We're Not All That Keen On Competing

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is tired tonight, my friends. Tired. Like a marathoner named Jean-Paul trying to awake in time to make it to the starting line.

Tired of trying to fill everybody's coffers with sunshine, lollipops and rainbows. Let the record show that the coffers designated to Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's class came up empty.

Last week a contest was announced. A contest to provide foodstuffs for a dinner being held next week in honor of individuals who served our country. Each teacher's first hour class was challenged to bring in items worth various points. The class with the highest point total per person would win a prize. An unspecified prize.

That was the problem, methinks. My class was not a band of gung-ho youngsters bent on winning for the honor alone. Nope. My class consisted of seasoned veterans in the contest wars.

"What's the prize?"

"How do we know if we want it?"

"It better not be anything crappy."

"What if we don't even want the prize?"

"What do we have to bring?"

"Here. I'll post the list on the bulletin board. Some items, like coffee and bacon, are worth 10 points each. Then there are five-point items, like large cans of pumpkin, or pie shells. And one-point items, like cans of beans, or boxes or bags of stuffing. Take a look at the list. We have from Monday until Friday to bring them in."

So...on Monday I reminded them.

"Oh. Was that this week?"

Tuesday, I reminded them.

"Oh, yeah. I need to bring something."

Wednesday, I reminded them.

"How long do we have?"

Thursday, I reminded them that Friday was the last day.

"You mean tomorrow?"

This morning, I walked into the classroom after the tardy bell and looked around. "I'm just looking for that pile of food that you guys brought in for the contest."

"Wait. That was due TODAY? I thought it was for closer to Thanksgiving."

"Well. The veterans will be eating nothing on Monday evening, so I don't think they're going to care if you bring in food for Thanksgiving."

Yep. My class total was ZERO points per person. The only way it could have been lower was if they brought in food, sat in class and ate it, and then scammed some from another class and ate that, too, leaving an IOU.

The prize is breakfast next Wednesday. Let the record show that the origin of the upcoming breakfast was not revealed. It could be a culinary masterpiece whipped up for the winners by the students of Basementia.

Not that it will matter to my ZERO percenters.

Extremes. Like A Black And White Cookie. And We Know How THAT Ended.

Feast or famine. Flood or drought. There is no predicting the winds of adolescence.

Only yesterday, I had to chain my textbooks to the desk like a pen on a bank counter. And today, they were abandoned like extra kittens on a rural road.

Pardon me if I am not my loquacious self tonight. I am still reeling from the shock I experienced this afternoon. Get the smelling salts! I feel faint.

After all these years of learning the ropes and righting the ship, today I felt like the U.S.S. Minnow. Right now I am burying my feet in the sand, soon to be followed by my head, here on Hillbilly Mom Island. I don't know if I will ever show my face again in civilization. For today, I suffered the ultimate insult. I was addressed as

"HEY BUD! WHAT'S UP?"

My face blazes red as flowing lava on a Kilauea slope at dusk at the mere thought of this affront. Like Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II should not be touched...neither should Mrs. Hillbilly Mom be addressed as HEY BUD.

Seriously. A kid left his book inside his desk. I am not a book harvester, nor do I store them for the long winter ahead. I am a booklender. I lend. You keep. Until I want them back. My classroom is not a storage facility. Nor do I make like UPS and deliver to your door. I do, however, note the book number on that paper orphan, and call the authorities. In this case, the teacher you have that hour, and request your presence so you can be reunited with your textbook. I am certain that your teacher informed you of the reason for your invitation. So there is no reason to make a grand entrance and say (SHUDDER) to Mrs. Hillbilly Mom,

"HEY BUD! WHAT'S UP?'

From there it went a little something like this:

"Are you talking to ME?"

"Um. No. I was asking the class."

"There is your book. Go get it and get out. Don't leave it again." To which the Book Abandoner strutted across the front of the room and began molesting his desk, reaching his hand inside like he was an animal husbandryman checking a heifer for pregnancy.

"What are you doing? Your book is right there, where I told you it was. Don't you know how to listen, BUD?"

"Oh."

Upon the exit of the BA, I returned to handing papers back to my class. "Sorry if you found that act amusing. I, myself, did not."

Let the record show that this group was not a receptive audience to that clown. It's the A and B group, with only one C, the lowest grade, on that roster.

You can rest assured that BA BUD will be escorted to my classroom during his 22-minute lunch hour the next time he leaves his book. Let's see how that act goes over with an audience of one.

Like Jackals On A Wildebeest, OR, A Textbook Ain’t Safe In A Room Full Of Freshmen

A curious thing happened on the way to my hall duty. Or on the way back. You’d think I could figure it out. That’s only a four-minute time span. But Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has grown complacent after all these years at the helm of the tight ship she runs. She believes in the sanctity of textbook checkout. That one student, one textbook is the rallying call of Newmentia pupils under her jurisdiction. Nobody would want two of those heavy awkward tomes to haul back and forth from locker to classroom. No sirree, Bob! One is enough. And enough is as good as a feast. But apparently, we have a glutton in our midst.

Let’s back this story up like that much-despised Seinfeld episode where the gang goes to a wedding in India.

Just minutes before my hallway duty jaunt, I told a kid to leave his book on the back desk against the wall so I could have the librarian fix it. Not fix, as in a very special operation so it doesn’t have a litter of baby textbooks for me to give away out front of The Devil’s Playground. Fix, as in glue the wordy guts to the cardboard cover so it doesn’t fall out every time the book is picked up. I planned to send a pupil from the next class down to the library with it, since time was running out.

After the tardy bell, I returned to the classroom and walked back to pick up graded assignments from the previous day to hand back.

THE BROKEN BOOK WAS MISSING!

Right there, beside the graded-paper rack, where that book should have been on the back desk…IT WAS NOT! That textbook had been spirited away like the Lindbergh baby, except in the light of day, and with no need for a ladder. Fortunately, this booknapping had a happier ending.

I made small talk, passing back the graded papers that I always arrange so all I have to do is hand a stack to the end pupil, who takes his off the top and passes the rest of the stack down the row. All the while, I had my eye out for that missing textbook, #11-2. My book numbers are not only written inside the flap, but in numbers two inches high on the closed pages at the bottom edge of the book. I spotted it almost immediately.

“Lifty? Is that your book?”

“Um. No. I forgot my book. So I borrowed one. Can I use it today?”

“No. Put it back. This is how books get lost. You don’t just come in here and pick up whatever you want that might be laying around the room. Now you have incurred my wrath.”

Let the record show that about half the class turned to look at me as if I had two heads. It’s not like I was spitting brimstone. I wasn’t even mad. Just making a point. I guess kids these days don’t have a sense of humor. Or need to pay to increase their word power.

One would have thought a textbook would be safe for a few minutes. Four, to be exact. Even an old couch with a FREE sign, set out beside the curb in a college town  lasts longer than that.

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom’s textbooks. In greater demand than old couches in college towns.

When is a Door Not a Door? When It’s a Festering Thorn in Mrs. Hillbilly Mom’s Side!

Sorry if you were looking for a jokey riddle. That's the best I've got.

Let’s see what’s stuck in Mrs. Hillbilly Mom’s craw today. The thorn that has been festering in her side for quite some time now. Yes, it is OH SO UNCHARACTERISTIC of Mrs. HM to complain, but humor her just this one time, ‘kay?

I am concerned about safety. Safety in the workplace. Safety in MY workplace. Safety in the Newmentia workplace, specifically. Seems like you can’t turn around without bumping into a safety consultant or inspector these days. They maraud through the kitchen, making sure nobody is pouring bleach into rotten chicken before serving it to the pupils. (Don’t think that’s far-fetched. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom used to work at the unemployment office, you know, and could tell tales that would curl your duodenum. Not tales out school, but tales out of grocery stores.)

What we’re talking about here is safety in the educational workplace. Like the school district that took out swings on the playground, because too many kids got hurt on that equipment. Criminy! Before long they’ll be taking legs off the kids, because they fall down and get hurt while they’re running.

Years ago, we had an inspector tell me that my fragile, empty, lighter-than-balsa-wood bookcase should be attached to the wall, because it might fall over and hurt a child. I resisted the urge to tell him that a monkey might jump out my butt, too, which is a saying that Farmer H is fond of and uses every chance he gets, but I passed the info on to people who have drills and screws and ways to attach a lighter-than-balsa-wood empty bookcase to a concrete-block wall. The bookcase remains unrestrained, as does the TV on top of a metal library cart. But I’m not worried about the New Madrid Fault shaking us to our senses.

The festering thorn in my side for three or four years now is a closet door. It’s two doors down from me, if you count the door to the supply closet that houses the revered microfiche machine, and the doorless door to the boys’ bathroom that must house a rollicking party third lunch shift, from the noises that emanate from within. The offending door covers the entrance to the custodian’s closet. Or it should.

Therein lies the problem. That door is left open. Not open, ajar. Open, gaping. Oh, it doesn’t resist the latch. This door is propped open within an inch of its life, using an industrial grade doorstop four inches wide. This would not even be such a festering wound in Mrs. HM’s hide if the door opened inward, or flat against the hall wall. Which it does neither. The door has one of those metal thingies mounted at the top to pull that door closed automatically. Huh. You’d think there’s a reason for that, wouldn’t you?

I am not so worried about pupils sneaking in to liberate cleaning supplies or lift caustic chemicals for use in shenanigans. Surely that cannot be half as dangerous as a lighter-than-balsa-wood bookcase spontaneously toppling onto a frail high-schooler. No, I am worried about that door blocking my line of vision.

How can I supervise the hallway from my post past the office down the hall to the next set of double doors where the next sentry should be posted, when I cannot see more than two doors down? Not to mention the awkwardness this poses for pupils passing by in the hallway. They must go out and around this obstacle, which takes up a good one-third width of the hall.

There. That’s a relief for Mrs. Hillbilly Mom to get that festering thorn out of her side and off of her chest.

There are none so blind as those who pretend to be safety-conscious regulation-followers and don’t even want to see.

I Daresay The Widget Factory Would Be Warmer

Sweet Gummi Mary! The hallowed halls of Newmentia were exceptionally frigid this morning. And we were an hour later getting there!

My classroom was 65 degrees! That is not acceptable, even for the preservation of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's decomposing carcass. My hands did not warm up until after lunch, when I put them in my pockets and leaned over to sandwich them between layers of my blubber. I will be wearing a puffy coat all winter if this travesty of facility policy continues. I hope none of the students set up a wine display. Not with me only having a hundred dollar bill, and no newsstand to break it by buying gum, a Clark bar, a newspaper, and a Penthouse Forum.

I did make sure my thermostat was on HEAT. We're not supposed to touch them, you know. But I clicked it through from HEAT COLD OFF a couple of times. Then I hit the up arrow twice. We're supposedly able to increase the HOLD temperature by two degrees. Even though the standard setting in all rooms is 68. The system kicks down to a night program at 3:30, I think. And comes back to the day program at 7:30 a.m.

This is no way to run a business. Those kids don't have enough fat to burn for warmth, what with the paltry and barely palatable school lunches these days. Today they ate haystacks. No wonder many had a tummy ache this afternoon.

Oh, for the days of the old steam radiator in the classroom, right under those large, single-pane windows with the wooden dividers coated with flaking lead paint, when the only meal served was lunch, and milk was whole, white only.

We were a hardier lot.

I Hope I Can Weather This Adolescent Storm

Hillmomba dipped below freezing last night. The front field was covered with frost when I twisted open the mini blinds at the front window. About half of it had melted by the time The Pony and I left to do our shopping at 9:00 a.m.

As T-Hoe cruised down the gravel road, we passed the smattering of white feathers which were the only remains of a dear departed chicken dispatched by the Pumpus Hounds who stream from the house across the road when we are away from the Mansion. I will call them the Pumpus Hounds, because they are beggin' to be pumped full of paintballs every time they are seen stalking our fine feathered friends. Let the record show that our chickens are the odd ducks who never try to cross the road. The hounds come and get them.

Further down the road, white as well, but vertical rather than horizontal like the feathers, was a fine display of hoarfrost. I always think it's a bunch of trashy Devil's Playground bags blown up against the weeds, until the sparkles give it away. So beautiful to have such a common name.

"Hey! Pony. Look!"

"I know."

"Say its name!"

"I know it is called hoarfrost. Not W H O R E frost. H O A R frost."

"Well. You could have simply spelled the correct name. You didn't have to spell the OTHER name."

"I know."

"I wonder why some of them are so wide, and others are just slim strands."

"Um. SPIDERWEBS!"

"Ick. I was going to ask you to get out and break off a twig and let me touch it. Now...I don't think so. You kind of ruined that plan. I don't want to touch spiderwebs."

"Oh well."

That Pony. He's really getting to be a handful.

0 Days Without A Workplace Accident

Oh, dear. I fear that I have suffered a workplace injury. Quick! Call the whahhhbulance! And possibly worker's comp.

It happened only yesterday, when Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was scanning the halls for ne'er-do-wells between classes. Even though this year the ne'er-do-wells are doing their ne'er-well business inside her classroom as she is stationed outside. Mrs. HM needs a neck that swivels like an owl's to keep track of that crowd. But she's been doing it. Successfully. No neck injury in 23 days. Okay. I made that up. But it's been a while since my neck was my major complaint.

I walked back into the classroom, to the back wall, where I grabbed give-back papers. No sooner had I started to the front corner to pass them out (because Mrs. HM is one organized ol' gal) alphabetically across the rows than my phone rang. You remember my phone, don't you? The one on the back table in my command center, in the corner opposite the door? So I hoofed it back there toot-sweet, only to have it stop ringing as I plopped my ample butt onto my rolly chair in order to reach it without doing a twisty-bendy thing with my back.

Let the record show that my rolly chair is as cantankerous as a rodeo bronc with a cocklebur jammed up underneath his hang-on strap. He was made for carpet, and has made no bones about his displeasure sitting on industrial tile for these last five years, supporting Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. In general, he will not roll forward as I try to scoot toward my laptop to peer at the screen with my squinty eyes and bad glasses. He will, however, glide back as I'm sitting there minding my own business, moving only the muscle in my forehead that raises my left eyebrow to give a student the stinkeye. No matter how I spin that chair, I can't get his plastic-fendered wheels to line up so they will glide forward, hold in place, and take a bit of pushin' to go backwards.

I sat down and turned my rolly chair on his pedestal to face the phone so I could pick up the receiver and call the office to see why they insist on calling me between bells or immediately thereafter, when I am clearly in the hall supervising the masses, as is expected as an "other duty as needed" in my contract ask if they needed something. The moment I sat down and turned, Rolly decided to exhibit what a smooth operator he is, and took that little bit of sideward momentum as I sat to GLIDE like the glidingest glider who ever glided, slamming my inner knee area where all the fat cells congregate smack dab into the corner of the under-desk opening. You know that opening. The one where a kid sometimes tries to hide and jump out and scare a teacher, forgetting that the desk, like a bathroom stall, does not go all the way to the floor, and his feet are clearly visible to the teacher walking towards her desk back.

Now I have an eggy knot that is sure to turn purple, courtesy of Rolly and my against-its-will thinned blood.

Is the whahhhmbulance here yet?