Milkweed pods and butterflies

While every profession certainly has its days, as a teacher, I, for one, with rare exceptions, love my job.  Remind me that my next lesson should probably be on the concise use of commas. I routinely begin each 4th grade year with Helen Hunt Jackson's "September" poem...somewhat for the amazing imagery:

And asters by the brook-side

make asters in the brook

but more so was my shock in discovering that many children have never encountered milkweed. How is this possible? They're country kids, for crying out loud. So...for a decade, Brad and I pluck pods to reflect my classroom population. Sick of hearing me complain about sticky fingers, Brad suggested we harvest ahead of time, letting the pods dry for a year. BINGO. All of the fluffy...none of the fuss! 

This year, I encountered another obstacle as my room cleaner, George, discovered my loot and was none too happy about the prospect of a fluffy fog of feathered filaments peppering Room 24. Over the years, George and I have developed an enviably close relationship based on respectful communication and compromise. He growls at me to go home after 5 and I ignore him. I attempt to wheedle into his good graces with dark chocolate and he accuses me of sloughing off unwanted gifts onto him.  With passionate prose, George is also a gifted correspondent, penning uplifting letters that I sentimentally save and share.

So...encouraged by George's encouraging note, I took my posse of aspiring poets outside with the mysterious bag. We sat beneath a large maple tree to read and discuss the poem; sharing our favorite parts. Then, with great excitement, the contents of the bag were revealed. Like little ducks to water, the children ripped into the down-filled husks and seeds soon soared, filling the air as 4th graders laughed on the lawn, dancing and twirling, trying to catch the puffy parachutes.

A week later...we were at it again. A former student, Alison, and her mom Heidi, are butterfly buffs and offered to set me up with a small habitat container. I immediately said "no," as I tend to kill any sort of biologically-related science experiments. George quickly concurred. I had traumatized both him and myself during my ordeal of incubating eggs. But Alison and Heidi decided that, with their support and supervision, I could (and would) handle it. Okay...don't say I didn't warn you.

Turns out, that if I don't actually have to do anything, my science experiments are pretty successful! Every day, Alison arrived with milkweed leaves to feed the hungry little caterpillars. Heidi would show up with cookies to keep up my morale. Two chrysalises formed and I put up a barricade around my desk.  I ferociously guarded the developing dignitaries...my winged royalty. The first appeared at an inconvenient hour...the children had left for the day so Katriel and I carefully carried our fragile friend with us on our visit to the cider mill to send him on his winged way, toasting his flight with raised glasses. 

Butterfly Number Two appeared, to my delight, at 6 am on my dining room table, halting my  morning absolutions as I video-narrated the event in my very best David Attenborough-style for my sleeping family. Cursing my absence from my childhood Posture & Poise lesson where I would have learned to smoothly walk with a book on my head, I cautiously carried my butterfly newborn to school where he happily attended class. At the end of the day, Room 24 again dutifully trooped outside to allow nature to become their best teacher. We sat in a circle...serious, solemn stewards of the planet...we lifted the lid, collectively holding our breath as our butterfly gathered himself for launch...he rose upon our lifted voices..."Let It Go...Let It Go..."

Pure magic.

I love what I do.

I though Mauy Thai was a drink: How I got tricked into attending an MMA event

I'm not sure what was going through my head when my husband said MMA. I love M&Ms. Many yummy restaurants and fun stores sport alphabet names such as A&W and DSW.  And don't forget JC Penney and TJ Maxx.  I think I just figured food was in my future. Remind me not to judge the wary wildlife that, despite its best judgment, nevertheless, steps into a set trap for a tasty treat. Slam! The passenger door of the Elantra snapped shut and I was whisked away to my first mixed martial arts competition. 

Training with Dokkodo Martial Art/10th Planet in Bath, Brad's friend, Chris Buckley, headlined the main event. Prior to Chris's fight, I had plenty of time to acclimate to my unfamiliar surroundings. As the wife of a martial arts practitioner for over thirty years, I am quite adept at averting my eyes at key moments...for example, when someone is being pummeled mercilessly in the face. This skill serves me

well as I then get to notice other things...such as the Ring Girl. While she rotated around the octagon committing misogynistic hari-kari, I zeroed in on her shoes. "What are you looking at?" Brad asked, delighted that I was taking such an interest in the proceedings. "She should be wearing stilettos," I said, frowning, "School teachers wear wedge sandals."  

We discussed the possibilities of this young woman moon-lighting as a Ring Girl while teaching our impressionable youth of today. Completely plausible given the state of teachers' salaries. And I worked with many women who could rock the ring. I could appreciate the Ring Girl valuing comfort over the sharp sting of stilettos...and the enthusiastic guy with the unkempt beard, tank-top/flannel combo certainly didn't seem to mind. "Please let him be her boyfriend," I prayed as he unfailingly howled each time she appeared.

"Remind me to bring a dry erase board next time," I told my husband. "Why?" he asked. "I'm going to raise a 'Round Board of Comradery' next time," I explained, "With messages of affirmation like: You're pretty and it's obvious that you're intelligent too, Your hair looks great! Stay away from the guy wearing the tank top/flannel combo! You are destined for amazing things! I wondered if she would be receptive to the idea of printing her resume on the back of each round announcement board. 

The disco ball was another fun point of interest. As the paramedics rolled out the stretcher again, I directed my husband's attention to it. He took my hand lovingly as a wave of nostalgia rolled over us. "It's just like the one they had at Skate 98," Brad smiled, alluding to the one of the millions of skating rinks that peppered the landscape in the 1980s.  Was it coincidence that a Billy Squire song played on our long drive home? Hmmm...I think not.

The highlight of the evening, besides Chris's incredible performance, was the hot pretzel with cheese. Definitely worth the hour and a half drive to buy it. Fair compensation for the trauma that accompanies witnessing human beings brutalizing themselves in sport. Next time I attend an MMA event, I will be better prepared and, trust me, I will NOT be wearing sneakers. I'm embarrassed what the Ring Girl would have thought of my attire. To be fair, she didn't look like the judgmental type. I think my first message of affirmation to her will be: You're a knock-out!

The chicken show wasn't what it was cracked up to be

Aware of my love of the fuzzy footed chicken (and feeling guilty that he'd spent the bulk of Saturday having Amy-free fun...which, by the way, consisted of cardio and grueling physical activity based on balance and synchronous movement...yeah...real "fun."), my husband suggested we take an hour drive down to the Southern Tier to attend a poultry and water fowl fair. Toss in a breakfast invitation and he definitely had my interest. 

Now, I know what you're thinking...Amy, if you want to look at a chicken, you can just WALK to your friend Deb's...Yes. This is true. But Deb recently posted that she'd been maliciously pecked by one of her brood and, as a reprisal, killed and cooked it. Right now (fingers crossed), I am currently on good terms with my friend/neighbor but, should I inadvertently cause her some sort of physical or emotional harm...who knows how she might react. I'll travel the hour, thank you very much, to look at chickens WITHOUT having to be constantly looking over my shoulder.

Despite the drizzle (the ducks didn't seem to mind), we sallied forth, undaunted. Cloth sneakers were  unfortunate choice. As we picked our way across the muddy parking lot and fair grounds, we were impressed by the vast array of license plates hailing from Kentucky, Tennessee, Ontario, and the eastern seaboard. Wow. These people were serious about their chickens. We took refuge in the goose building first...shocked to see geese the size of guard dogs in there. "See" might be too loose a verb...let's go with "glimpsed" as we were quickly herded out as the barn was closing because the Goose Grammy Awards were scheduled to begin in ANOTHER building. Okk-aay.

We searched several other empty buildings on our hunt...our sneakers getting soggier with every step. I bet Deb would provide me with a warm beverage after I viewed her chickens, I thought wistfully. Hearing a cacophony of crowing, we followed the noise to a place full of poultry. We'd hit the motherload. Chickens of every size, color, and assorted states of fluffiness. We made it successfully down one aisle before the chicken bouncer alerted us that the Pulitzer Prize for Poultry was about to begin and they had to secure the building. Devastated, I will admit to a bit of lolly-gagging as I SLOWLY exited, trying to see as many chickens as possible but the barn bouncer lurked closely behind me; ruffling my feathers in the process. 

Feeling rather hen-pecked, we flew the coop. Passing a stand of gloriously-colored flowers, we paused to purchase a bouquet. As I agonized over my choice, I apologized for taking so much time. "I'm sure you have some important award ceremony to attend," I commiserated. "Stay as long as you want," he answered, smiling, "and be sure to poppy in any time." It was too late to back-petal. I bought two bouquets. "Seed ya later," he waved. "Hosta la vista!" I said, waddling away in my squishy shoes. 

Our hour's-long quest to see chickens may have come up short but the flowers were beautiful and breakfast was delicious so in the end, I think we can call "No harm/No fowl."

 

Great minds think alike: Moments that make me melt

You moms out there will get this.

It's been over three years since my daughters moved to San Diego. They are 2,551 miles away from me. Thirty-eight hours by car. My heart aches ALL the time. I am constantly talking about them...always thinking about them, praying for them ceaselessly. I know, I know...get a life already.

Fortunately for me...both of my girls are excellent (and patient) communicators. Rarely does a day go by that we don't exchange at least a text. They don't even question if I call up, out of the blue, and ask them to just ease my heart by (a) having Sydney sing the entire theme song from "The Big Bang Theory" or (b) having Savannah quickly recite the presidents in order from memory. Without question, they do what I ask and hang up, resuming their activities knowing that I was having a hard day but they'd just made me feel better. Better that than the bottle, baby!

Nothing feels better (other than actually being WITH them, of course) though, than knowing we are in sync. Brad and I had a busy day yesterday after school...visiting my mom, grocery shopping, ect. We'd just pulled out of the drive-thru, having treated ourselves to McDonald's sundaes when a text arrived on our phones, showing what my girls were doing at the EXACT same minute. My dessert had never tasted sweeter.