It is my turn to call in to the court system to see if I've been selected for jury duty this week. So far, no go tomorrow. I want to be called, and I don't want to be called. I'd like a break from certain challenges at school, and I will pay for a break from those challenges.

Life is full, again.

My niece is trying to remember what it was like to be thirteen, the age her son is right now. I try to do that periodically, to get in touch with what is going on in the minds of the students I work with each day. It's really hard to do!

It's Halloween, 2009. I don't care for this holiday much anymore. It used to be kind of fun with the kids, getting them dressed up and going out trick-or-treating, but now that they don't do that, and I am simply haunted by the candy I keep for the few neighbor kids, it just adds up to a rather tense evening.

Wow, what a bummer for me! I have got to lighten up here.

It was fun to watch the middle school students dress up for their costume contest on Thursday. Some excellent imagination and flair for drama there.

I think it's basically the candy that ultimately depresses me. I get depressed if I don't allow myself to eat it, and I get depressed if I do. No winning here.

I need a good movie to watch. Or a trip to northern Italy.

Another Sunday night. I wonder what this week will bring? Will students implode? Will parents flip out? Will the kids be so jazzed by the aspect of a four-day weekend that little real work will take place? Will I lose my patience? Will I get H1N1?

This will be the first time in six years that I am not actively sitting in parent/teacher conferences. I will try to help everyone move smoothly through their rotations, and I may have some shortish conferences for a few standout cases, but I am not sitting in the typical English teacher spot, talking to parents about their children's writing and reading and homework. Wow, that is actually kind of a big deal. I wonder if I will miss it, or if it will be a relief?

The antibacterial soap at school hurts my finger tips.

Yesterday was the kind of day at school that had me thinking biggish thoughts by 6 p.m. The kinds of biggish thoughts that kept me from my morning intention of going to see that Keats movie. The kinds of biggish thoughts that one thinks when one is considering one's life span and what matters most to one in that span.

Can you tell it was a tough day?

Student meltdown, parent meltdown, colleague critiques.

I read yesterday that problems are good, that problems are what make this all so interesting. I'm trying to shift my framework to that way of thinking to see if it will help me.

There is probably some Buddhist wisdom that would also help me right here, right now, but I can't remember it.

I almost spilled the beans today in my creative writing class and told my students about this blog.

It's not that it's a secret, really, but I just prefer not to share it with my students. Or their parents. Nothing personal.

It's the first week back in school, and I quaintly amused by how wiped out I am feeling right now. I'm not even teaching, really. Just doing the dean work is cooking my poor little brain. It got very used to being on vacation.

Poor, poor, pitiful me.

Does anyone remember that doll called Pitiful Pearl? My mom used to say I was acting like her. Lots. I was very sensitive as a child. Still am, in fact.

 

C prepares her vehicle with the help of incredibly generous friends and a few hangers-on.

 

This is what happens when the Bartletts and the Funks and the Martins, or at least most of them, get together at a perfect little cafe in LaConner, Washington. This happens once a year or so. It has become very important to me.

I am glocky inside. That means mixed up, confrabulated. Ill-at-ease, a touch anxious, somewhat jittery. Not the full-on panic attack, but just the icky, commonly-found-on-Sunday-afternoon gloobiness that is not uncommon to my experience.

We went to see District 9 last night, and that was a mistake. Way too much creepy creature design and violence and the meanness of man versus alien. Again. Like watching a video game come to life. I don't really play video games. I know about them because of my son, but I'm not into them.

And then there are these fires that are burning just to the north of us. Yes, it's fire season in Southern California. Yes, the fires are horrible and they threaten friends of ours who live in the mountains. But we are not directly affected by their potential devastation. I mean, it hurts to breathe in lots of smoke, but we are far away from the flames. And all I do is worry about my friends who live up there. I offer to take them in, but they have other resources, and it appears that their houses are all going to be okay.

But the awareness of the danger and the high temperatures and the deeper meaning of global warming and pollution and air quality and living this far south are not lost on me. It all makes me want to move back to the depressed, moldy, often-dismal Pacific Northwest.

What would I do if I lived in Portland or Washington state? I'd have to find a job, and it wouldn't be easy, that's for sure.

Maybe I could open up that bait shop I've been dreaming about.

Or start my own school. Now there's an idea: Miss Lisa's School for Wayward Youths. But I don't want to deal with wayward youths. Wah.

Glorby. That's how I'm feeling.

There is a lot to be said for taking care of your own house. We had a busy and expensive summer making repairs and painting and winnowing just a little bit. Now it is the end of August, pretty much, and we can relax a bit and enjoy some of the fruits of our labors.

Well, the labors of the guys I paid to do the actual work. And for that I owe quite a bit to Angie's List. Or at least the yearly fee.

It seems that if there is any "extra" money at all, it goes to either travel or house fixing. We haven't really traveled anywhere outside of our relatives' homes in the Northwest for many years. Nothing exotic at all, and I think there is a sense that if we don't do it sometime, it may get to be too late. At least that's the feeling one gets when one watches older relatives who have absolutely no interest in traveling whatsoever. My mom cannot fathom coming down here anymore, and that's probably reasonable. My father-in-law also wants to stay home where he feels safe.

But I have am really aware of how little traveled I am, especially when it comes to Europe. I've been to Japan and Korea because of my husband's work, but I've never been to Paris. I need to go before I become too decrepit.

In the meantime, thank goodness for effective air conditioning.

We are in LaConner, Washington, to have a weekend of memorializing my husband's mom, who died last summer.

Although I have often felt like a friendly interloper here, none of that seems very important anymore. For the most part. The responsibility for the care of the patriarch does not fall to me, but there is something in the guiding of the next generation that is part of my unspoken expectation. I have two more members of the clan in my personal fold, having brought them, with the help of their dad, to add to this offshoot of the family tree. They carry parts of Kay and Glen and all the rest in the way they smile, the quickness with which they get their feelings hurt, and the sense of belonging to this collection of personalities in the Pacific Northwest.

And here's a bonus: one of my college roommates from 1977 is also here with her family, coincidentally staying in the hotel room across the hall from us! We were able to catch up a little last night at the LaConner Brewpub, and then she came back to our hotel room to play a few songs on my husband's guitar and give our kids pointers on playing. (Use a metronome and learn to tune your guitar well.) So cool. She has a new CD coming out in September called "Water Witch." Maybe I can post a snippet of a song here then.

Saw Julie/Julia this afternoon at the Vista Theatre in Los Feliz. My esteem and admiration for Meryl Streep grows. She is so incredibly watchable, so compelling. She makes it look so easy.

Of course seeing the movie also made me want to reacquaint myself with my kitchen. I can get so lazy and uninterested in trying very hard with the cooking. Sigh.

I just read Tom Davis's memoir called Thirty-Nine Years of Short-Term Memory Loss. It's about his beginnings as a comedy writer and performer with Al Franken, he of Minnesota senate fame. It's fascinating not only to read the details of their work on Saturday Night Live when it was a brand new show, but also to note Davis's very detached, minimalist approach to these historic events and the people he worked with.

It's also amazing to consider that Davis had the success he had considering all the drugs he ingested.

I was not ever a Deadhead in any fashion, but I am now curious about Jerry Garcia and what he meant to a ton of people my age. I need to listen to some GD highlights to refresh my perspective.

It was also very interesting to read about Davis's feelings of professional jealousy and competition with all the other writers and producers, and Franken, too. I was a fan of Franken's in particular for many years; it is illuminating to read the story of the guy who was there alongside him for much of his comedy career.

Oh, I'm going to go on record here as predicting that Al Franken and Arnold Schwarzenegger will vie for the presidency within the next 15 years.

It is summer and so I am cleaning out closets. Today I went through my son's stash of old papers from high school, including a lot of assignments and brush writing from his Japanese language and culture class.

I found the inflatable mattress. I wondered where that had gone.

I found a couple of games still wrapped in plastic underneath dusty boxes including Monopoly-Star Wars Version and Scattergories and Mastermind. These were last-minute Christmas purchases that I thought were necessary to ensure an appearance of unconditional abundance. There was a long period of time when I wanted the kids to wake up to a tree enveloped by gaily wrapped presents, a veritable landslide of orgiastic consumerism. Where did this come from, I wonder?

I found a nativity scene that Grandma Kay sent down for Mathias a few years before she died.

I question whether or not to toss a lot of this stuff, or donate it to the Disabled Veterans down on Sonora. I wonder if I am throwing away some aspect of my son's childhood that he will someday want to see and, when he asks me where his origami projects are, I'll have to admit that I threw them away when he was off at college.

I just cannot see the good in holding on to these artifacts. I can't see the good in holding on to my own flotsam, either. Some of it is quaint, but most of it is frankly pretty boring. Certainly there can be no need to retain merely adequate essays, right? I read through them and do not see gems. The work sheets are easy to toss. The original artwork and personal stories do go into a big portfolio, and he can do with that what he wants.

I'm at a point, and I've been here for quite a few years, where the weight of the things around me drags me down, makes me feel ineffective and depressed. I save unused envelopes and small journals and greeting cards and scores of pens and pencils, believing that one day I will find the perfect use for whatever it is and all will be balanced and right with the universe.

But many years have gone by and I have accumulated boxes of stuff. Some of it is cute and some is utilitarian, but having it around me has not enriched my life or helped me do anything very differently or better or in a more interesting fashion.

So it's time to let go. Give away, clean up, pare down. Keep the few essential items and of course the books that I really do want to read (but not all the godforsaken teaching books!). No one else around here wants to face the hard decisions so it has to be me. I have to be the brave pioneer woman who takes the heirloom pump organ and sets it resolutely by the side of the wagon train rut.

I will tie my bonnet anew, set my mostly Norwegian jaw, and forge forward to a less cluttered future.

I was looking for a good photo to post here that would illustrate clutter artistically, and I ran across a line from a hoarding article that said that clutter is obesity of the home. Yikes.

Note: I will not give away Grandma Kay's nativity scene!

Facebook has me by the neurons these days, and it is not a good thing.

Yesterday I had plans to put my house in order, as we have done a bunch of interior painting and all my office stuff is in stacks throughout the house. I do not like to be disorganized. It makes me feel bad. And I need to get rid of 75 percent or so of the flotsam and jetsam that surrounds all of us in this little house.

That would include a fair amount of books I've purchased from Amazon and Powell's online, all intended to help me be a better teacher and administrator. Some of them are good, and many are repetitive and unimaginative. But I need to pass them on to the next anxious mid-life career changer (there are lots of us out there).

Plus I have two kids, one of whom is in college and the other who is heading off in that direction in a period of time. They both have a bunch of childhood odds and ends taking up space and those things need to be carted off for others to use and enjoy. I am having a tough time getting my daughter to let go of her books, though. I didn't realize she loved Dr. Seuss that much...

Anyway, I got on Facebook, which is the best way for me to communicate with my son and to see how he is communicating with others. And I looked up two or three hours later and saw that I had been bouncing all over FB and the various links to silly YouTube videos, checking out people's summer photos and trip descriptions, seeing who is friends with whom, etc.

I am only playing two Scrabble games and get easily frustrated on the other word games, so I didn't mess around there too much. But still. I've got to cut it out.

Self-discipline is not a strong suit for me. Will it ever be? I don't know. And today is Saturday, and school doesn't start officially for another some weeks... Time to relax!

Gosh, it's nice when friends leave comments. Thank you, friends!

I made a troubling discovery this last week.

As a middle school teacher/dean, I get invited to a thin trickle of bar and bat mitzvahs every year. I have preferred to give books I have loved as gifts, rather than money. It seems fitting, and the stories I've chosen are ones I truly have enjoyed.

For boys, I have given My Name is Asher Lev by Chaim Potok. And for girls, I have given one of my favorite gothic novels, Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Bronte.

So I went to a ceremony this last weekend and was thumbing through Jane Eyre when I caught sight of a distinctly anti-Semitic remark toward the end of the book when Jane is arguing with Rochester about something having to do with her ability to take care of herself financially.

I was so surprised, not having remembered this exchange at all in the various times I've read or taught the book. But it totally wrecks my little plan of what I had considered my perfect teacher-gift for the bat mitzvah. Oy.

Now I have to find another great title about a plucky lass who overcomes great odds to find happiness. I've been considering A Little Princess despite the idea that most girls read it when they're eight, and that it ends with Sarah Crewe being rescued by a rich old man.

I'm on the hunt. All tips gladly taken!

I watched "My Dog Skip" the other night because it was on HBO and Cam had told me way back when that it was a good movie to watch with the kids.

Plus it has Frankie Muniz in it, which is good, but even better is Kevin Bacon as his father. I don't know what it is about Kevin Bacon, but I am compelled to watch him in every movie he's ever made. I think he is a very skilled actor. I am a fan.

Plus it also had Diane Lane in it, and she was good in "Lonesome Dove," which is a book I think I might enjoy reading again, and it also had Owen Wilson in it, and gosh, he is cute too. Who else... Oh yeah, Clint Howard. Got to watch Clint whenever he's on screen. Cannot not think of "Gentle Ben" when I see him. I guess that's the price you pay for childhood stardom. Ron will always, always be Opie.

Anyway, the Skip movie has this really cute Jack Russell terrier in it and a bad guy whacks the dog with a shovel at one point, and you're not quite sure if the dog is going to die on the operating table or not. I won't wreck the ending for all of my blog devotees who haven't yet seen the movie, but suffice it to say that "My Dog Skip" is a certified tear-jerker.

I need to see something not sentimental right now, but not the new Transformers movie, either. I need a good Western. Something with my other all-time fave, Jeff Bridges. We watched "Bad Company" last week and enjoyed that quite a bit.

It's 11:35 p.m. and there's a mockingbird outside tonight that is chirping away for all its worth. [Question: when you say "For all its worth," are you saying for all that it is worth? Or all of its worth as in the possessive use of its? I do not know right this second.]

But what gives with these crazy night-time songfests? It actually makes me feel slightly crazy.

So this is where my mind goes when school is out for the summer. It has been very nice to get my office organized the past few weeks, to weed out the extra paper and put things in their proper places (Wendy would be proud, I think). I still have a lot to put away, and I want to be intelligent about my groupings. I guess I need a drawer for Students, past and present, and then Procedural Things, and then some space for my heirloom lesson plans (just in case).

I did discover a cache of Post-it Notes, and that made me happy. Shiny and wrapped in cellophane, the whole deal. I really do have a nice little office. It's kinda cool. Plus I also really like my co-workers, my "colleges," as Scott used to say. Corny but made me smile each time.

"Hello, colleges," he'd say as he entered the room. I don't know if anyone else was charmed by that.

Once again I am grateful for the existence of my little school. And Kevin Bacon.

Tonight we had a dinner for three very dear friends who are leaving this region, our neighborhood, the whole flippin' state. It is time for them to move on to other, newer places and pursuits. We've known these three for about 20 years, give or take a few, and have been through some major California headlines with them (most notably the Rodney King riots) and many minor but meaningful events.

People do move on. People do decide to strike out for parts unknown all the time. I am excited and nervous for them, and not a little envious. I've daydreamed about getting an Airstream and packing up some books and a bowl and a toothbrush and taking off for der hinterlands. Maybe I'll do it yet.

Went to the Greek Theater last night to listen to Emmylou Harris, Shawn Colvin, Patty Griffin, and another excellent guitarist/singer who were all wonderful (Buddy Miles). Except it made me want to listen to Shawn Colvin even more. I love her voice.

School is deadly quiet. Which is the way it should be in June. But it's hard to work when there's no one around and the deadlines are so far away. I feel like Sarah Crewe in A Little Princess as she returns to her garret each night and befriends a cute mouse she names Melchesedic. Or something like that. There is a small mouse somewhere in the middle school. I choose to think of it as a cute, fuzzy little creature who is also alone and forlorn in this cold, cruel world. I choose not to think of it as a hulking, mean-eyed rat with no concern for where he/she leaves his/her droppings.

Melchesedic. I think that's how I remember it. I loved that book, especially with the Tasha Tudor drawings. I so identified with Sarah! Which is slightly weird since I didn't go through anything like she did in that book. Which is the genius of the author, whose name I cannot remember right now.

I always thought I was a bit of a slacker when it came to reading, because I had these siblings who read constantly, and read very dense, demanding work (compared to A Little Princess). But now that I think about it, I really read quite a bit, and I got so much enjoyment from most of the books I read. It saddens me that time for reading is growing less and less in this world.

That having been said, I'm going to go get a book called The Last Child in the Woods or something like that, about how kids today are nature-deficient. Too much time is spent staring at glowing rectangles and not enough time is spent mucking around in the dirt and bumping into trees and seeing cool leaves and listening to birds, etc. (Although the flipping mockingbirds in this neighborhood are really beginning to annoy me each night at 1 a.m.).

I am not actually squeamish about worms. I'm squeamish about sticking fish hooks into them while they are wriggling. That seems wrong and cruel. Which it is.

But if it's wrong and cruel to kill helpless beings, it's also wrong and cruel to pay someone else to kill them so I can eat them. But I am not a vegetarian. It is a quandary, an ethical issue that I generally ignore about every day.

I have a whole bunch of conflicting social events that are bunched up this weekend and next. Plus I am nagged by the need to go see my aged mamaw. Plus the practical thought that summer is the best time for me to take care of stuff around this cluttered little house.

Happy Father's Day, Dad. He was not much into Father's Day, or Christmas, or birthdays. He did like Thanksgiving, I think. I once gave him a tie pin of a tiny fork and knife crossed over each other. I thought it was so funny and cute. This is just one example of my poor taste in gift-giving. I even buy things for myself that I never wear. My style is something strange and unbidden; certainly it's uncultivated.

Some people say they don't know much, but they know what they don't like. I don't even know that half the time.

Maybe I just don't care.

Frazz in the comics today was about Vonnegut on a summer reading list. That made me happy. Vonnegut was kind of crazy and so was my dad.

Ahhh. Breathe in, breathe out. Smell the June. See the things around you. Listen. Touch. The electrical storm in your brain is sputtering its last. Suddenly you can be aware. Before, it wasn't possible. Before, it was at level four.

The train is blowing its horn way down the hill as it cruises through the San Fernando corridor. The birds are tweeting (not Tweeting). I don't know everything about everyone I care about, but I can live with that right now.

There is still regret and nastiness and fear and sorrow, of course, but it isn't swelling like it was, and I can walk the dog.

Walk the dog.

Walk the tortoise. Okay.