Week In Review - Too Much to Write About!

I came back from our Christmas trip to St. Louis with more blog ideas than I possibly had time to write about. My buddy Tim gave me a small notebook on our last day of school before Winter Break that read "Fill these pages with important words and thoughts." He might be disappointed because, instead, I filled it with superficial observations and smart ass comments from our Christmas trip.

The first came just a few hours into our drive as we passed into Georgia. One of the very first billboards I saw read:

Make your ONE call to...
1-800-CALL -KEN
Ken Nugent Legal Services

Really? I know that colonial Georgia was basically a roaming prison, serving as a spot for England to send its less desirables, but I would hope that after these hundreds of years things would have changed. I've been to both Alabama and Louisiana and I know for a fact that a good deal of those "less desirables'" descendants are now living throughout the south. So why would Georgia allow Ken Nugent to welcome travelers with such a sign? Are there THAT many people getting arrested? Is there really that much money to be had from these people?

The second blog idea came on our second day with Tricia's parents. I made my first visit to church in five years. I really do not like church. As a child I went as often as three times a week - Sunday morning, Sunday evening, and Wednesday evening. There was also church league bowling, softball, and volleyball. And youth group, play practices, and countless lunches and dinners. It wasn't the amount of time spent at church that turned me off, though. I just grew to question the likelihood of all those stories and the reasonableness of all those beliefs.

Tricia's parents church is quite different from the smallish Baptist church I grew up attending. It seats more than a thousand people. has two big screen TVs mounted behind the pulpit, and hosts religious and social events most, if not every, night of the week. The service lasted a little over an hour but the sermon itself was ten to fifteen minutes tops. The sermon was all about "breaking down the walls that we build around ourselves." The walls were a metaphor for our need for a sense of comfort, safety, etc. There were very few mentions of God or Jesus so it went well enough. The other fifty minutes were spent singing songs and listening to announcements. My mom asked how it went. "It went okay. Maybe I'll go back in another five or six years," I said. But probably not.

The third blog idea came when Tricia and I went out for a date night. We went to one of our favorite restaurants in St. Louis - an Indian place in the Central West End called Rasoi. Afterward we headed over to the Chase to see True Grit. As always, parking in the Central West End was nearly impossible. We finally found a spot but had only fifty cents for the meter. As Tricia will attest, I always seem to think that we don't need to feed the meter. "You don't have to pay after 5:00" I might argue. Or, "It's free on Sundays." Or worse, "No one even checks these meters!" I'm generally very much a rule follower. Like Ainsley I think people should follow the rules no matter what. I'll sit through a two minute red light at 3am with no cars anywhere in sight because that's what I'm supposed to do. I often stand on the curb and wait for what seems like forever for the walk signal even though there's no traffic. But for some reason when it comes to paying the meter I find every reason not to adhere to my legal obligations.

As we pulled into our parking spot and Tricia found that we only had two quarters she asked what I thought we should do. The movie didn't start for another hour (we were planning to walk over to the library to browse before heading down the block to the theater) and the movie was an hour and half at the very least.

"It's after six," I said. "You don't have to pay the meter after six."

"You always say that," she pointed out. "You NEVER think we have to pay the meter!"

"But I'm always right!"

Tricia sighed and looked up the street.

"Look," she said. "There's the meter reader!"

She was right. Two cars in front of us was a meter reader writing a ticket. After placing it under a windshield wiper he made his way up to the next car.

"We definitely have to get some change or find a parking garage now," she argued.

"No we don't," I said. "Look, he just checked all the cars on this block. It's 6:07 now. What are the chances he gets back to our block tonight? Euclid is a l-o-n-g street with a lot of meters. If anything we're more safe than ever."

It was dark but I can only imagine Tricia rolled her eyes. I really am hard to live with at times.

"Okay," she said. "But if we get a ticket you have to pay for it out of your own money."


"Ha, as if such a thing exists," I laughed.


We climbed out of the car and, ignoring the meter, pulled our jackets up around our ears and huddled together to head up the street. We instantly saw that the meter reader's car was parked just four spaces in front of our van. More debate ensued but we forged ahead. Once we got into the library I went to the information desk to ask how late you had to pay the meters. The librarian told me that they stop checking them at 7:00. Whether this meant you still have to pay them I wasn't sure but I headed back over to Tricia to gloat none-the-less.


"Well, go out and put our fifty cents," she told me. " At least we'll be paid until a quarter 'til or so."


I knew when to play nice and headed toward the front door. On the way I debated whether I should actually head out into the cold for what was certain to be a wasted effort (and wasted money) or if I should just hang out in the vestibule area for a few minutes and then head back in. Half an hour later, as we were heading out for the theater, Tricia, knowing me all too well, asked whether I had actually paid the meter or just pretended to. True to form I refused to say.


My fourth blog idea came a few nights later when attending "Christmas Eve" with Tricia's extended family. Due to busy schedules this party is never really on Christmas Eve but it's close enough. We haven't been able to attend this party the past few years so this was the first time we had seen these families in quite a while. Even when we lived in St. Louis we saw most of them only once a year, at this very party. They were like sometimes relatives.


I'm not much good at small talk and at no other time is this more evident than at this party. Tricia tried to coach me on the way.


"Talk to my Uncle Dennis about the food dehydrator you got from your kids at school," she suggested. "He used to have one too and talked about it all the time."


She's worse at small talk than I am and I wasn't too sure why she felt a need to offer help given that the one person at that party that I was usually pretty good at talking to was her Uncle Dennis. We generally talked about vacation plans and running. It was perhaps the only two things we really had in common but we could talk endlessly about both topics.


As we walked into the party the room fell silent and all those strange faces turned to stare at us making our entrance. Only five seconds in and it was already awkward. This would prove to the be the high water mark for the night as things only went downhill from there. I started by seeking out Dennis. I figured I should start strong and move on to the others from there. Unfortunately our conversation didn't go as planned. Someone else I didn't know too well was part of the conversation too and I didn't feel comfortable talking about running for fear of leaving him out. I wanted to talk about vacations but they were just finishing up a conversation on this topic as I made my way over. I was baffled. What to do?


"So," I said. "I got a dehydrator from my kids at school for Christmas!"


"A what?" he said.


"A dehydrator," I repeated.


"What's that?" the other guy asked.


"You mean a dehumidifier?" Dennis asked.


I stammered.


"It dries your food out," I explained. "You know, it takes all the water out."


"Why would you want to do that?" the other guy asked. It wasn't the type of question that made you feel as though he really wanted to learn more about the subject but, rather, that he wondered what in the hell was wrong with you. As if you making this all up.


"It's to help preserve the food for hiking and backpacking," I explained. "You dehydrate it, pack it up, and then rehydrate it on the trail."


"Oh," they both said, simultaneously. They both looked around uncomfortably and walked away.


I stood there for a moment playing with the food on my snack plate. Tricia and her parents were talking with someone else across the room. I was tempted to join them and take comfort in numbers. Around this time Tricia's cousin Michael walked by to freshen up the snack table. He and I have had just a handful of conversations over the past fourteen or fifteen years. We have little in common and he's not all that talkative anyway. Still, I felt I needed to try. I had to prove to myself that I was capable of this simple social skill.

"Hey Mike," I said.  

Doh, I thought. He goes by Michael you idiot!
 
I saw that there was a book on his television titled The Elf on the Shelf. I knew of this book from school and had a funny antecdote concerning a conversation I had with my kids about it. I shared it with him and he said nothing. He didn't even offer up a chuckle. It was a good antecdote too. But still he didn't smirk.


"Yeah, well...I oughta be finding Tricia I guess," I said.


"Alright," he answered and turned away to return to the kitchen.


I was 0 for 2. My ability to make small talk didn't much improve from there. I later found myself in conversation with another teacher but we had an entire discussion where I don't think either of us really understood what the other was trying to say. Later I talked with a lady who took great interest in everything I had to say. She's known for this. In fact, she takes so much interest in what you have to say that you almost feel uncomfortable. She leans in real close, has a perpetual smile, and never breaks eye contact. Ever.

She really liked that the kids had spent time backpacking last summer.


"Now they will know how to fend for themselves and find food if they're ever lost in the woods," she commented.


She was serious. I didn't break it to her that backpacking was more about high tech cook pots and fuel canisters than berry gathering or squirrel hunting. She wanted to know about the bears, too. I may have disappointed her when letting on that we hadn't seen any bears but we had seen a  lot of snails.

"Tons of them!" I assured her.


The only highlight of my ability to make small talk was when I later told of our encounter with the parking meter for Tricia's sister and brother-in-law. They laughed and laughed. I suddenly felt like a bad poker player. The one who stays in to the bitter end of every hand and only to lose nine times out of ten. Why, then, does he stay in so often? Because he remembers that ONE TIME when he pulled the perfect card and won. Tricia's sister and brother-in-law are my perfect cards. They keep me wanting to try again.


So there it is. More stories than I could ever write about.

A Tough Crowd

A number of weeks ago our school faculty got together to listen to a small collection of inquiry project presentations from our early childhood student interns. Each of the four student-teachers took a turn sharing with us what they had worked on during the past semester- building community, conflict resolution, etc - and how it turned out for them. Afterward, they invited questions and comments from the teachers.

I mostly sat and listened. That is, until one of our fourth grade teachers decided to share a quote that he felt had some connection to the project being shared. It evidently was a humorous quote. Or at least it was intended to be because when he finished, and everyone in the room sat silently, he exclaimed, "That was funny!"

"Oh, is that how your finishing your jokes now?" I asked, "by telling us 'That was funny?'"

He laughed.

"Is this something you find you need to say after a lot of your jokes? Because if it is you might want to stop telling them," I said, further rubbing it in.

Jokes are like that, though. Sometimes people find them funny. Sometimes they don't. And sometimes they're just flat out put off by them.

I once had a meteorology professor that started our first day of class with the following two jokes:

"How does Kurt Cobain collect his thoughts?"
"...with a mop."

"Did you see the flight plan Bob Richards turned in for his last flight?"
(he drew a line gradually lifting up from the ground then then nosediving straight back down)

Both jokes were about people who had recently died. Kurt Cobain committed suicide by shooting himself in the head and local meteorologist Bob Richards, also committing suicide, drove his plane into the ground to escape the growing rumors about his supposed affair.

Neither man was necessarily a model citizen but I didn't like the fact that this teacher was making fun of thier deaths; none-the-less, on our very first day of class together. Perhaps there are some types of jokes you reserve for friends, or at least close acquaintances. I would think jokes about death would fall into this category.

My dad used to tell all kinds of really bad jokes. He enjoyed them whether they made you laugh or not. And he didn't shy away from making fun of the fact that people had died. One of his favorites was "Do you want to see my impersonation of John Wayne?" He would then fold his arms across his chest and close his eyes as though he were lying in a casket. He had a similar impersonation of Elvis, but with a snarled lip.

Neither impersonation was all that funny but I doubt anyone was ever offended. Sometimes people didn't even get it. They'd stare at him and wonder what in the hell he was doing. "So go ahead," they'd suggest.

Some of my own jokes are like this. I definitely inherited my sense of humor from my dad because most of my jokes aren't funny either but I still enjoy telling them. Every once in a while, though, I'll tell a joke and be disappointed no one else found it as humorous as I did - if for no other reason than to share a laugh.

This happened a few nights ago. Tricia, the kids, and I were at a holiday party saying our goodbyes before heading out the door. I stopped by to wish our friends, Tim and Heidi, a happy holiday when Heidi leaned in and quietly mentioned that she had something to give me before I left.

"Head back to the bathroom," she said. "I also have something I want to talk to you about."

The bathroom? I was  pretty sure I must have heard that wrong. Still, I walked back toward the bedroom where all the coats and bags were being kept. Once I entered the bedroom, with Heidi right behind me, I looked back over my shoulder and she looked as though she was waiting for me to continue. So, taking a chance of thoroughly embarrassing myself, I hung a right and walked into the bathroom. And sure enough, she followed me in!

So there we were standing together in someone else's bathroom. It was pretty big with a nice green marble tub and all. But still, if you wanted to sit down it'd have to be on the toilet because it was the only seat.

As if things weren't weird enough Tim showed up. He just walked right in too. Like he was expecting to see us there. If they weren't both so nice I would have suspected that maybe I was about to get beat up or something. "You lure him into the bathroom," Tim might suggest, "and I'll be right behind you to jump him!"

But he didn't. Instead Heidi handed me a gift bag and, unsure whether she wanted me to open it then or wait, I pulled out the Christmas card and commented on the great picture of their boys in Hawaii. Heidi then proceeded to talk about the book she's writing for Heinemann (a big-time publisher of texts for teachers and educators) and some of the issues she's having with how it will be written.

She suggested that she, Tim, and I think on these issues over the break and get back together to discuss it after the holidays. These are the types of discussions and I love and, without doubt, the fact that she would even think to include me in this task is tremendously flattering. Yet I still couldn't get over the fact that we were hanging out in the bathroom together. And that they seemed so at ease as though they had had many important talks in other people's bathrooms.

As we wrapped up the conversation and made tentative plans to meet again in a few weeks I suggested "That sounds great. But next time let's meet in YOUR bathroom."

Two blank faces stared right back at me. Evidently they hadn't spent the past five minutes thinking about that bathroom. Evidently they didn't find this to be even remotely funny - a fact I couldn't stop talking about on the drive home.

"Seriously," I pleaded to Tricia. "I was making light of the fact we were standing around exchanging gifts and having a professional conversation in the very same room that our principal uses to flush her system - and yet nothing."

And then it hit me. I forgot to tell them.

"That was funny."

Toughing Out the Cold

 

 Sun rising over the middle school football field outside our classroom window.

(as captured by Maxwell)

Last Wednesday, as we walked in to school from the van, Ainsley looked up and said "Wow, look at the clouds!" I had noticed them too on the drive in. They were tightly grouped together in small mounds across the sky, looking very much like the moguls you see skiers hopping over in the Winter Olympics. In the distance we could see the sun just beginning to rise above the treeline. 

About an hour later my students had made their way into our classroom and were spread about the room playing chess, reading books, and searching the internet for news articles to share. I was working to decorate a CD cover with a small group of kids when Maxwell came over.

"Mr. Hass, did you see the sky?" he asked.

"Yeah, it's beautiful," I responded.

"Could I get the camera and climb out the window to take a  picture of it?" he asked.

I really wish our classroom had a door because we do quite a lot of climbing in and out of that window. While I've never been told specifically NOT to let the kids crawl out of it, I can't imagine it's encouraged.

"Sure," I said. 

I didn't really expect the photo to turn out. I imagined, if anything, it would be washed out by the sunlight. However, after school I pulled out the camera to see what pictures the kids had taken over the course of the day and I was amazed by the beauty of that first shot. A professional photographer could not have captured it any better.

Later in the day, after working to write songs and make sense of fractions, we cleaned up for recess. Kayla asked if she could bring the camera out and snap some shots of the kids playing and of the ice that sometimes collected here and there. I gave her the green light, most of us grabbed a jacket, and we headed out.

It was cold. There was a day when I would differentiate between "cold" and "South Carolina cold." In St. Louis we had long, long stretches where the high temperature would stay below twenty degrees. It was not uncommon to see the mercury drop below 0 a few times over the course of a winter. So when we moved to South Carolina and saw people bundling up as soon as the temperatures dropped into the low fifties we couldn't help but laugh.

They just seemed to overreact to the slightest change in temperature. At the threat of  snow flurries there would be rumors that school might be canceled. In fact, there were times in those first few years here where school was canceled due to the threat of flurries. Oh, and morning temperatures in the twenties.

In St. Louis I remember taking my class out to recess everyday unless it was raining or the temperatures were sub-zero. Part of this was due to my great hatred of indoor recess. But another reason for going out every day was that as long as you dressed appropriately you were never really all that miserable. Especially when you ran around and played rather than standing in one place to shiver and gripe. 

I had the right clothes, too. I loaded up with a wool vest, cotton coat, and windbreaker jacket. Added to that was a neck gator, stocking hat, and really big mittens outfitted with a wind and moisture blocking sleeve. Throw in a second pair of socks and leather hiking boots and I was sweating bullets until I finally hit the door.

I've noticed, though, that I'm not so careful to dress appropriately now that I live in the south. I still wear shorts a day or two each week and sometimes only come out to recess equipped with a hoodie jacket.  There's ice on the ground and in the pond - a fact that just amazes my students - and it's cold.                                                        

I shake. And shiver. And put my hands in my pocket and gripe to myself.

Why is it soooo cold?

It was seventy degrees like a week and a half ago!

Seriously, I didn't move south to freeze to death. This is ridiculous!

I have a partner in all this. Another teacher who is out to recess with us each day is originally from Texas. He pulls his hood around his face so tight that you can barely see any skin in there at all. He shifts from one foot to the other moaning and complaining. I tell him of the old days when I would have not worn a jacket at all. And the time I braved a port-a-potty toilet seat in 8-degree weather. And the time I ran a half-marathon in a 4-degree snow storm!

But those are all memories now. I no longer laugh at the locals because I've become one of them. Now the new northern transplants can enjoy a good laugh at me. I'm alright with that. 

I know their day will come soon enough.

Ainsley

The first thing Ainsley does each morning when she comes down for breakfast is to come over and wrap her arms around my waist to give me a big, tight hug. She’s very tender-hearted. Over the course of a day she’s likely to give out a dozen or more hugs, kisses, and “I love yous” to her family and teachers. While other kids might feel a bit embarrassed by a hug or kiss in front of other kids Ainsley still seeks them out. I often wonder if she knows that this is no longer the social norm for a second grader or if she realizes that she’s  a bit more affectionate than most seven year olds but doesn’t care.

She’s sensitive, too. A few nights ago Tricia and Ainsley were alone in the car on their way home from running an errand together. As they passed a nearby school Ainsley looked out the window and asked, “Mommy, is that a high school?”

“Yes, Ainsley” Tricia answered.

“Is high school where you sleep at school?” she asked.

Tricia thought a moment, trying to figure out what Ainsley was talking about.

“No sweetie. You don’t sleep at school in high school,” she answered. “That’s college you’re thinking of.”

“Oh.”

Ainsley became very quiet. After a few moments she spoke again - this time her tiny voice beginning to quiver.

“I don’t want to go to college.”

“Why not,” Tricia asked.

Ainsley began to cry.

“Because I don’t want to leave my family,” she sobbed.

Tricia gave her a moment to calm down.

“I want to be a cashier when I grow up,” Ainsley said. “Grandma said you don’t have to go to college to be a cashier.”

“That’s true,” Tricia answered. “But you still might want to go to college.”

“No, not to be a cashier,” she said. “I want to be a cashier at Publix. Because that’s where you shop.”

After a few more moments of whimpering and thinking about all this Ainsley said, “Mommy, could you not tell anyone I cried?”

There was a time when Harper used to constantly tell us “I love my family!” She still asks to sit in our laps after dinner and gives out the occasional hug. However, she’s getting older and trying to find a balance between being our little girl and acting like the older kids she sees at school and in movies and television shows. She's now careful to avoid kisses on the mouth and often fails to acknowledge a good night peck on top of the head while reading in bed. She has a number of really close friends and can go whole weekends barely seeing either of us.

Ainsley is just two years behind Harper and I wonder if our days of being the most important people in the whole wide world will soon draw to a close. I wonder if we'll have to go looking for those hugs and kisses. Looking at Ainsley right now, it’s hard to imagine that could be true.