Wild Blue

Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy, I’m on an airplane, a can of people, a refrigerator of humans.  I love flying, especially the taking off part when the substance of air cuts under and over, lifting the whole structure of metal and padded seats by creating lift.  Bouncing on the wheels, the captain put this gal in reverse and pulled back the slingshot of fuel and physics.
Engines rev and it sounds like a cartoon, Daffy Duck traveling in a 21st century space jet voiced by Mel Blanc.  (Do you know that we are in the 21st century now?  Where’s my ray-gun?).  We aren’t moving, the lights go off, I have turned off the damn tv one time already, the screen reignites like a relative wanting to borrow money.  Huh.  Why do I smell fuel burning as the turbines spin?  We begin, ponderous and optimistic in the truth that air is navigable like water, thousands of pounds of air pressure able to lift this behemoth; a product of a hundred and more years of men and women trying to get off terra firma if only for a moment.
Sunny day; there are large, singular clouds, and we will be headed for 30,000 feet.  We are an elephant, determined and slow, plodding to next in line and then, KA-PWING!!!  Ooh baby, we are ON!!   Holy eff, it’s a miracle, we are up, by god, the fall foliage of Western New York laying orange flashes between lakes and ribbons of road.  Sunbeams, clouds like wispy angels hover over the land.  What a view!  Banking, turning, into a cloud and whoa, above, above, we are above the layer of stratus, cumulonimbus.
Why do clouds float?  Because water vapor is less dense and therefore lighter than air.  Ears pop, finally.  Leveling off, we are now above the backs of the clouds; I look down upon herds of white bison, thick white edifices and cloud villages.  Hello, minute earthen world; I look down  at thee and wonder.  What is secondly interesting is the three dimensional aspect of cloud life, it is like looking through a stereopticon, and how is it this effect is not evident from the ground?
This miracle of a thousand minds is now above the Finger Lake region, and from above I can see the striations of water gouged by glaciers.  We have no dinosaur bones in this area, for the ice maidens heaved then pushed them all south, revealing the 350 million year old Devonian bed of the once salt ocean that was here before the dinosaurs.  We have a salt mine buried, still run by Morton in Genesee County; if you clamber in, the workers have carved some of the salt pillars into ghostly figures.  What folks do for fun is such a component of history.  Heads up and pay attention!
What was left were the sea creatures, the tiny first ones; the brachiopods, crinoids, diatoms, and the mice of the sea,  trilobites that scurried and curled and flipped until the mass extinction arrived that seemed to kill everything at once within 2 million years.  Now they are a favorite for fossil hunters, uncloaked from layers of shale cracked open by hand or pick.  A prize in every box, a pearl in every oyster.  Is there not small success in discovery?  And here I am ensconced by a metal box with wings to be opened when I shall emerge as a snail from a shell, a mollusk to fish to amphibian, reptile, to mammal now walking upright, a biped devising fantastic machinery which hurtles through viable substance.
We’ve had four major extinctions in the life of this planet.  The next may take Grandma and the dog.
The cabin shudders as air pockets and turbulence roll under our belly; the engines seem to slow and we drop closer to the clouds to avoid atmospheric mischief turning cartwheels.  As fluffy and benevolent seem the clouds, would I like to fall through one as in a dream?  A dream, sure, but falling through clouds would leave one wet and possibly charged with static.  Someone could stick you upon a wall at a birthday party, like a balloon rubbed on hair.  It surrounds us, this force, I have gotten sparks from my cats’ fur.
But Ah!!  Too soon too soon, descent has begun.  Objects are becoming identifiable and the clouds rub their sides  against my contraption like a horse or a cat will.  Down, lulling quiet, but of course, there is the real concern of suddenly plummeting as a meteor from the sky.  How did pilots see, before gauges and computers?  Insanely inquisitive and brave, those folk, but are we not, too?  To trust and hope that it will work but once again for us; we have been good, have mercy on our pitiful heads.  Descent, a quieting of engines as if we are gliding, a silent paper plane launched and finished with its arc.  Shhh.  Boston Harbor Boston!  The ocean, tides and salt and crabs to nip tender skin. Turbulence nearer ground rattles our container and some human respiration has stopped, held in stasis until the tires hit tarmac.  Turning, banking, ocean wind, Oh Susan, where have you been, I missed you, says Mother Ocean
Hello tiny houses, hello boats, hello dogs that say bahk.  Down and down, lined up with the straightaway.  Engines kick into reverse to slow down into a curtsey and wheels touch and rumble and jeezus it seems we are driving this thing a gazillion miles per hour.  Miss Lady Pilot slams on the brakes and passengers tip forward, praying we don’t crash through the souvenir shop in the terminal.  We slow down amazingly fast, and then ease into Sunday drive look who’s here set another plate speed.  Grass is grass, buildings are buildings and I wait a bit to disembark as my clumsiness usually ends up with some poor victim getting klunked with my carry on.
Everyone is smiling, helpful, and with my Mid Atlantic accent, have pity on me.  I don’t care, I will take all the help I can get and the lovely man who runs the shuttle to the water taxi sees me jump up when he announces “End of the Line!”   I ask if this is the stop for the water taxi, no no no you sit down, I take you there.  This is the end of the line for the subway.  Dokey.  I smile and wave my hand in front of my face, miming that I don’t know where the hell I am.  He smiles, Don’ worry lady, I take you there.  We get to the water taxi stop, and he stands up.  Come on.  He guides me in his thick accent to a stairway leading down to the dock, and waves good bye when he sees I’m on the right track.   Nice fellow, and I told him so.
So there is a battered boat, no sign but there are gold and white checkered flags snapping in the wind while the boat bounces in the bay.   “Is this the water taxi?” I ask, just in case it’s really a pirate ship and I will be abducted (can’t you hear your Mom’s voice in your head? And pirates would lie anyways).  The young man jumps up and says yes ma’am let me help you with your luggage.  Aw.  Sweetie Pie.   The motorboat is enclosed in a plastic cabana and I puddle along as he motors me, the only passenger, perched on the cushion, a rube from the hinterlands thinking “I’m on the ocean!  Whee!”
What a honey, he makes sure I know where I’m going and made a phone call to the station ahead to let them know I’m coming.  It’s a three hour wait, but I have the laptop and here’s a hint for when you travel:  Dunkin’ Donuts does not have Wifi.  So I write this missive and look forward to the next two hour ferry ride if I remember where the hell I put the ticket which is my round trip ticket and if it’s lost, must pay the whole fare again.  Which is a big deal at $85 bucks round trip, and would be one more sign of the missing synapses.  If you see any of mine, mail them back please and I’ll send you a nice, crispy dollar if I remember.
I am excited, my friend from New England told me that they stop raking the beaches on the Cape during the autumn, so alllll the shells and odd little dead animals (carapaced ones, not fish, I’m not that nuts) will be in mounds of washed up seaweed.  It will be a treasure chest of smelly things to sort through, photograph, draw and toss.  Except the shells.  Them’s I’m a-keepin’.
Oh you who dream of connecting machines that compress civilizations and open connective doors, sleep well; searching for answers we are, each of us.  Night tides come and restore us, tell our hearts to lay down for soothing sleep; we put our blankets on the floor so the monsters at the window can’t see us, because of the protective magic of covers.  Covered by Devonian shell or winged metal tube, our talismans allay and battle our fears.  Go fly, in heart or mind, fly and rise above circumstances if only for a moment; pretend it is all right.  It probably already is, so sleep as if your blankets were enchanted cloaks, huddled shells where there is respite and release.  Dream, sweet traveler.  Good night.

Change of Guardian

Today I unpacked belongings and materials in my new room at the new school that I will be at this year, teaching first grade.  After teaching third grade for eight years, these students will seem tiny; tiny I tell you!  They are coming in at five years old.  That's just five years of breathing on this earth, their bodies are not syncopated nor complete, and they spin.  I will try very hard not to scare them, even though I have been told a couple are "runners."

The old school I worked at had moved to a temporary site with all the teacher materials packed up in June; all my stuff went there, so once I found where I was placed, after a week of my name going missing, I went over and sorted out my stuff from what belonged to the school, boxes and boxes of books accumulated over the years and other materials.  Took all damn day.  Told people what side of the room the boxes were in, movers were to come and haul stuff out after I marked the new place on the boxes.

Easy.  Until I got to the school and found that the new teacher mistakenly emptied my boxes and filled her shelves with my materials.  Found a note stating that she went through the cartons to gather District Materials and left me with my personal items.  So, I had to repack all the stuff into about forty boxes, tape and label them again, these alleged 'District Materials' included purchases with my name written in them and a set of 25 Charlotte's Web books.  Find me a district that will buy your class 25 Charlotte's Web books and I will eat my hat.  And anyways, what was with this District business?  I'm still a District teacher, it's not like I was leaving the country.

Thank goodness dear Mr. Mr. got the movers to get my stuff to the new school; that plus 29 other boxed kept at a downtown storage unit made up what I did today; unpack.  The bright and shining spot was that my friend Pauline dropped in from a busy day to help me, God bless that woman.  Smart as a whip and knew where things should go without me telling her.  We got the boxes finished, a very large accomplishment, but I am still behind because of the snafu.  I'll catch up.  This is what told me a story, the unpacking; it is a cobbled story put together by many hands for whom I am forever grateful.

Many items were in small boxes, such as games or flashcards; others were books discarded because the District said the teachers shouldn't use them anymore and to throw them out.  The public would be more than upset to learn just how many educational materials we are told to throw out because they don't meet the new standards of the year, according to whichever book vendor the city purchases from.
Workbooks, instructional books, reading books, fraction games, scientific posters were all handed down to me by generous compatriots through the years.  Today I found that many had the names of the original owner.

I have a sheaf of human body posters and fossil models given to me by Barb Malcolm, her name written on the outside of the flat cardboard box containing them; workbooks and Mailbox magazines from MaryAnn, a fifth grade teacher and science mentor, her handwriting scribbled in pertinent notes throughout the text; books from Linda, paints and holiday materials from Deb; workbooks and art cards from Sue W., math games from Sue H., and storybooks from Sue C.   Dutch shoes, a conch shell, and center materials from Rich; water trays and paintbrushes from Ginny; balances, snowflake patterns from Jane; a survival kit of organizers from Lynn, organized files and  pencils from Joanne; a cactus and books from Barbara Allen; blankets and sheets from Karima so my kids could sit on the grass;  a chalkboard from  Ann;  guppies from Darlene; word wall cards from Amy; a Jeopardy game, a little wooden desk with green legs, and a basket shaped like a duck from Paula and Phil that I use for homework.

I'm sure there is more that will pop up as I unpack further, but these are names that are part of my history and wealth.  There are few people more generous than someone in the education business, especially the folks who have contact with the classroom; believe me, you do not go into this job for the money, there is very little considering the investment in time and finances that is put in, and often must be paid back.  Job security?  Summers off?  Are you kidding?  You have to work to stay afloat at a second job, and are expected to take courses over the summer in preparation for new fall mandates or technological advances.  I have been in a school everyday for the past two weeks, working without pay to get ready for the new year.  And, if you think teaching children is easy, come on in.  You are in for a shock as to what comes out of their mouths or gets thrown at you. It is not a surprise these days, to hear of a colleague being sent to the emergency room for treatment, or for the police to be called to an elementary school.   Last year was the first year that I felt unsafe in my job.  Enrollment at teaching colleges is down, the last I heard, for few want the profession that receives an unfair amount of media and public derision.

We want these jobs for other reasons; to teach the joy of knowledge and the power of critical thinking to children so that when they are adults, they are able to make choices that they have a voice in, and further the good for our community, our earth.  These names I read today as I unpacked reminded me of my friends that I have worked with, and learned from, over the years.  Thank you all for teaching me how to educate a kid, to engage them and meet them halfway.  You are ever in my heart.

I can see the Niagara River from my classroom, and Canada.   The whitecaps on the river today showed the wind coming in from the west, pushing waters high, crashing over the breakwall.  I am water, I flow, break on the surface, and find my own level again.  Good night, sleep well, crash through the wall of dreams; wait and find me, I am still here.  Sleep.

Bat Wings of Desire

I caught a bat today.  Came home after negotiating the immense crowd focused on the harbor concert and was carrying a box of wine in from the car, when I noticed that some of my neighbors sat outside in lawn chairs.  Now, people love to be announcers of the macabre, and the three of them chorused at once "There's a bat!"

I thought they said. "There's a bat!"  Turns out they had.  Bat, bat, mammal flying bat? Workmen had been repairing the overhang all day and had been banging and sawing and probably disturbed the little guy till he flew up the stairwell;  or, alternately, there's a screen with a hole in it somewhere. Yes, a Real Bat they said.  They had called Animal Control, the SPCA, security, and the one man's co-workers.  No official showed up and the four men had tried to catch it for an hour.

"Watch out, 'cause when you move, that's when he starts flying."  Oh good.  They carry rabies, but I was going to operate on the idea that this is just a lost soul who needs assistance.  "Watch your hair," he advised.  I try not to; my hair is a combatant that fights me everyday, we do not have a great relationship.  No matter what, it doesn't stay where I put it, so if that old wive's tale is true (it isn't), the bat is welcome to nest there.  How about your fishing net, I ask fisherman guy.  Left it on the boat.  Rats, but not the end.  What the heck do I have that could catch it safely for release back into the bat wilderness of the city?  Nothing.

Think a think a think.  One of the most useful things on the planet is a wire coat hanger, and every time I need one to unclog a drain, tie up a car muffler, or beat a cat, I swear like a drunk that just fell off the barstool because of Joan Crawford.  "NO WIRE HANGERS," and I agreed with Joan and if there is a wire hanger in this apartment, it is only because it effected temporary escape.  I cussed out Joan Crawford while looking.  My dresses hang on thick IKEA hangers or padded luxury Cadillac hangers with pink ribbons.  Fie!  I shoved and dug through the closet and found a cluster of three wire hangers hanging out at the edge of civilization, clustered like orphans in a storm.  They knew what was coming, that there would be a wire hanger sacrifice.

I grabbed the thing and started backing off from all the swearing by genuinely thanking God for this wire hanger as if he cared, but maybe he does a little because the bat is one of his children.  As if the roadkill and all the little mice caught in traps aren't.  I thank God for the provenance of the hanger and help me catch the thing and not get rabies.  All the eff you Joans disappear, and now it's Praise the Lord; imagine the tv remote switching from a George Carlin retrospective to Davy and Goliath, welcome to my world, it flips that fast.

The hanger gave up easily and shrugged as I bent it into a loop and straightened the hook.  We went into the kitchen, and I got a thin, billowy garbage bag that I stole from school since the roll was almost gone and we were packing up and moving anyways.  The thing floats like gossamer, and is about as flimsy.  I got the big roll of packing tape that splits into shreds when peeling off a length, and the cussing started again,  I paid four dollars for this piece of crap at the post office, you think the government would sell its own people decent tape instead of this ratsin-fratsin klipnagle Friday stuff they shill.  You figure out what ratsin-fratsin klipnagle means, I bet you already know what the Friday word represents.  I got the bag neatly taped to the circumference of the wire hanger.

A pole, I needed a pole, there was no pole.  Ah, but there was a broom and the Lord is sweet, it's a bamboo handle so there is a hollow end to fit the straightened hook into if I folded it in half.  More tape, more praise the goodness of the universe.  The Lord loves me for trying to save a bat.  See?  It's a pattern: swear a blue curtain, praise heaven; swear, praise; swear, praise.  I tire myself out.  But it was a success, and my contraption was ready, but was I?  A shiver ran smartly down my spine, for what if this thing was rabid?  It wasn't behaving erratically, it's solemnly huddled in a corner.  I got leather gloves that I wear when there's a biting cat that needs a fix at either end; oh, my guys love me, no doubt, but if I'm messing with one of their body parts high in the echelon of cat sanctity, they will let me know,  usually with a firm-toothed hand hold.  Have any of my guys deliberately bitten me?  Oh no, no, no.  I know they try very hard not too; we have a deal, they don't bite me, and I don't bite them.  Works.

So I have the broom-garbage bag invention, and leather gloves, keys in pocket, and shut the door so the cats don't get exposed or try to fly up to the ceiling to catch Mr. Bat.  I walked slowly to where he was huddled, I don't know, I don't think bats know if they are he's or she's either, and was making kissy noises.  Here boy.  He's upside down.  No movement at all, I am guessing this is one tired bat after being chased by four men in their late twenties.  I just put the hoop part over it, still no movement, so I pulled down and voila!  There was a bit of fascinating wing flapping, but I yanked the net thing up like I'm grabbing a kid by the arm from running into the street---I'm in Mom-mode---and the bat got caught right in the bottom of the bag and stopped struggling.  I tipped the hoop thing to close the opening, and pushed the elevator button.  Took me fifteen seconds to catch a bat.

While waiting for the elevator, I brought the bat in a bag up to where I can see him.  Tiny little head, cute as pie.  He's not gasping or twitching, and I'm still on his side.  Trotted outside, the neighbors saw the bag and you've got it?  You got the bat?  Right here, right here step right up.  Cell phones came out for pictures, and bat photos will be sent to sons and daughters.  I spied a bush and planned to shake him out where he could hang onto something until he's oriented, but one of the men, a sweetie pie who didn't want to hurt the bat in the first place asked if he can let him go.  Well okay, but I still felt protective and watch the man as he tried to shake the bat out of the bag, but it's hung on with it's claws.  He had to shake a bit roughly, and eventually the bat dropped onto the grass.  The man then gave the Little Brown Bat a nudge and the wondrous wings flapped and lifted, and the bat flew!  It flew off to a low brick building across the street, where I imagine it will rest up a bit after this adventure.  It was beautiful, the scalloped wings arched so neatly, the delicacy of the whole bat machinery.  It was a gift.  Again, the heavens were blessed.

The neighbors and I woofed a bit about bat catching technique and how we were all glad the little thing wasn't hurt, but had flown for safety and another night of bug hunting.  The wire hanger and bag were tossed, the broom and I ascended in the elevator.  I congratulated myself in front of the cats and told them how I saved a bat, and how bats are really neat creatures and they are disappearing because of a white, fatal fungus.  They had not even one eff to give about bats and why hadn't you opened a can of cat food, what else do you think you're good for?  It was a good thing I was down to two wire hangers or there would have been beatings, and I think they would have won.  Can you even buy wire hangers anymore?  They are on the grocery list.

We will sleep while the little bats flutter in crazy zigzags in the night sky, eating bugs and doing bat somersaults.  I love to watch them, but the immense clouds of bats that once came out of far off warehouses that I could watch from my window have dwindled down to a few occasional visitors.
Little winged brown angels, busy doing their bat business while we of the diurnal dream and shift throughout the night.  Sleep and dream, human, dream of wings that let you fly and taste the night sky.
Sleep well, with love.

The Library: Now

Wanting to do research on a topic, I figured the Central Library of this burg was the best bet in scavenging information.  A small, spiral-bound notebook came with me, as did a working pen; I looked forward to solid information, hopefully something on the history of this city from the early 1900s.  Pushing through the door, it was as if I had walked into a big box store with a blue light special.  What on earth?  It turned me into a 80 year old curmudgeon whilst the young people played and scampered about, not one of them holding a book.  Logging in on a computer, you must type in your card number, and then jump through numerous hoops that save No Information meaning you have to type and retype search criteria every time the page flips.  Okay, computer wins, but I found a few numbers to scout for in the stacks.

I get the books and sit at an empty table.  At the computer station at the far end is a mother, wearing a summery outfit, meaning hardly anything, and her young, maybe seven year old son is getting a loud lecture from Craycrayville.  "You can go look around, but if anybody grabs you, you must scream...just scream and scream, do you understand?  Scream my name, scream Mommy, just scream, I want you to do that.  Now go away."  The little boy clung to her a few minutes until he realized she had dissolved into the monitor, and went away, coming back with a few adult books, since the children's section is too far away for any screaming to be heard.  He sat and read and twisted and of course was bored and so started a one sided conversation with his mother, who apparently had promised a trip to a store if He Was Good at the library.  She started talking back to him "No, you can't do that, what's the matter with you, I told you I was busy and have to do this,  the number isn't coming up, where is the number, this computer doesn't work.  Why are you bothering me?"  He manipulated her into a conversation with threats of misbehavior and she fell for it and I thought good for you, kid.  She should have thought this out better.

She got fed up, can't take you anywheres, and dragged him down to the information desk to find out why the computer wasn't working.  A library assistant came over and explained that the computer resets at each page so all she had to do....but she wasn't having any of that. "No, it's broken.  Your computer is broken."  Her boyfriend came up, and she tornadoes her frustrations onto him, loudly.  A small baby begins to squall, nonstop from another computer mother, who is also not ready for this or could care less that the baby needs something.  The couple is arguing, with the man staying fairly calm, but frustrated in a "whaddaya want me to do?  I'll do it, just tell me.." spiraling down into the lost ocean of No Answers To That One, Buddy.  This goes on for twenty minutes less than twenty feet from my ear. Go to the library if you want your blood pressure to hit the kablam an artery stage; what happened to librarians that shushed people?  Probably got shanked and their mouldering carcasses now fill the empty Dewey Decimal Catalogue trays.  

Baby still going, the arguing is fading away and out the door.  Good bye, good bye, I wish you hemorrhoids, lady.  An older gentleman comes and sits diagonally two seats down at the same table as me.  Fedora type hat.  Glasses.  Plaid untucked shirt.  Fine.  He's reading something, some book, I begin again to read mine, and it's fascinating.  Minutes go by.  He stands up, undoes his belt, opens his zipper and sits back down.  What the heck was that?  I am not waiting to find out and slap my book shut, give him the squinty eye, and relate to the information desk that that old guy just opened his pants and maybe keep an eye on him.  The only time a man can open his pants is maybe after Thanksgiving dinner while sitting in the Laz-y-Boy and even then you'd better not be related to me.

One of the books I wanted was not out on the shelves, but was being held out of sight; I made a request; okay, five minutes?  Terrific.  I sat at a farther table to read, and while reading a family gathered, a large Auntie, nieces nephews and Mom.  "HEY C'MERE, C'MERE YOU GOTTA HEAR THIS, SHE KNOWS EVERYTHING ABOUT BEYONCE.  TELL HER, TELL HER, JUST WAIT YOU GOTTA HEAR THIS HAWHAWHAWHAWHAW!!  SEE?  WHAT DID I TELL YOU?  SHE KNOWS EVERYTHING!!!"  My book arrives, I gotta get out of here, the noise is making me craycray.

Self checkout tells me I can't take one of the books out even though it was shelved, I find a librarian who is kind and she pushes buttons on the keyboard to make it all right.  I zip for the door, and notice the quiet outside, even though a Food Festival is going on in front of me.

I cannot imagine libraries staying the same as they were when I was a child, the options and technological advances are immense.   But do we need a cafe?  People were walking around the shelves, drinking sticky stuff with straws.  And of course, the noise.  Kids make noise, babies cry, they just do.  But if you are over nine years old, you could keep it down.  People: 1, Curmudgeon: Zip.

The moon was as orange as a bright slice of cheddar, a thick quarter moon rising at the horizon last night, seemingly larger from the refraction of the atmosphere.  It was lovely, serene, and floated upwards over our confusion and workaday sounds.  A bedtime story moon, a laughing crescent.
Sleep well.

It's the Little Things

We serve breakfast in our classrooms.  There is a rug.  Because these are eight and nine year old children, the rug would like to buy a train ticket for a Pacific coast spa and get the mashed in Trix, milk, and pieces of Healthy! Donut out of the pile.  This is not happening, so the rug lays there, resigned and sad.  Wide swaths of spilled milk, which contains casein, the ingredient in glue, have accumulated microbits of graphite from pencil shavings, sneaker prints, and just plain dirt.  The eight and nine year old children have not mastered the art of eating at a table with YOUR CHAIR PULLED IN so if anything drops it hits the table.  They do not listen to you until you scare the Skittles out of their gizzards.

I have rules.  Four main rules.  1) No talking.  2) Stay in your seat.  3) Follow rules one and two.  4) Get an education.  The rest of life I half expect to take care of itself; house-training, I like to think. But, these are eight and nine year old children who have the minds of Benny the Fish when it comes to getting what they want when they want.  A Morning Procedure Chart announces some of these ideas of mine, such as Put your backpack away.  Get all supplies for the day out.  Have two pencils sharpened.  Put your Homework in the Homework Duck Basket.  Get two Reading books for the day. Get breakfast.  Does any of it happen in order?  Sure, for many of the students.  There are the special little boys and girls, however, That Want Special Directions Everyday because they enjoy being singled out and hearing my voice directed at them and them alone.  That negative attention stuff, sometimes the spoiled rotten wait-on-me stuff.  Wastes class time and makes my blood pressure zing.

So yesterday, I went over the litany.  "Look," I says, says I, "I have had three hours of sleep.  What does this mean?"  They are watching me carefully. "It means that I am not dealing with drama, you are all good thinkers and know how to take care of yourselves.  You know the procedures.  This means, that unless you want me to snatch you all bald-headed (yes, I talk like that), you are thinking very carefully before you raise your hand, because whatever you ask me, the answer will be No.  I do not want to hear Ms. Coburn, can I sharpen my pencil?  The answer will be No.  That should have been taken care of before  8:30.  I don't want to hear Ms. Coburn, can I get my homework out of my bookbag? No.  Can I get a drink of water? No.  He's looking at me.  No.  I'm bleeding and it's a dried up scab from three days ago.  NO.  Nothing.  I don't want to to hear from you unless you are on fire.  Do. you. understand?"  Wiseguy class answering me back:  NO.  They laugh.  I try not to, but end up laughing with them.  They get the message, however, and the day goes somewhat smoothly, meaning only one cafeteria knock down drag out with four of my boys, a few hissy fits with stomping out of the room, and two here you can have my dollar, oops, I want it back now arguments.

This is the first time I will not be working a summer job in seventeen years...not a paid job, per say, but an at home job will be put in motion where I will find out how to sell my art.  And make art, lots of it.  Get faster, more accurate, different mediums, finish projects and learn how to build large canvasses. I'm excited, and am turning the whole place into an art studio, bit by bit.  Even the cats are wearing little berets, and critiquing in Fronch, well ah don' know, what does thees piece say to you, the shading, too much, ne c'est paw?

Today it will be very hot, close to ninety, and perhaps the air conditioner will be liberated.  I have things to do and two weeks left with children crabbing about wiggly teeth, tummies hurting, and he's got my pencils my mom told me not to do my homework.  I will miss most of these students, and look forward to seeing them in fourth grade, taller, and hopefully a bit wiser as they mature.

Sleep well, remember that you were young, so young that you weren't sure of who or where you were, that the world passed by slower, that it took forever for time to go by.   Dream of outside grass and found feathers, of drawing on sidewalks with a piece of broken red brick, of a pair of sneakers that made you run like the wind, a bike, a walk to the library, a secret club.  Remember and pass on the minor truth that some of that joy stays with you forever.  Sleep well, count stars and far-off suns.