the million folds of their voluminous skirts. Need a band-aid? Scissors? Brush? Hammer? File? Hole punch? Stapler? Crayons? Ruler? Sister Mary Whatshername could sew on a button with the needle and thread pulled from her pockets. Messy? Sister Mary Whoevershewas could wipe a face with a wet washcloth and dry tears with a clean towel, taken from within the tucks of her clothes. Hungry? Sister Alwayssmiling unearthed jellybeans, chocolate, and licorice from her pleats.

By the time, I began my teaching career, the long black dresses of the religious sisters had given way to sedate, plain A-line dresses, adorned with a simple cross. The nuns no longer stood out in a crowd of schoolchildren. Until “Sister Act,” an entire generation of both Catholic and non-Catholic students had no clue what the traditional sister-attire was, nor what a “real nun” looked like historically. Whoopi Goldberg cleared that up for the children of the 90s, who watched Whoopi perform as a rocking sister, who wore a slightly, shorter version of the black uniforms of yore.

It is ironic that after my extensive Catholic education—taught in straight rows and working in quiet classrooms—that my career would be in urban public high schools, with students seated in tables and working in large groups. One Halloween morning, I stared at my closet. What to wear? Costume or no? Which decade to resurrect—50s, 60s, 70s? I spent most of the 80s alternatively pregnant or nursing; therefore, I did not consider that decade. Then I found it—a simple gray-pleated and A-line dress, used for at least two pregnancies, and with a sweet Peter-Pan collar. I would be a nun for a day! Mind you, not a pregnant nun, either. No, I would be Sister Theresa for my heathen public high school teenagers.

A crystalline rosary anchored to the plain rope that I tied around my waist, obscured the maternity style of the dress. I would look very plain, very dowdy, and very not pregnant. I secured plain gray fabric around my head, complete with white trim that I quickly sewed. My hair tucked inside, no make-up, and the austere uniform, I was ready to meet my students for the day. I walked into my usual classroom and wrote my name clearly on the board—Sister Theresa. I was certain my students would recognize me, despite my change of appearance and the obvious connection with Halloween. How mistaken I was.

First period class entered and took one glance at my habit and quietly took their seats. No one talked. I realized they had never really studied my face and my outfit was truly masterful. I introduced myself, thinking at this time, they would surely recognize my voice, but these were high school sophomores—15 years of age, somewhere between 8 and 18 years in maturity, and they never really listened to adults. Therefore, of course, they would not recognize my voice. I celebrated!
Me—“Good morning, class. I am your substitute teacher for the day. My name is Sister Theresa. Ms. Harrison will return tomorrow. I expect complete silence when I am speaking. When you wish to speak, you will raise your hand. When I call upon you, you will answer by standing at attention by your desk. You will answer me by replying, ‘Yes, Sister Theresa.’ When you finish replying, you may sit down. Is this clear?”
Class—Nearly in unison, “Yes, Sister Theresa.”

And so it went, for the entire day—class after class filed in, and I began the same way. It was a marvelous day attended by silent, studious, and respectful students. Minimal whispering occurred during lessons. When I returned the next day, and my students filed in their usual relaxed manner, hordes of kids ran to tell me that they had met a religious sister who substituted for me. She was strict, required things—such as standing by the desk and responding formally to Sister Theresa.

Best Halloween trick ever.
And, on those days, such as Homecoming week, before vacation, etc. when my classes are particularly unruly and I need a break, I might call on Sister Theresa to substitute again.

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Aside

Quackers earned the family respect and admiration by winning the titles of Monterey County Fair Champion Water Fowl and Best of Show in Poultry Division awards. He gave us excitement (chased children and wild animals from our yard), money (won … Continue reading →

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Posted on November 1, 2013

First Prize Duck

Posted on October 29, 2013 | Leave a comment

Our brain-damaged duck continued to dominate our yard and to wreak havoc on our household. An unsuccessful “release” and subsequent return of Quackers to the only home he knew reinforced that he was indeed “king” of his backyard forest and all its little creatures. I coped by heading back to work. The grandparents protected our children while my husband and I were gone. They could handle anything; they raised children during the 1960s.

Grandpa L., who was in the midst of fighting his own dementia (Alzheimer’s), took on the task of playing defender to the duck. Each time the duck chased the kids, Grandpa L. was there, and snatching up the duck faster than a goalie stops a puck across the ice. How he managed to do this was a mystery to us, as Grandpa L. was unsteady on his feet. Yet, when called to act, Grandpa L. grabbed this duck, while the rest of the household, save Dale, could not. Both duck and grandpa received plenty of exercise that summer. By July’s end, Quackers had grown fat, almost behemoth, sort of like a fully stuffed, 40 pound Butterball turkey, only this was no turkey, just a snowy, white duck with flaming, orange feet and bill. Only adults in good physical condition could lift him.

Registration forms for the Monterey County Fair were due soon. Our twelve-year-old daughter, Meg, who was raising a pig, suggested showing Quackers in the poultry division. We agreed that Quackers could join us at the fair, but no one had any desire to hold him. Quackers would be strictly “shown for judging,” but not in the “showmanship” event. No one in the family, or in the entire 4H club for that matter, wanted to participate in showmanship competition with that duck. Far too dangerous.

In showmanship, the 4H member demonstrates how to handle the animal, such as goat, chicken, sheep, rabbit, cattle, or duck. The competitor’s job is present the animal to the judge and to demonstrate how easily he/she works. As an example, their owners, who use a cane for physical prodding, maneuver pigs around the corral. Come “fair time,” it is apparent which kids “exercised” their pigs, and which kids did not. Pigs that dart, while barking like dogs, and who run down other pigs or small children or elderly, are pigs that did not receive adequate exercise.  Other pigs stroll along, with gentle encouragement by the cane, reveal their well-developed ham-hocks or shoulders, from their exercise. There was no way any of us could handle this unruly duck. The duck could compete, but not in showmanship.

The morning of the fair, we lined the familiar orange crate with a bedding of hay, while Grandpa L. set Quackers inside. We drove the 20 miles with Quackers’s head peering out of the crate and squawking the entire way. At check in, the poultry division leader immediately called for the largest cage available—likely one used by Macaws, Iguanas, or something even larger. Quackers was banded and checked for disease and the leaders remarked they had never seen such a healthy, prime specimen. Quackers attempted to bite their hands, but these were professionals, and they knew exactly how to handle this difficult bird.

The first day of the fair was children’s day, where processions of schoolchildren marched through the animal exhibits. Most of these kids lived in the city and only saw farm animals at fair time. The poultry barn was the first barn in the livestock area, so the children’s energy and enthusiasm for the day was at a peak of excitement. Posted at each entry to the barn, above each block of cages, on every post, were warning signs cautioning NOT to put fingers in the cages. Beneath the warning signs, in smaller print, was the explanation that this disturbs the fragile birds. Young children do not read signs, so teachers and poultry leaders cautioned children to look, but not to touch the cages. For some, of course, this was not a warning, but an invitation. Quackers was at the far end of the block, near the back, waiting. Kids ran their fingers along the cages just as they would run a stick along a picket fence, enjoying the thud-thud-thud and resulting flap-flap-flap as the birds freaked and flew to the back of the tiny cage for safety. Except when they arrived at Quackers.

Quackers squatted at the edge of his cage, ready to bolt for freedom, ready to reclaim his yard, ready to bite whoever dared approach. One crying, screaming child after another learned a lesson that day, and the poultry leaders loved that bird even more. At the end of judging, Quackers won Best of Water Fowl, Best of Show, and $14.

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Year of the Duck

Posted on October 22, 2013 | Leave a comment

Samantha skipped home from kindergarten, as do most kinders, but this day was especially delightful because she brought home a duck. Like many elementary classes, children celebrate birthdays with cupcakes, candy, and punch; unlike most, Sammy’s class celebrated with ducklings—from the newly hatched eggs of the classroom incubator the children watched for weeks—far more valuable in her eyes than a cupcake. This handful of feathers, hatched on Sammy’s birthday, earned her the gift of a duck. I approved, without much forethought or serious consideration, and thus began the Year of the Duck.

My spontaneity has always been my downfall; I have a serious problem with saying, “No.” Impromptu events are more exciting to me than anything planned, and so it goes. I knew little about birds, despite my countless biology courses at UCSD, but I was about to learn. All my college biology courses involved studies in microscopic organisms or things that swim in some sort of molecular soup, while the duck experience was the perfect opportunity to study “real” biology. We live in a rural area, surrounded by farms and ranches, and our children belonged to the local 4H club. We could handle a duck.

Our three girls and their elementary friends renamed Quackers multiple times. Naming a duck is vitally important—just as with any offspring—it determines the future demeanor, the future successes or failures in life. Since we could only guess the gender of our duck, the children chose a uni-sex name and which sounded like him. Those first few weeks, the duckling never walked on land. Every little girl in the neighborhood held this thing, snuggling, rocking her collective baby. Passed from little girl to little girl, Quackers slept tucked in the palm of each little girl, waking periodically to nibble at the wild birdseed in the hand, then drifted back to sleep. We had no shortage of little girls (and little boys) from the neighborhood that was willing to caress him/her; Quackers had no shortage of warm hands in which to sleep. At night, an old mouse cage lined with baby blankets served as temporary home, until morning when the parade of small children came to hold. Those precious days, just as with any baby, did not last long.

In the wild, mother ducks fold their ducklings under their maternal wings, instinctively rubbing their protective oils to prepare them for swimming. We didn’t know about this part, but we knew ducks swim, right? Three days after hatching, surviving, and seemingly thriving in our family, Quackers went swimming in his personal swimming hole—the bathroom sink. He seemed a happy duckling and his tiny webbed feet performed perfectly; our clean towels warmed and dried him. Knowing what I do now, I am amazed this duck survived, as we did everything wrong, i.e. Quackers should not have entered the water for a full month. A search on “how to raise a duck” explained that ducks could drown if they enter the water too early. I decided after, I should do more research before.

Within a month, Quackers outgrew the mouse cage and needed more space to accommodate his copious poop and messy eating. I got a duck feeder from the local feed supply store and Dale built a cage out of chicken wire and surrounded it by hay on all sides. The hay served the dual purpose of warm bedding at night and protection from the numerous predators that roamed our neighborhood. By now, Quackers was no longer the pristine yellow duckling. A complete adolescent, Quackers was cloaked in brown, white, and yellow feathers in varying lengths from floaty down to long, greasy bird feathers, much like the gangly kid in junior high whose clothes don’t fit. Quacker’s neck was too long for his tiny body—did we get a goose or a swan? His legs were too long, his webbed feet too large, but the kids loved him, nonetheless, and he loved them. Our cat did not, however, and all day long, someone had to stand duck-duty, as Ginger our cat, stalked him wherever he waddled. We protected Quackers—either totally caged or with a bodyguard— at all times. Within two months, though, Quackers surpassed Ginger in both height and girth, and both duck and cat quacked and meowed, respectively, at the back door begging to enter our house. Disgusting duck poop splattered over the deck, no way was I going to let this duck in our house. The cat, maybe, but she did not leave the same trail. Of course, kids being kids snuck in the duck. I knew. Not hard to figure out. I added one more job to my growing list of chores, that of deck (duck?) maintenance by hosing off his giant droppings into our garden.

Meanwhile, Quackers roamed our yard consuming bountiful amounts of grass and seeds and snails and slugs—anything he could find. Soon enough, we stopped buying duck feed because Quackers found an abundance of savory meals as he “finished off” the snails and slugs. One of the few benefits—no slugs, no snails, yet thriving roses from the fertilizer. For at least two months, we tolerated the duck and saw potential advantages to this family addition. The next month things changed…

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Year of the Pig

Posted on October 18, 2013 | Leave a comment

When our thirteen-year-old daughter, Meg, decided for her 4H project she would spend her summer building a pigpen and raising a pig, we celebrated.  We were teenagers once, we teach them, and so we know them. Teenagers do drugs, have sex, cause trouble, talk loudly, swear randomly, steal stuff, and generally, protest everything, so when our teenage daughter chose to raise a pig, we celebrated. My husband, Dale,  and I have taught high school for over 30 years, so we have some experience with this age-group, and go figure, we like them.  Therefore, when Meg wanted a pig, we celebrated.  We knew she would be busy all summer long and we would have less teenage angst (read—no trouble).

First thing, we had to do was build a pen. My husband built the room addition to our house, which means he knows construction and since we lack in sons (not that this should EVER matter), our daughters learned how to build.  Our girls built everything with their dad—tree houses and room additions and now the pigpen. Meg and Dale leveled the plot, dug the holes, poured the concrete, set the posts, and attached the animal corral. They made the pig feeder out of wide PFC pipe, drilled holes for the spigot, anchored the straps, and attached it to the corral. They ran the water line from the well to the feeder. They even painted the sides of the pigpen to make this like a home. All in a weekend to be ready for the homecoming of the pig.

Our 4H leader met us at the pig farm, where we scouted the squirming, squealing, and smelling spring piglets. We had no idea what made for a good-looking pig, only those in agriculture know this. We “went” with pretty. Ag people look for nice lines, good hocks, strong legs, and wide shoulders.  We looked at the piglets and chose for cuteness, of course. Meg picked out an American Landrace, a special variety of pig, the color of Babe, not quite as amazing as Wilbur, and named him Rufus. The morning Rufus arrived at his new home, my husband wrestled the 102-pound squealing piggy out of the pickup truck and muscled him into his new pen. That was the first time that Dale wrenched his back, and except for this minor mishap, the pig project seemed easy enough.

Our 4H leader, Carolyn H., said we did not have to exercise our piggy for two weeks. Well, shoot, if this pig was going to be Grade A meat by fair time (in three months), he needed a workout. Dale and Meg took Rufus for a “walk” hours after his move and nearly lost him, as Rufus raced back down the dirt road trying to find his old home. That was the second time Dale wrenched his back.

Two weeks later, we tried walking Rufus again. With the help of the “co-pig leader,” Rick W., a 280+ lb. firefighter and former football lineman, we learned to “walk” Rufus. I use “walk” loosely.  Initially, the pig does not enjoy “walking” anywhere, and the pig-owner must push, pull, shove, or drag the animal down a path. Pigs are intelligently designed and they know they do not need to work for their food. Pigs train their owners in no time to bring food and water twice daily. Why walk?

After weeks of practice, though, pigs begin to tolerate, even enjoy their walks. Rufus would sprint down the path, barking the entire way, and leave all of us in the dust. His favorite part of the walk was finding rocks and river silt to munch on—a sort of sandy smorgasbord. That was how we got our exercise that summer and how Rufus grew to 242 pounds by fair time.

Everyone took part in the fair. Allie cleaned the stall and took orders at the 4H snack bar, of course, not on the same shift. Meg washed and groomed Rufus until he glistened. Sam showed Rufus in peewee showmanship, while Dale and I helped in the 4H food booth, serving tri-tip. Rufus made Group I Market Hog and Meg earned $6.75 per pound.

It was a great experience, though sad at the end. He was a nice pet—wrong attitude. Pigs raised by 4Hrs are not pets, but that first year, that first pig, was our pet. My girls and I cried at the end of the fair, until that check was deposited, and plans were made for the next year’s fair.

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On the Road to Yellowstone

Posted on October 3, 2013 | Leave a comment

Sometime around the last government shutdown, I transferred school districts and needed a one-unit course to move to the farthest column on the pay scale. Figuring this was an ideal opportunity for travel, (I generally use any excuse for that); I searched for places to take our family. Europe? Africa? Asia? Terrific travel destinations but costly for a family of five’s vacation and one’s education, especially on a teacher’s salary, and even with my new raise.  An exhaustive internet search led me to the precise seminar that met all my requirements in course level, length, price, and destination—at Yellowstone National Park. The University of Montana offered a one-unit graduate level course covering “Geysers, Mud pots, and Hot Springs Research.” Let the family escape begin!

After three days on the road, with stops at Uncle Steve’s in Nevada for horse wrangling, then Uncle Carl’s for fly-fishing, we drove towards our final target of Yellowstone. Our three daughters were camping veterans, who had experienced nearly every summer in state or national parks, since that is what families of teachers often do. The girls knew that the next few weeknights would be sleeping in down bags and under the stars (by my terms, luxurious), bathing in solar-powered showers (translation, just above freezing), dining on camp gruel (edible, by any bear standards), but according to our teenage and tweenage daughters—not so much.  So, to make this a “real family vacation,” I conceded and made a one-night reservation at a local hotel in American Falls, Idaho near enough to our final destination, requesting two rooms with four beds, so adults could have privacy and quiet. “No problem,” the clerk responded and we replied that we would arrive by early evening.

The recently remodeled hotel sat on the corner of the American Falls with balconies over leaning the rushing waters—magnificent and thunderous. I handed the clerk my credit card and explained that I called earlier. He seemed perplexed, and then left to find the manager of the hotel. At this point, we were hungry, tired from travelling, and cranky from family time. “Please don’t tell me there are no rooms,” I was thinking and mentally preparing my next move, when the manager approached. “No problem” (I had heard that before) as he handed me a key. He explained, “We had a slight mix-up with the rooms, but I am certain your family will enjoy this room much better. It is the same price.”

I accepted the key and thanked him. We grabbed our backpacks and headed to room 2106. The elevator doors opened on the twenty-first floor, a smallish floor compared with the others, on the other hand, we were on the top floor. We got out and found 2104 and 2108. No 2106. No odd numbers either, which was strange. The only room between 2104 and 2106 had a sign—“Penthouse.” Ha! Like that would happen. My husband glanced around to see if anyone was watching us, all of us feeling slightly sheepish as though we did not quite belong, but the doors opened. Viola! We were going to experience how 1% of the wealthiest lived!

With wrap-around balconies directly over the deafening falls and spray wafting up all twenty floors, none of us could believe the good fortune this trip had afforded. The beds—all queen or king size–were soft yet firm, with downy comforters over satin sheets; amenities at every elbow, including a walk-in shower and a bathtub large enough for a party, velvety towels galore, and, of course, a fancy bidet, of which my kids were clueless. We savored the moments in that hotel and I doubt if any of us slept that night—too stunned at our windfall. Checkout time was 11:00 the next morning; we returned the key at 10:59—then headed to another miracle of sorts, Yellowstone Valley—but that is another story.

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Paddling Upstream

Posted on September 16, 2013 | Leave a comment

Standup Paddling grants me peace and balance in the world. When I glide away from the shore, otters and seals, pelicans and cormorants, all manner of sea birds and sea life surround me, and they are a refreshing distraction from my “real life,” especially given the events in the past two weeks. My ex-husband, out of the blue and out of my life for over 34 years, randomly messaged me asking and offering forgiveness for both of our transgressions, and informed me of his scheduled repeat angiogram, and requested that his ashes be scattered in La Jolla, near where we were married. I needed a long SUP today.
I paddled up the Elkhorn Slough, essentially a “birthing” and “nursery” center for sea life, where juvenile sea otters frolic and younger ones lay wrapped like cocoons in kelp. With the wind at my back, the sun kissing my shoulders, and the birds singing such beautiful notes, I felt as though I was beginning to regain my balance. Rocking my paddleboard and my life were the undercurrents of discontent and unresolved issues of long ago, like long strands of seaweed that occasionally wrap around the skeg of the board. I think I am doing fine, and then suddenly, Wham! Stopped short of my goal. Alternatively, I move along at a smooth pace, but gradually I realize that I am working far harder than necessary, from the hitchhiking seaweed (and more baggage) that I drag along.
This time, my goal was the distant railroad tracks, about 3 miles upriver, an easy half hour paddle—out, that is. My return trek, on the other hand, took 1 ½ hours as I fought the rising tides, afternoon winds, and complete exhaustion. At some point, I stopped paddling for a brief respite, only to find I was swept back some 10 feet by the currents and conditions. I needed to garner all my energy just to finish—on my knees at this point. Standing, I was merely a sail.
Lesson learned—Focus on the moment at hand, just one stroke at a time.

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Best Decade Yet

Posted on September 14, 2013 | Leave a comment

A decade ago, I began practicing Yoga–all styles, no preference–intent on becoming more flexible than I was, which doesn’t say much since I am about the most inflexible, wooden stick on the face of this earth. In my early Yoga sessions, holding any position, let alone correctly, was a challenge in the extreme. My teachers perpetually moved my hands, feet, hips, basically my every extremity to some crazy-ass-asuna that no man or no woman can attain.  No wonder Yogic positions are named and modeled after animals other than human, e.g. why the “camel” hurts my hips or the “dolphin” kills my arms or the “pigeon” stretches my back. The breathing part I mastered since I delivered three children, proof that Lamaze lessons carry over outside of childbirth; but, everything else-asana was difficult for me and I consider myself to be an athlete.

So, this week, after I did three (yes, three!) head-stands–unassisted–away from the wall, I feel as though I am ready to tackle Everest! Perhaps not Everest, maybe K2. My essential point is this:  The second half of my life, in some areas anyway, is an improvement on the first half. Wow!

Lesson learned:  Never give up learning something new. It might take an entire decade, but it is worth it.

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