Tag Toni

Welcome Back

Dusty Leave a comment

And if that made you think of the Sweathogs and Mr. Kotter, then we are friends.

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Okay: lemme ‘splain.

No. Is too much. Lemme sum up.

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School ended on May 25th. That was at the end of a week including Graduation, which I hosted as Master of Ceremonies (A student of mine expressed distaste for the term “emceed,” and when I told her what it stood for, she said the full term was MUCH cooler than the phonetic abbreviation, so I’m going with that from now on.) and the usual grade-fest, necessitated by the fact that I accept all late work up to the last minute. Then I took a week or so to relax — though I did make a bed, as I described in my last post nearly a month ago.

And then the rocks arrived.

These first three pictures are my front yard. Notice it is nothing but dirt and a few plants. (This is after I weeded it, by the way. Bottom right corner of the first pic shows the weeds I had not yet gotten to, in front of the sage bush.)

And this is eleven tons of rock being dumped in my driveway.

The ton or so of dust is complimentary. And inevitable, in Tucson, which is mostly dust.

So then I started working on getting the rocks spread out across the yard. That means digging up the dirt to turn it and remove all the weeds I could get; then putting down weedblocking cloth; then hauling wheelbarrows full of rocks over to the cloth and dumping them. Since the temperature here has been well over 100 degrees for several weeks, it was hot, dirty, difficult work.

But my wife still made it look good.

I joked that this was her Jackie O. pose; the scarf is actually weedblocker cloth. The gorgeousness is all her.
I’m not as pretty.

In addition to the rocks, on June 10th I started my usual summer job: scoring essays for the Advanced Placement program’s Language and Composition exam. So that meant about eight hours a day staring at a computer screen trying to understand student handwriting — and spelling. I’d get up as early as I could (which is no hardship as I have always been an early riser) and lie in my hammock and grade for a few hours; then I’d go out in the yard with my wife and spread some rocks.

The rocks are not done, by the way, but it’s getting close; and it looks great.

Progress. Improvement.

Until June 18th, when I flew to San Diego to attend a three-day AVID conference.

This one had a roundabout genesis: back in March or so, a good friend of mine asked if I would go to the conference, because she was going and she wanted someone along whom she got along with. At first I turned her down, because I do not generally like pedagogy and conferences; my style and philosophy of teaching are not what other teachers’ are, and so most of the time, pedagogical instruction is lost on me — and it makes me feel bad, because I have just enough self-doubt and imposter anxiety, even after 23 years of teaching, to suspect that I’ve been doing it wrong all along. And the people who present at these conferences always seem so sure that their system is right.

AVID has a little more credibility with me, because when I started teaching in California in 2000, the school where I taught had an AVID program, and the teacher whose room I shared, who took on something of a mentor’s role for me, was the AVID teacher. So I had first-hand experience of how well the program can work, and I was more interested in being involved in bringing AVID to my school than I would be in most teacher conferences. I’ll write more extensively about AVID at some point, but the basic idea — it stands for Advancement Via Individual Determination, which I both love and hate, as I love and hate all good acronyms — is that it helps students who would struggle going to college and being successful there for reasons other than intellect, and tries to make those students more successful through teaching organization and study habits, and how to work with people and advocate for yourself, and so on. It’s a good system.

But I still would never choose to go to a three-day teaching conference if I could avoid it. So I said no when my friend asked me to go.

But in February, my father’s wife, Linda, passed away. It was, of course, devastating to my dad; and I promised him I would come to the memorial, and help him out in any way I could. And somewhere around April, my dad told me that Linda’s memorial would be Saturday, June 24th: the weekend after the AVID conference. My dad lives in Paso Robles, in wine country closer to the central coast of California than to San Diego; but my brother lives in San Diego, and would be driving up for the memorial anyway, of course. So I checked with my brother, and then my principal, to make sure I could extend my return flight from the conference and get a ride — and in the end, I went to the AVID conference, and then drove with my brother to Paso Robles and attended my father’s wife’s memorial.

Where I served as the master of ceremonies.

It was a beautiful ceremony.

May be an image of 7 people and wine
This is my dad at the podium sharing his memories of his wife. My brother is the one leaning against the casks — the memorial was held at a vineyard, whose owners are close friends.

***

I’m telling you all of this because I hope it explains why I have not posted on this blog for the last three weeks. I usually write and post on Sunday and/or Monday of each week. Well, last Sunday and Monday I was in Paso Robles, both helping my dad deal with his grief, and also going through my own (far, far smaller) suffering: because my dad is an extrovert, and he and his wife are extremely popular and well-loved among their family and friends and their community, so many people wanted to express their grief about Linda’s loss, and also to help my dad know that he is not alone: so we had four gatherings of people in the five days I was there visiting. Which was a lot for me. The Sunday and Monday before that, I was flying to San Diego and then attending the first day of a three-day conference for a program that I would actually be interested in learning about and bringing to my school, so I was trying hard to keep up with the information; and that was draining. Aaaand the Sunday and Monday before that, I was scoring essays and spreading rocks.

So here’s my plan. I’m counting this one, which I know is a bit of a nothingburger in terms of its value as a blog post (When I told my wife I was going to write “just sort of an update” for this post, she said “That doesn’t sound very exciting. Don’t you want your blogs to be about exciting things?”), and then I will be writing and posting for the next three days, to make up for the three weeks I missed, ending with a post for next week — which I’ll post on the Fourth of July. In honor of which, I plan to yell a whole lot about how the Supreme Court is fucking up this country. I have another idea for one of the other blogs; not sure about the last one — but I’ll think of something.

I don’t have anywhere else I have to go. Or any essays to grade. The rocks are almost done, and though I also need to work on my pirate book, otherwise I am just staying home with my wife and my pets.

I hope you’re all having a happy summer, too.

This Morning

Dusty Leave a comment

This morning I am thinking about my wife.

It’s not surprising, I think about my wife all the time: she is always worth thinking about. Everything with her is worth the doing: she is worth seeing all the time, in her beauty and grace and her sweetness; she is worth talking to all the time, in her intelligence and her humor and her generosity; she is worth holding all the time, and supporting all the time, and relying on all the time. She is worth all my time. She is worth all.

Today is our 15th wedding anniversary, though we had been together for almost ten years before we got married. I am excited to give her her present, and eager to get about our day’s activities — I highly recommend to teachers to have celebratory occasions during regular vacations — and so I’m not going to spend any more time writing this.

I wish you all love and joy and perfection. I go to enjoy mine.

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My Wife Is Funnier Than Me

Dusty Leave a comment

Toni: “Why is it that every door-to-door Christian woman has thick ankles? And is badly dressed?”

Me: “I don’t know about the thick ankles, but I’d think they’re trying to dress plainly, sort of that humble Quaker thing. Or Puritan.”

Toni: “If Jesus didn’t want us to dress well,  He wouldn’t have made fashion designers.”

Me: “That’s a valid point.”

Toni: “If I was the King of the Universe, I’d want my people looking good when they represent me.”

Me: “So you’d, what, put them in a snappy uniform?”

Toni: “No, no uniforms — they can pick what they like, as long as it looks good on them. And they wouldn’t have thick ankles, that’s for sure. My disciples would be the best-looking people.”

***

Three in a row:

Me (Complaining about post-workout-exhaustion): I thought working out was supposed to make me stronger.

Toni: You are stronger. You don’t cry nearly as much as you used to.

 

Minutes later, in the car driving home — and apropos of nothing — she said:

“Do you think if small children were left out in the sun that they would be more likely to melt? I mean really small children. Like, new ones. Because their bones haven’t, you know, congealed yet.”

 

And then, trying to find good music on the radio, she punched buttons to get away from heavy metal screaming, and then Rod Stewart, and then Huey Lewis and the News — but nothing made her punch the button harder and faster than a few seconds of a small child’s voice as part of a radio commercial. Then, when I pointed that out, she said,

“Yeah.  There’s nothing I hate more than turning on the TV and seeing little kids talking. Or pooping. Or whatever it is they do.”

I’m that cow.

Dusty Leave a comment

Toni and I drive past a herd of cattle every morning when she takes me to work. We like to discuss what the cows are up to, and what they’re thinking. Toni is always amazed that they haven’t figured out body heat: because in the brutal summer heat, they all go stand under the shade trees on the edge of their pasture — but they all pack together, side by side, in the shade; we have no doubt that their shade is not in any way cooler than the sunshine. Nonetheless, every hot day: “Come on, everybody! Crowd in. Room for a few more if we squeeze. Man, is it hot! Well, at least we have shade!”

Toni and I like to make our own fun.

So this morning’s conversation went like this.

Dusty: I bet the cows discuss philosophical things while they’re grazing. I know if I was a cow, I’d do that all the time. I’d be like, “Hey, you guys ever wonder where the grass comes from?”

Toni: (Speaking for the other cows): “It grows out of the ground.”

Dusty (Speaking for the Wondering Cow): “Yeah, but where was it before that?”

Toni: I bet they’d avoid you. “Oh, no — here he comes again. Everybody turn the other way.”

Dusty The Wondering Cow: “Hey! You guys! You guys! You know what I was just wondering?”

Toni: You’d annoy them all, thinking too many weird things and asking too many questions. “Why? Why? Why?” You’d bug the crap out of the other cows.

Dusty: (After a lengthy pause) I’m like that now.

And then, silence.

I’m that cow.

Ladies and Gentlemen: My Wife.

Dusty Leave a comment

My wife picks me up from work every day. Yesterday, on the way home, I was telling her about an unfortunate consequence of one of my examples in class.

I gave one of my classes a Voice Lesson (If any teachers read this blog, I highly recommend this book for close reading/literary analysis practice — it’s here on Amazon.) which gives them a quotation and asks them a series of questions about it, and then has them imitate it in some way. Today’s quotation was:

Whenever he was so fortunate as to have him near him a hare that had been kept too long, or a meat pie made with rancid butter, he gorged himself with such violence that his veins swelled, and the moisture broke out on his forehead.
– Thomas Babington Macaulay, “Samuel Johnson”

The students then had to write an original sentence describing someone with disgusting eating habits, using at least three vivid details. Now, I answer all of these myself; but I don’t want to point the finger at anyone else and call them disgusting. So I described my own disgusting eating habits.

You see, when I was in high school, I ate, as many teens do, really appalling amounts of junk food. I picked three of the worst examples, and — even though I never combined these in real life — I put them all into one sentence. The three eating habits were: once I brought a can of Betty Crocker frosting to school for lunch, which I ate with a tiny spoon intended for stirring espresso; I used to eat beef jerky that came in an eight-foot rope form (With the unimaginative product name of “8-Foot Beef Rope.” Picture a coiled Slim Jim. And yes: I did try to make a lariat out of it. Didn’t work.); and as I was not picky about my throat-searing, stomach-churning soda consumption, I used to drink Caffeine-Free Diet Coke at room temperature, from two-liter bottles.

I told my students about this. And two of them, in a classic example of Why Mr. Humphrey Doesn’t Talk About The Stupid Crap That He Did In His Youth, decided that they would eat the same thing, and do it within a time limit — half an hour was what they were bandying about during class. This, apparently, was to be called The Humphrey Challenge.

I told this to Toni as she was driving me home. I said to her what I said to them: I do not want my name associated with this. I do not endorse these eating habits, particularly not all at once. This is not the thing I want named after me.

Toni said, her tone completely deadpan: “Everyone’s gotta have a legacy.”

I don’t think she even noticed the death glare I gave her for the following thirty seconds. If she did, it didn’t have any effect.

 

And then today: today on the way home I told her about the question I got today, which certainly ranks at the top of the list of Most Awkward Questions I’ve ever been asked by a high school student. One of my freshmen, who admittedly lives a very sheltered life — she made “Eeewww!” noises and faces throughout Romeo and Juliet, and left the room whenever Mercutio started making pornographic jokes — came in to my room today before the class started, and in a conversational tone she asked — in all sincerity — “Mr. Humphrey, what’s a boner?”

My first thought was, “How do I answer this?” My second thought was, “Don’t answer this.” I went with option two, telling the young lady she didn’t want to know. She was suspicious she was being played, but several other students — who are less innocent — agreed with me.

So Toni and I were talking about this, and she asked, “So that isn’t part of your curriculum, then?”

I said, “No, we don’t have a boner standard.” Though I admit I haven’t read all of the Common Core.

Giggling furiously, she managed to get out, “How about a rubric?”

Death stare one day, peals of laughter the next. She always keeps me guessing, and usually laughing.

Mama!

Dusty Leave a comment

(This was a Facebook quiz that caught my attention. It was a little tough explaining all of the questions to our children, but this is what they came up with.)

WITHOUT ANY prompting, ask your child these questions and write down EXACTLY what they say. It is a great way to find out what they really think. When you re-post put your Child’s age.
These are the answers for all of my kids:

Dunkie the Cockatiel (5),Duncan VS Origami Whale

 

Neo the Tortoise (2),

Neo

and Sammy the Dog (1.5)

Sammy 3

(That’s his Wubba there, in his paws.)

 

1. What is something mom always says to you?
Dunkie: Stop that!
Neo: Where are you?
Sammy: I love you.

2. What makes mom happy?
D: Dunkie! And drawing lines on paper. WHICH SHE WON’T LET ME CHEW UP!
N: Peace and harmony.
S: Cuddles and when I kiss her nose.

3. What makes mom sad?
D: Dunkie. And when she can’t draw lines on paper. Or when I chew them up.
N: The suffering in the world.
S: I don’t know, but when she’s sad I bring her my Wubba-toy and we play and she laughs and then she’s not sad any more.

4. How does your mom make you laugh?
D: She snorts when she laughs.
N: She smiles when she sees me, and I smile with her.
S: When she plays with me and Wubba.

5. What was your mom like as a child?
D: Dunkie-less. So, sad.
N: The child is echoed in the adult. She is kind, and she is beautiful. She is present in the moment.
S: Mama was a child?

6. How old is your mom?
D: She has gray headfeathers.
N: Old enough to be wise.
S: Mama-old.

7. How tall is your mom?
D: Tall enough to perch on and be really high!
N: She fills the sky.
S: Mama-tall.

8. What is her favorite thing to do?
D: Whistle with Dunkie!
N: Be at peace with her family.
S: Cuddle. And play Wubba.

9. What does your mom do when you’re not around?
D: Draw lines on paper.
N: If a tree falls and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound?
S: Oh, I’m always around.

10. If your mom becomes famous, what will it be for?
D: Dunkie! Or drawing lines on paper.
N: She is loved. It is enough.
S: Best Mama ever.

11. What is your mom really good at?
D: Skritching under my headfeathers like I like.
N: Worrying.
S: Tum rubs. And she makes Daddy laugh a lot.

12. What is your mom not very good at?
D: DOING WHAT I WANT, WHEN I WANT HER TO DO IT! Goddamnit . . .
N: Not worrying.
S: Mama’s good at everything.

13. What does your mom do for a job?
D: Draws lines on paper.
N: Takes care of others.
S: What’s a job?

14.What is your mom’s favorite food?
D: Bread. And green stuff. She doesn’t like my nibbles.
N: What she grows.
S: The stuff she shares with me. Usually cheese.

15.What makes you proud of your mom?
D: WHEN SHE DOES WHAT I WANT, WHEN I WANT IT!
N: That she has a kind soul.
S: She’s Mama.

16. If your mom were a character, who would she be?
D: A beautiful bird. LIKE DUNKIE!
N: If you imagine how another imagines you, who is then created?
S: Ummm . . . Mama.

17. What do you and your mom do together?
D: Whistle!
N: Enjoy the world around us.
S: Wubba.

18. How are you and your mom the same?
D: We both snort when we laugh.
N: We are living souls. We are more alike than we are different.
S: We love to nap and play Wubba. And eat cheese. And go walkies.

19. How are you and your mom different?
D: She doesn’t do what I want, and I don’t do what she — oh wait. That’s the same.
N: I have a shell. She needs a shell.
S: She likes baths.

20. How do you know your mom loves you?
D: WHEN SHE DOES WHAT I WANT! And when she whistles my song. And skritches under my headfeathers like I like.
N: She loves all things. It is her burden and her gift.
S: She brought me home from dog-jail, and she doesn’t make me live on the street like my last person did. She takes care of me.

21. What does your mom like most about your dad?
D: He does what she wants.
N: He is her other half.
S: He’s Daddy! He plays Wubba good. And he likes cheese. And naps. And cuddles.

22. Where is your mom’s favorite place to go?
D: I don’t know. Somewhere I CAN’T SEE HER!
N: Out into the world, and then back into herself.
S: Walkies!

23. How old was your Mom when you were born?
D: I DON’T CARE! GIVE ME SKRITCHY! AND NIBBLES! DO IT NOW!
N: What did your face look like before your grandparents were born?
S: I don’t know. Was Mama around then? I didn’t see her until she came to the dog-jail to get me. OH I KNOW! She was Mama-old minus me. Right, Daddy?