It was a Saturday. While many may have spent that morning sleeping in or eating waffles or actually having a life, I was in my classroom developing a differentiated lesson on the life cycle of the Four-Spotted Sap Beetle and rearranging student desks into the classic herringbone pattern to economize traffic flow while simultaneously increasing visibility and minimizing distractions. I had just stumbled onto an idea that surely would place me in contention for the Nobel Peace Prize for Classroom Desk Arrangement (Think Whack-a-Mole with desks) when I noticed some discolored liquid seeping from beneath my bookcase. Naturally, I investigated. With great strength and effort, I moved the case which housed such epic tomes as Colony Leader James Edward Oglethorpe and A Historic Album of Nebraska. To my horror, when the dust cleared, a large lake of discolored water lurked beneath the bookcase. "It must be Pepsi," I inferred, grabbing the school-supplied paper towels which serve to repel rather than actually absorb liquid. I chased the puddle around my room for some time before successfully corralling it.
Imagine my surprise on Monday when I discovered that my puddle of Pepsi had regenerated. Was I dealing with the supernatural? I sought on-line assistance as I filled out the complicated form necessary to request a mop. A member of the maintenance crew arrived to oversee my problem. He didn't have a lot to say as I bedazzled him with my adventure other than "That's not Pepsi." He disappeared...returning with a consultant. By this time, we had constructed a taped barrier as children tend to translate the verbal warning of "Stay out of the puddle" to "Wouldn't it be fun to hydroplane through the puddle?" After a silent appraisal of my flooded floor, the two members of my maintenance staff again disappeared. Soon, with a third man in tow (See what I did there...hee hee), the verdict was in: It definitely was NOT Pepsi.
Apparently, my heater was leaking. Wait! I cleaned that up without the protection of rubber gloves or a haz-mat suit. "Is that toxic," I whispered, momentarily forgetting about my 9-year-olds who had recently bathed in it and worried instead about my own delicate skin and fair complexion. "No, no," I was reassured, "It's harmless. In fact, you could drink it. I wouldn't. But you could." Was the maintenance staff out to get me? I wondered. Suddenly, the compliments began flowing like discolored water over a classroom floor.
It was a good thing you spotted that when you did, Amy.
I blushed. Aw shucks, boys. I was just doing my job.
Good work catching that problem before it could turn into something bigger.
Well...I am a team player, fellas.
Oh...did we mention that you'll have to move your classroom down to the kindergarten wing with their teeny-tiny little chairs and barely-functioning SMARTboard tomorrow because we'll need to rip apart your heater and weld/solder/bulldoze and hot glue?
My students cheered. They loved teeny-tiny chairs and a barely-functioning SMARTboard which translated into a barely-functioning teacher. They stopped cheering as I began piling textbooks onto my rolling table. "What are those?" they asked confused as they are the products of learning in the year 2017. I grabbed a leaf of filler paper. "What is that?" they inquired worriedly as they have grown up writing primarily with their thumbs. I tossed a dollar bill and two quarters on top of my barely-balancing pile of traveling tutelage. "What are those for?" my kids asked warily.
Fortunately, by the time I arrived the next morning, the job was done. Unwilling to allow the education of my students to suffer for even a minute, maintenance had arrived well before the break of dawn to fix the flood, plug the puddle, waylay the discolored water, stem the tide, ebb the flow...you get the idea. Many tools were used. Heat was restored. Teeny-tiny chairs were avoided. Textbooks were returned to the bookshelf. No one may ever know who James Edward Oglethorpe was. To celebrate, I bought a Pepsi. It's harmless.
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