Teaching Moments. . .Not Always What You Expect

For many years I worked in an elementary school as a paraprofessional; specifically in the fourth grade. During those years I worked in the classroom of probably one of  the most loved science teachers to teach there.  Mr. B was tall with long (and I mean very long, waist length) hair usually pulled back into a pony tail or long braid.  He wore worn blue jeans, lumberjack shirts and hiking boots most of the time and he often veered off course with stories; teaching moments about his experiences in the prairie, knowledge of rocks, his interest in native americans or other random bits of information that kids held on to like nuggets of gold.  Except, often those teaching moments were more for entertainment value, as it were. Many were the times I'd bury my head in my hands as he imparted kernels of wisdom like the fact that milk is produced in the sweat glands of the cow so, essentially, milk is cow's sweat.  Fodder for a 10 year old's brain. And he wouldn't leave it there, when passing out milks during milk break, he would say, "Cow sweat for you, cow sweat for you, etc."  

More enlightening, even, was the day he stopped whatever lesson he was teaching to tell the kids that if they needed to survive and there was no water available, they could drink their own urine.  Yep.  He said that -- and he'd emphasize, "But it HAS to be your own!" The classroom fell apart with "Eew, groooossss," and kids falling over each other in mock gag before one would yell, "May I have a pass for the bathroom?  I'm thirsty!" 

 So, once, when discussing water and energy, he began a lecture on dams of which the next town over had a nice one.  He said the word a few times and the kids started giggling, the way 4th graders do, about Mr. B saying "dam".  And he took off with it, "You can see it if you drive there.  Just park your car in the dam parking lot."  Titters and giggles. "You might even take a dam tour.  I think there is a dam store for souvenirs," he continued and the kids were rolling, trying to make up their own. "Hey!  Where does all that dam water go?" another kid piped in.  And it went on and on.  Such was the nature of Mr. B The thing is, I'll bet if you ask any kid in that class that year, they remember those moments.  

Last week we were in Alaska.  There is a lot of roadwork happening there right now and one of the companies doing work is called Quality Ashphalt Paving or as they are known in Alaska, QAP (pronounced KWAP). Sitting in front of a man who proudly wore an orange vest with QAP emblazoned across the back, holding a stop sign to keep traffic in one place until the QAP backhoe could move. . .we turned into 10 year olds.  Moondoggy said, "I wonder if he likes his QAP job?" and we started; delighting ourselves with the silliest of thoughts:
He works for QAP
QAP is big around here
It's a QAP job
That loader is a QAP loader
Wonder if he has a  QAP boss. . .

Mr B. left teaching 10 years ago to move west and work for something environmental but for a few moments last week he was right there is Alaska with us.  So go ahead. . . join in the fun.  Sometimes being 10 is the perfect stress reliever.  Throw some QAP my way and you might even learn something in the process.

Enjoying The Second Act

The first time I heard that phrase was out of the mouth of Frankie Heck, the mother on "The Middle."  I love that show - a show about an average family with average kids who have quirks and ego and the ability to blend into the wall paper (Sue Heck reminds me of me except she has the guts to try out for everything and I tried out for nothing.)  In one recent episode Frankie is let go of her car sales job and is faced with figuring out what she should do, "What," she asked, "should I do for my Second Act?"  A second act, the chance to do something completely different, a frightening prospect or an opportunity? 

I was faced with the same decision about five years ago.  Due to an unfortunate set of circumstances, I resigned from my position with our local school district and was faced with the question, "What next?" For me, the question wasn't dire.  I am fortunate to have a family situation that allows me to indulge my creativity.  I had time to test the waters, paint, draw and write.  The truth is, if asked, I always wanted to write a book.  I was not unfamiliar with the "writing" world having worked for various publications in the 80s and 90s before shifting to the world of elementary education (which, by the way, has the schedule most conducive to parenting).  I have written pieces on point of purchase advertising, the benefits of end cap displays, unique sales incentives and many a piece on Nuclear Power.  Is your mouth dry yet?  That was NOT what I wanted to go back to writing.  With some gentle prodding from my youngest child (who told me to get off my ass and write a book), I took the intrepid step.  

My first book is a series of humorous essays based on my life and observations.  It was an experiment.  If I could float that, then I could go for what I really wanted to do. . .write fiction.  Is It Just me? or Is Everyone a Little Nuts not only floated, it sailed and still continues to enjoy numerous sales each month.  With that under my belt, I endeavored to write a novel.  In The Name of The Father was inspired by an incident that occurred while on vacation in Virginia Beach and it blossomed into mystery/thriller.

My latest novel, No Such Thing, is a fictional account of a child killer based on events that happened in Michigan on the 70s.  It is both dark and sad but there is a healthy dose of redemption as well.  I am proud of all of my books but, this one, in particular came from deep within.  Amazon chose No Such Thing out of 10,000 entries to be a quarter finalist in its Breakthrough Novel Award.  I am proud of that, too.  The letters I have received from readers along with reviews are remarkable and evidence that I hit a nerve.  Sales of late have been so-so. I'm ok with that.  The feedback I have received has more than validated that I have done a good job.

So, my second act?  I can now say with confidence, I am a writer.

If you have any interest in my books, click on the covers and they should take you to the Amazon links.

When a Trip Down Memory Lane Ends at a Cul de Sac

Part II

And so, our 16 year old selves grabbed us by the hand and begged us to embark on our annual trip down Memory Lane.  Usually under the safety of a car, this year we used the provided golf cart as our vehicle of choice.  I drove.

The ritual involves pointing out certain houses we have stayed in over the years, recalling funny stories, memories that have become characters of their own that punctuate the vacation each year.

Eight Bells, our first house. . .we pretended we were horses romping over the dunes.  Yeah, we did that.

Euphoria, the house where we proudly proclaimed meeting 26 boys (count em, 26).  It must have been like flies to honey back then and I didn’t even realize it.  It was the year we met The Boys, and therefore, an important stop.  Gosh, we were cute, our 16 year old selves comment from the back seat.

The Elvis House, name for the year Elvis died.  We were there that very week.  It was a stone's throw from The Boy’s house and we had big plans until Stephanie’s Pittsburgh boyfriend hitchhiked down and threw a monkey wrench into our week.  

Passing the houses, I teasingly  told Steph we were going to stop by The Boy’s house and she laughed.  “You’re kidding, right?”  Hells yeah, I was kidding.  We were wearing lounge wear, the equivalent of pajamas, but I was going to go down another street to see his other beach houses.  So, I bypassed his street and headed down the next, stopping in front of one of the homes that had a sign bearing the name of The Boy’s company.  A moment of pride and then, onward to the next house.  

The golf cart lurched forward when I realized there was a new white pick-up truck sitting in front of the next house and I had to swerve to avoid it.  Stephanie grabbed my arm, gasping, “Oh My God! Holy Crap!  That’s Him!” she turned her head toward me as we passed the man in the truck.  I glanced at the license plate, a vanity plate, and knew she was right.  I kept driving.

“What do you want me to do?” I asked.  

My 16 year self was saying, “Well Duh, turn around and go say hi,” but she was also battling with 53 year old Stephanie who took one look at herself in the suddenly very large sideview mirror of the golf cart and caught a glimpse of herself in her jammies, hair pulled back after a day at the beach and no make-up and she hollered, “Just drive!”  And I did.  I drove the full length of the road at full golf cart speed until it ended at a cul de sac.  

I stopped and looked at Steph who was hyperventilating, “Now what?” I inquired.  

Without hesitation she says, “We run!”  but stopped short of escaping through the sand.  She rethought,resigned, “I guess we head back the way we came.”  

Never one to go willy nilly without a plan, I said, “We should stop and say hi.”

“Have you looked at us lately?” She pointed to the telltale mirrors and I saw my reflection.  She as right.  We weren’t 16, we no longer have long flowing hair or cute little belly buttons.  In fact, we were so well disguised in our 50+ fat suits there was no way I was going to stop and say hi.  Not like this.

“Alright.  But what if he has recognized us and he stops us?  I have to stop, Steph.”  

She bit her lip.  “He isn’t expecting to see us so he probably won’t, but IF he does, we stop. . .I guess.  Just drive as fast as you can.”

I hit the accelerator as we headed back down the road reaching a sluggish top speed of 16 miles an hour.  Tearing down the road at 16 mph, we steeled ourselves for the possibility that at that speed, we may indeed be forced to make eye contact.  Heck, at that speed, we could make eye contact and conduct a full conversation with the guy in the time it took to drive by.  Our stomachs were knotting, we were nervous, but thankfully, the white truck pulled away in front of us and drove off.  We both sighed an audible breathe saved from an awkward moment and I punched it to get back to our place.

Giddy, it was hard to delineate between our 16 year old selves giggles and our 50+ selves giggles.  That Boy still made us smile somehow.

Pulling back into our driveway, Steph looks at me and huffs, “I’m a little offended he didn’t recognize us, I mean we were right in front of him!”

Maybe next year, Jimmy.

What I Did On My Summer Vacation

I would love to start this with some grand story about my intrepid escapades this summer.  Perhaps the thrill of cruising on an airboat through the wetlands and weeds of the Florida swamps in search of gators in weather so hot, I was never completely dry.  Yeah, I did that.  It was fun.  And yes, there were more alligators than I could count.

Or, learning that 50 means I'm not so good with the upsidedown, twisty roller coasters anymore.  Ask the ride operators at Universal Studios, they can explain.  But, if you were there, stuck in line on the Harry Potter flying experience and they announced over the loud speaker that the ride was "temporarily out of service" - well, it's probably my fault.  Sorry about that.

Or, I could tell you about the day I received a text message from Casey Anthony asking to hide out with me on vacation.  I almost had my phone shut down before realizing that it was a BAD joke from a friend who NEVER, EVER texts but knew I was in Florida.  Ha! Funny stuff Steph.

But, while all of that HAS happened, I've really spent the bulk of my summer sitting on my ever expanding butt, finishing my book, going through edits, and getting it ready for publishing.  And that day came (last Monday).  It's available in paperback on my website with a 20% coupon code available there.  It is also available on Kindle and Nook for $4.99 (links on my site).  Amazon and BN.com will pick it up in a few weeks.

There is still some summer left, so what do I do now?  I'm taking suggestions.  Anyone?
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