This rainbow courtesy of Ella Numera Una, who snapped it recently at a Madison Mallards home game. The Mallards are part of a collegiate summer baseball league made up of players from the Upper Midwest. The Mallards play teams with names like the Green Bay Bullfrogs and the Mankato MoonDogs.
Ah, college. Back then, I wasn't ever surprised when a rainbow shone my way.
Today's Writer's Workshop prompt: Write a poem for your furry friend.
She sleeps 21.5 hours a day
in the window, on the stairs,
in my daughter's unmade bed.
Her name is Pepper; the vet said we should call her "Moo," instead.
I guess her coloring favors that of the bovine species,
but she's much more fun to cuddle with than a cow.
She didn't purr for the first
3 years she resided here.
Now she goes full speed ahead.
Her grasp of etiquette
is not the best.
She eats too fast and hogs the covers.
She has a funny,
raspy sort of voice.
But sometimes, she'll sit in the basement and howl for hours.
Her favorite spot
is in the sun.
Unless she has a human to snuggle with.
She still has her claws,
and our furniture can attest
to her destructive tendencies.
One thing I need to remember:
Never adopt a dark couch
when you have a white cat.
I think we can
all agree.
Pepper is an acquired taste.
Photo courtesy of JSOnline.
This is where Mr. Obama and I disagree. He wants to measure a teacher's success by the number of students who pass a series of state-mandated tests every year. If the teacher's kiddos succeed, she gets the big money, in the form of modest compensation. If a pre-determined number fails, however, she might get the boot.
The DC Public Schools have already jumped on the bandwagon, firing 241 teachers last week because of what bureaucrats deem "poor performance." Much of these teachers' performance, however, has to do with the fact that many of their students did not fare well at bubbling in answers on a standarized test.
When a child goes out in public~to school, to the playground, to the mall~and misbehaves, the general consensus is that the parents may have been hitting the snooze button while on the job.
But when a child goes to school and bubbles in "c" instead of "d" on a pre-printed form, often the teacher is blamed. And more and more, those teachers are being held accountable for something they just cannot control.
Every year, more and more emphasis is placed on standardized testing. Our Humble High School, where I just finished my 16th year of teaching, is no different. We jump through so many hoops to make sure our students pass that often we have very little time to allow the kids to stop and contemplate what they're learning.
All of my cherubs passed what are called the English Standards of Learning (SOLs) last year. So, under President Obama's plan, I would be paid for a 100 percent pass rate. And if I had been working in the DC school system, I assume I would still have a job.
But several of my students passed by the skin of their teeth. Not because of any lack of effort on my part, but because of the way they are hard-wired. Some have test anxiety; some learning disabilities; some, quite frankly, don't have the grey matter to succeed on even some of the simplest of academic exercises.
Is this my fault? I don't think so. I also don't believe that a standardized test can calibrate the overall intelligence of a student body, nor the due diligence of a teacher. And while I'd welcome the extra money for my students' SOL pass rate, I'm not quite sure I deserve it. But I also don't believe that a standardized test can measure the true value of a good teacher.
In my native North Texas, we don't have a heck of a lot of trees. Live Oaks, mostly, with an occasional scraggly Magnolia, thrown in for springtime color. Oh, a few Mimosas & lots of scruffy Mesquite, too. The grass grows green during April gully-washers, then goes to dirt brown about 11 months of the year.
Our only saving grace down Dallas way is the Azaleas, which bloom with abandon once a year, especially by Turtle Creek and out near Mesquite. The town, just east of Big D, is otherwise aptly named.
And of course, my home turf is flatter than Kansas & drier than a sandstorm in the Sahara, most of the year.
Which is why this native Tejana was so surprised to learn about the art of the Bottle Tree. Up here in the lush, quite hilly foliage of the DC 'Burbs.
Bottle Trees, apparently, originated in the Congo, and the tradition was brought to the American South by slaves. The bottles, you see, are supposed to keep all "evil spirits" at bay.
So, I've just started "growing" my very own backyard Bottle Tree. I'm told that it will achieve maturity when it reaches its complement of 15 bottles. I reckon we're about 8 bottles short of changing our luck for the better. I wanted to get a better shot for Weekend Reflections, but the sun was not cooperating yesterday.
My fountain, whom we named Alicia, pours algae-stained water over & over again, out back by my newest garden acquisition. Maybe by the time my Bottle Tree fully blooms, I'll find a way to clean up Alicia's act.
Mr. Fairway & I have been married a good long while. Eons. Probably longer than some of you have been on God's green earth.
Let's just say I've lived with Hubby longer than I lived with my parents.
After watching the sun set on the marriages of so many of our friends & acquaintances over the years, Mr. F. & I have come to a tacit agreement, which pretty much holds our relationship together.
I don't criticize his snoring~too much~if he doesn't criticize my cooking. I'll do the marketing if he'll do the laundry. We'll back each other up when a situation requires the discipline of either and/or both of our chicas.
We're both pretty patient people...at least where marriage is concerned. We each contribute. Life is good, most of the time.
In recent days, however, I've had to lay down the law in my household. Mr. Fairway, who wakes up about 5:15 every morning to go to the gym, has taken to hittin' the hay early. Yup, sports fans, he's sometimes in bed by 9:30 p.m., which pretty much puts a crimp in my social life.
The Hubby's early-to-bed mentality of late also means that by the time I venture upstairs, around 11 or so, he's already way past REM sleep. I call this stage "The Rumble."
Yes, Mr. Fairway snores. But not the cute little middle-of-the-nite hiccups common to many men of middle years. When Mr. F. commits to something, he goes all-out. If you live in the Mid-Atlantic region & you've heard some rumbling recently, it's not an earthquake...it's Mr. Fairway getting in his Zzzzzzzzzzzz's.
And this is where the cast of "Beverly Hills, 90210" come in.
We have only one chica home for the whole of the Summer. Ella Numera Dos is even more of a night owl than her madre & she goes me one better...before she goes to sleep, she likes to watch a little retro-TV on her laptop.
Something about Jason Priestly's pompadour or Luke Perry's soulful glances helps to lull the child to sleep.
Our house is hot upstairs, even with the AC running full-bore. Well, this is DC in July, after all. We've taken to sleeping with the bedroom doors open, to help keep the air circulating. And therein lies the problem.
I'm a light sleeper & I've been surrounded by distractions of late. Sleeping alongside the San Andreas Fault, alone, is almost too much. Now I also must contend with the radioactive chipmunks down the hall.
Ella turns on her laptop, which emits a warm glow thru her open bedroom door. She pops in a "90210" DVD. The combo of the glowing screen & the chirpings of high-tone "Valley Speak," plus the Hubby's off-the-Richter Scale rumblings, are enough to drive a mom to drink.
Which is what I was doing a couple of nites ago. Watching the late news & quaffing a glass of Pinot Noir. Trying to put myself in a California state of mind.
I think it's safe to say that Mr. Fairway's favorite vegetable is the green pea. As in the frozen variety, which comes in bulk at your neighborhood grocery story. The veggie that looks like a collection of little, freeze-dried green rabbitt turds, until combined with H-Two-Oh & microwaved on "High."
I don't believe the taste of said green peas has anything to do with Mr. F.'s affinity. Convenience, I imagine, is the big draw here. That & then my Hubby feels as if he's contributed to our splendid repast each evening.
We often have peas when steak is on the menu. Or chicken. Or burgers. And of course, peas go well with pasta, because one can put them right in with the noodles & the sauce.
In decades of marital bliss, the only veggie that Mr. Fairway seems to prefer over frozen green peas is corn on the cob. Of course, being from the Upper Midwest & all, he knows how to shuck a cob. And throw it into a pot of boiling water. Although I must say we've argued, from time to time, over the length that said cobs must boil before they're ready to serve.
As far as the frozen peas are concerned, Mr. F. is "no fuss, no muss," especially in the presentation. Give him the plastic bag of these green, frozen wonders, a plastic container & a nearby tap. He'll rustle up the requisite veggies in no time. Say, 3 minutes or so.
This is where our views diverge. I'd certainly prefer to serve my veggies in something prettier than a faux-Tupperware container. But of course, as you can see, we eat our margarine out of a tub, too.
Or, that's how Pepper sees it, anyway. In recent weeks, she's spent about 20 hours per day off her feet. Some of her favorite venues include the window seat in the kitchen (above); Ella Numera Dos' messy bed; my feet, in various locales, and lounging near the screen door, in a vain attempt to snag a songbird or 2. She'll always fail, however, at that pursuit. She's an indoor kitty.
The Ad-dressing of Cats
By TS Eliot (From Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats
You've read of several kinds of Cat
And my opinion now is that
You should need no interpreter
To understand their character
You now have learned enough to see
That Cats are much like you and me
And other people whom we find
Possessed of various types of mind
For some are same and some are mad
And some are good and some are bad
And some are better, some are worse
But all may be described in verse
You've seen them both at work and games
And learnt about their proper names
Their habits and their habitat:
But how would you ad-dress a cat?
So first, your memory I'll jog,
And say, A CAT IS NOT A DOG.
The bride's father, Mr. Fairway, gave her away. The bride's satin gown, clearly designed for a wedding in the winter months, was obtained from the wardrobe of the manager at Ye Olde Swimming Hole. Her great aunt had worn the ensemble sometime in the 1950s during a November wedding.
The ceremony, featuring pint-sized attendants, took place before the 3rd meet of the summer season. Many in the congregation remarked that the bride appeared to remain cool & calm despite temps pushing 95 degrees Fahrenheit.
One of the bride's favorite 10-year-olds walked her down the aisle/deck. Her father had to attend to his duties as the meet referee, setting up the starting system, et. al., so abdicated his responsibilities to this jaunty gent in the shiny blue evening jacket & glitter bow tie.
The wedding was part of a series of "spirit days," staged before each meet, to boost the team's hopes for victory & to inject some, well, spirit into the proceedings.
I'm sorry, y'all. I had more enthusiasm for Ella Numera Una's faux wedding a couple of years ago than for the high jinx proposed by Bristol Palin & Levi Johnston.
Yesterday's Today Show Web site headline read, and I quote, "Bristol Palin and Levi Johnston Reveal Secret Engagement."
Una got "married" as part of a traditional summer swim team skit. The Palin nuptials are a whole other type of masquerade, if you ask me. And how many of you (I'd like a show of hands) really, truly believe that Mama Grizzly Sarah didn't know that Levi had popped the question?
To put all of this into perspective, I imagine Levi figured that he'd be a whole lot better off being inside the tent, pissing out, than outside the tent, pissing in. A quaint Texas expression. And all too apropos for the shotgun wedding the couple is planning. Vows will be exchanged in six weeks, we're told.
After all of the things Levi has said about Bristol's mom, I'd love to be the fly on the wall for holiday dinners at Casa Palin.
Can you say, "Eating crow"?
According to all accounts, she zipped up the highway, intent on having lunch at Curly's, a well-known eatery at the Green Bay Packers' historic Lambeau Field. A sorority sister road shotgun. The March day was sunny, but cool.
We only learned the details of Ella Numera Dos' road trip last month, when she received a letter via certified mail at our home address. Mr. Fairway went down to our local post office to pick up the missive, which turned out to be from the Virginia DMV.
The news took 3 months to travel our way. I guess the State of Wisconsin had to process the paperwork of a young out-of-state offender before sending the bad news along to her place of official residence. And, of course, our little girl wasn't going to voluntarily let us know about her traffic transgression, now, was she?
She is so busted.
Turns out the child was traveling a mere 84 mph up the highway in a 65 mph zone when a trooper pulled her over. I thought Honda Civics disintegrated at that speed.
But Ella Dos is one lucky chica. Because the officer cited her for 19 over instead of 20, she avoided the dangerous driving charge, which would have added 6 points to her license & required a much heftier fine.
As it is, the Dairy State left punishment in the hands of Ella's home state, Virginia. The Old Dominion required her to attend defensive driving class (she completed that part of her "sentence" yesterday) & she must re-apply for her license. And Ella's taking care of all the attendant costs involved, including the Wisconsin ticket & the financial hoops she must jump through here to clear her good name.
Did she learn something from this experience? A couple things, in fact.
First off, no cheeseburger is worth risking one's life & limb. And don't tick off Mr. Fairway. He's still pretty steamed at Daddy's Little Girl.
Secured this Superior Snap somewhere near Williamsburg, on our way back from The OBX. No, I did not snag this shot. My SIL did the honors. And yes, that dude & his old lady are hauling a lawn mower~on top of a Mini Cooper.
The image puts me in mind of those lazy summer days in store for me. Because our vacation launched our summer instead of wrapping it up, I've got weeks & weeks of expectations to live up to.
It started the other nite, when said SIL & I were sharing some wine on my back deck.
"So, now that you're back from the beach, what are you going to do with your summer?"
I would have liked to have responded with, "I have no effing clue," but that would be selling myself short. I would have liked to have said that I was going to rent a power-washer & clean the scum off the siding out back, but that would have been a lie.
And as for the basement? I promise myself every year that I'll clean it out & haul lots of crapola to the dump, but I never, ever get started. Don't know why this summer will be any different.
I do have a few school-related projects to tend to, but mostly I just want to take care of myself.
First thing on my agenda this a.m. is a long walk. Then maybe a little work, a couple of errands. And then I'm going to Ye Olde Swimming Hole to see how many laps I can squeeze in.
As for the rest of my summer, I'm sure I'll have enough of the requisite weeding, dishwasher loading & emptying & grocery shopping to fill my days until September rolls around, correctamundo?
We approached our home base. Lights out, strictly protocol for 11:20 p.m. One small, amber glow peeked from behind the dining room window out front. The kitchen ceiling light, no doubt.
The trip back home carried a special significance, if only because Big Blue was on the road again. We both tingled with the ache for a special place. Two weeks away~even at The OBX~can fray one's last nerve.
We clunked into the house, beach groceries & luggage in tow. Those who had preceded us had pretty much left the detritus of the getaway for Mom to clean up.
A shopworn cliché is best illustrated by this snap acquired by my nephew. Another time, another destination, but the sentiment remains the same.
I think I might need a vacation from my vacation, y'all...
Hey, y'all...I'm guesting over at Turtle's today, too. Please come see me!
So I'm not sure the significance of this sign, which I uncovered in Nags Head, NC, a few months back.
I strongly believe that being an American means that I have certain responsibilities. One, to be open to others. Two, to suspend judgment until I understand the situation. Three, to represent my country in the best way I know how...by trying to communicate with my fellow human beings.
We're all together on this crazy, mixed-up planet we call Mother Earth. I don't know if the homeowner on NC 12 South meant to send the message that the sign and the tattered flag imply, or at least the feeling I've inferred. I'm sure there's another story, which explains the significance of both.
I'd like to wish this person, and all of you, the best of weekends as we celebrate America's 234th birthday.
Hope you have a happy 4th!
Well, if I had a tripod, this would be quite the Superior Snap, but you get the idea, correctamundo? This is moon over North Carolina's Outer Banks. The only thing it has in common with the beaches of our more southern climes is that the ocean continues to pound the sandy dunes & we've landed smack-dab in the middle of some kind of Brown Pelican convention.
Yesterday, during a break in the sunning and shelling action, we had a little rain. Because the beaches were pretty much people-less, the pelicans came out to play, in a big way. At one point I counted close to 100 of these proud birds bobbing in the chilly surf.
I reckon the OBX pelicans invited their Louisiana brethren to summer here. Good idea. My friends down on the Gulf Coast~most notably Tara R. in FLA~say BP certainly has made a mess of things.
My assignment? Mama Kat's Prompt #5: A snappy comeback!
Kids these days. Think they know it all. The teacher says, "Black," they say, "Blue." Teacher says, "White," they say, "Off-white." Every time I make even the slightest reference to anything they might remotely know anything about, the classroom errupts in a murmured chorus: "Oh, yeah. I remember. We did that once. Back in 8th grade. Remember?"
Hands shoot up, whether the child has something substantive to contribute to the conversation, or not.
"Mrs. Scribe? Isn't that, you know, kinda like the time when..."
"Mrs. Scribe? I heard about one guy who, you know, like back in the day..."
I chalk this behavior up to my cherubs' need to know. Even if they don't have the faintest idea, they wish to make all around them think that they do.
Remember: A high school classroom is just a microcosm of the real world. I know you know some know-it-all adults, now, don't you?
The most frustrating~but at the same time funniest~high school student epiphanies often arrive by mistake. And always while they're guessing. This often happens on multiple-choice tests, when the kids are sure the correct answer is "C," only to find out that the teacher has deemed the definitive answer to be "D." And they will bend themselves into also sorts of pretzel-y shapes to prove that I am wrong and that they are correctamundo.
"But Mrs. Scribe! What if Gatsby hadn't gone over to Daisy's house the night before George shot him? Then, wouldn't the answer be 'C'?"
"But Mrs. Scribe! What if Holden had gone to Boston instead of New York after he dropped out of Pencey? Then the answer would be 'C,' for sure!"
Every year, I have at least one cherub who scribbles these "what if's" as addenda on every possible multiple-choice selection, on at least one test. One year, a young woman named Amy tried to justify every answer on every test as the correct one.
Naturally, this behavior has a name. I have deemed it the "Subjunctive Syndrome." For those of you who don't remember your English grammar, we use the subjunctive case for situations that don't really exist. If this-and-such happens, then this might then occur, etc., etc., etc.
Of course, the subjunctive form of "if" is a pie-in-the-sky mentality. A glass half-full reaction, as it were. I, however, always have a response to their "if's, and's & but's."
Mr. Fairway's Uncle Lewie, pictured above (with Mr. F. on the right), was a man of several quaint expressions. Two of his quips always come to mind when my cherubs are clamoring for an extra point or two on a test.
"If if's and but's were candy and nuts, we'd all have a very Merry Christmas."
Or, my favorite:
"If frogs had wings, they wouldn't have to hop."
Shuts them up, every time.
