It's Common Courtesy, Really

Hear ye, hear ye! The end is nigh! The line for the handbaskets forms HERE.

I fear it my be too late to save everybody once I get my proposed handbasket factory up and running. Every day, another sign rears its ugly head falls off the wall. Let me illustrate the sad state of Newmentia, Hillmomba, The World.

We are required to post emergency procedures in our classrooms. Some wizard took the 11 x 17 signs and laminated them. All shiny and pretty as long as they stay on the wall. I have spent around $301.59 on those clear square sticky things to hold up my posters. They stay for a while. Then they start feeling their oats, or the draft from the air conditioner and its best friend gravity, and fling themselves off the wall with abandon like an Acapulco cliff diver. The Pony and I slap them back up in the morning. Sometimes they stay for weeks. Sometimes not.

Today my class was taking their benchmark test for first quarter when one of the safety procedure posters sprang off the white-painted concrete-block wall. In all my years of teaching, whenever something like that happens, a kid gets up and picks up the item and brings it to me, or tries to put it back, or asks what he should do with it. Without fail. Kids are little do-gooders at heart.

Until now.

That poster fell to the floor, and the whole front row and part of the second turned to look at me. Seriously. A look that I construed as, "Woman, you need to get up here and pick this up off the floor!" Yeah. That was the tone of their ogling. I found it a bit shocking. The entitlement. The too-good-to-help-out-old-Mrs.-Hillbilly-Mom-ness of it all. AND, a few weeks back, a kid dropped her pencil as I walked across the front of the room passing out papers, and looked at me like I should pick it up! Which I did. Because Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's mom raised her right. BUT that's not all! Sweet Alabama Beige, one of our mathies, reported that yesterday a kid called her over to ask a questions, then said, "Will you pick up my pencil for me?" THAT was his question!

SWEET GUMMI MARY!

This is truly the end of civilization as we know it. I don't expect kids to wait on me hand and foot. I have no objection to picking up my own poster when it falls off the wall. But when they are sitting right there within two feet of it, and it's on the floor right inside the door, like a welcome mat foretelling tornado doom, and I am in the opposite corner of the room, grading tests...you'd think a person could make a rational decision.

I took my own sweet time. After all, that poster wasn't going anywhere. I was in the middle of something. I certainly did not want to present my backside to the help-less. So when it was almost time for the bell, I set aside my test stack and went to prop open the door with my illicit doorstop. That way I could point my behind out into the hall while prying that poster, which of course fell sticky side down, from the tile, where it gripped like a toddler on his mother's skirt on the first day of preschool.

Farmer H needs to find me some concrete contractors to get this proposed handbasket factory off the ground.

This Gravy Train Has Left The Station

I did it. I finally went and did it. Something I have not done for two years.

I REMOVED THE GERM-X FROM STUDENT USAGE.

Sure, I only did it for two classes. But when kids can't responsible cleanse themselves, it's gotta go. First there was the class where a kid on the corner by the Germ-X station, where there is usually a kerfuffle going on with him kind of smack-dab in the middle, told me, "Watch your step, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. I wouldn't want you to take a fall. It's kind of slimy over here. Let me get a tissue and clean that up." Which was really nice of him, cleaning up the mess, even though he's not the main Germ-X spreader. But still...his cronies brought the taking of the Germ-X from the whole class.

The very next hour, the kids were taking dripping handfuls again. So I stalked right across the front of the room, grabbed that giant vat of Germ-X, that, I might add, I purchase with my very own hard-earned cash, and continued down the side to my desk. I plopped that barrel of Germ-X in the windowsill behind my desk.

"What? Now we can't use the Germ-X?" asked a slinger I had just moved from his seat up front to the back nearer to me.

"That's right. You're not responsible enough to clean yourselves without making a mess. So it's going to stay there for a while. Not for everyone, of course. But for your class, and one other."

"But you can't do that! Stuff is going around! We'll get the Ebola!"

"Too bad, so sad. You'll have to be extra careful."

"What?"

"Bring your own Germ-X if you want. I'm not letting you play with mine for a while."

Let the record show that they still have Puffs With Lotion privileges. And only a handful of flingers seem all that concerned about the spread of germs each day.

Sweet Gummi Mary! Don't Do As We Do.

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has an issue.

I know. Stop the presses! How uncharacteristic of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom to have an issue! So unlike her to seek the grease by squeaking her wheel. But something must be said.

A funny thing happened on the way to the biscuits-and-gravy line Saturday morning. Gimping my blood-thinned knees up the hall as fast as humanly possible, so the gravy didn't harden, some might say, before I got my share...I glanced over at the teacher workroom. It would be of no concern to me on a Saturday of biscuit-and-gravy gorging, except for the fact that the faculty restrooms are inside. Surely you don't think Mrs. Hillbilly Mom would use the regular restrooms with the commoners, do you?

So I looked into the teacher workroom, and saw six young ladies sitting at the table. The table smack dab in the middle of the room, where some teachers spend their 22-minute lunch periods during the work week. Right in between the in-school suspension cubby, and the teacher mail cubbies. As my outrage was wafting off my countenance like stink off a road skunk, the aroma of hot wings tickled my flared nostrils.

THE TEACHER WORKROOM WAS BEING USED AS A HOSPITALITY ROOM!

Indeed. The hospitality room for the all-day volleyball tournament was our very own teacher workroom. Which kind of negates all the folderol and rigamarole of the confidentiality workshop we must endure each year at the back-to-school in-service. Where they emphasize the absolute importance of confidentiality in the workplace. How you can't hang student work with full names showing. How you must lock your computer or log out when you get up from your desk. How you can't leave papers on top showing student grades. How students in special programs must not be revealed. How IEPs should be under lock and key, and signed out by anyone with authorization who asks to look at them.

Yeah. And lists and forms and discipline referrals could be languishing in that workroom, right under the noses of students from Newmentia, and coaches and officials from other school districts.

Way to go. Time to start thinking of matching up actions with words.

The Trees, They Are A-Changin' In Hillmomba

Autumn Greetings from The Hillbilly Family

The Pony took this phone photo for me Thursday. He was really supposed to be feeding the goats and chickens and guineas and turkey and mini-pony, and filling their water tubs. But he took it upon himself to walk way over past the petting zoo, past Farmer H's freight containers which he plans to connect with a roof and make a big ol' storage shed for the extra cars and four-wheelers and assorted tooly junk, to get this shot of the trees I commented on while coming up the gravel road.



This is a little fence-row kind of strip, without a fence, that divides our original ten acres from the ten we bought from the Land-Stealer who used to live across the road from us. The guy who knew the people who owned this land we had been trying to buy for several years. We had been refused by the old lady. Then he wangled a deal and offered it to us at a mark-up. Of course Farmer H bit like a large-mouth bass after a blue-eared sunfish. Now it's ours, free and clear, to junk up as Farmer H sees fit.

Oh, and to the very left runs the gravel road, the section where we found the road-arm a while back.

Like sands through the hourglass, like a towering bowl of soup through Farmer H...these are the days of my life.

CUSsed If You Do, CUSsed If You Don't

Once again, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is persona non grata around the old schoolhouse. Some of you might wonder how you missed that sliver of time when she WASN’T. I guess you blinked. So, what has Mrs. HM done now to earn the disapproving looks of her co-workers? Same stuff, different day.

On my way to duty this morning, I dropped by the office to—wait a minute. Let’s not be hasty. Let’s not put the cart before the horse, the beans above the frank.

This morning when I entered my classroom, the stench of yesterday’s hot steaming bowl of BO still saturated the atmosphere. There was the bowl, sitting on top of the trash. My room had not been cleaned. A few folded-up fragments of paper littered the gray-speckled white industrial tile. Since I had thirty minutes of duty fast-approaching, I had limited time to clean up before my pupils entered. I tied up that black trash bag and hauled it down the hall to one of the big gray industrial trash cans in the cafeteria.

I stopped by the office and stuck my head in. “I hate to be the squeaky wheel, but my room didn’t get cleaned last night. This is the second time. I don’t need a scrubbing, just the trash emptied and the floor swept.” The man in charge nodded. His helper looked at me like I’d just said that I was having a hot steaming bowl of BO for lunch. “The custodian must have just forgot.”

Let’s get this straight. If I didn’t mention this fact, my room would continue its unclean ways every couple of weeks. How is anybody to know if I don’t report it? Am I supposed to assume those duties as one of the ‘other responsibilities as needed’ from my contract?

Why am I the bad guy? It’s not like I stormed in there and threw the trash on the desk and demanded, “Off with that custodian’s head!” No. I simply provided information. Perchance to resolve the situation. I did not withhold the facts until the semi-sometimes-annual custodial evaluation form was put in my mailbox, then give low marks for the cleanliness of my room on assorted days. I was doing NewCus a favor, actually, because NewCus is scarcer than hen’s teeth, and I cannot mention it face to face without another face.

And the thanks Mrs. Hillbilly Mom gets for this good deed? That comment of, “Oh, the custodian must have just forgot.” Perceived by Mrs. HM as, “You hateful cow! How dare you complain that your room wasn’t cleaned! As if everybody should remember to do the job they are paid for every single day they work!”

How would it go over if Mrs. Hillbilly Mom simply forgot to go to her fifth hour class one day every couple of weeks? Huh? What then? Would Mrs. HM get the same excuse? “Oh, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom must have just forgot to teach her fifth hour.” I don’t think so. Would Mrs. HM get a gentle reminder that she is expected to teach ALL of her classes each work day? I don’t think so. Would NewCus be expected to teach Mrs. HM’s fifth hour class on those days she forgets? I don’t think so.

Why must Mrs. Hillbilly Mom be held to a higher standard? THAT is the question. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom refuses to be a Jill-of-Two-Trades.

I Swear, I Was Ready To Toss My Classroom Keys To A Bum On The Street

Hey! Remember the Era of Extremes? It's still in effect!

Today I noticed something was awry during my 7th hour class. The minute I walked in and closed the door behind me, I smelled it. IT. Usually, I don't smell things in my room. I have learned to be a mouth-breather. It comes second nature to me after nigh on 26 years in the classroom. Not continuously, of course. I don't LIVE there, contrary to the beliefs of some students.

Yes, inhaling through one's nose is a no-no for a teacher. You rarely smell anything you WANT to smell. It's not like our schnozzes are insured by Lloyds of London to detect just the right bouquet of eau de parfum. Nope. Our schnozzes are our warning system. Tobacco smoke? WACKY tobacco smoke? Fart spray? REAL fart spray? Yep. We are constantly on duty, like a police pooch on patrol. Except there's no biscuit to nosh on, or tennis ball to chase when we detect contraband. So mostly I tune out, and let the important odors slap me in the face. Yes, I've turned in tokers. Aromas like that shock me into awareness. But I'd rather not go through the day knowing I'm inhaling butt-gas and armpit-effusion. You might say I've steeled myself against it, or developed an immunity. Until today.

When other teachers mention how a certain someone stank up their room to the point of opening windows with the air conditioner on, to lighting a candle and risking the open flame, I pause. "I didn't notice anything out of the ordinary when he was in my room." There are none so olfactorily-blind as Mrs. Hillbilly Mom not wanting to smell.

But today, it hit me like ton of sulfur-and-manure bricks. I walked into the classroom, and BO slapped me across the face like that saucy food in a Tums commercial. Yeah. It was Seinfeld car level BO. I daresay I still smelled like it when the faculty huddled together in front of the trophy case for a newspaper picture after school to mark Newmentia's distinction of being number 3 5 6 or 3 6 5 on the Newsweek Top 500 Schools list. I can't remember the exact number, and that's what The Pony told me.

I didn't say anything to the class. No need to embarrass the little stinker with only one hour left of the school day. I even resisted the desire to whip out the Febreeze and spritz that side of the room. Even the area on the other side, by my control center, stank. That was some potent BO!

At the end of class, as the students were straightening their chairs, a kid from the stink zone walked by my desk carrying a Styrofoam bowl.

"Wait a minute! You know you can't EAT in Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's classroom!"

"Oh…I wasn't eating. I ate it before. In the hall. I'm just throwing the bowl away now."

"You are, huh?" Which is kind of my way of saying that I don't believe for one minute that a kid brings an empty bowl, devoid of food, into my classroom, and sits at his desk with it until time to go home. Nope. Not standard behavior.

At the bell, I had to rush, reeking, for that picture. When I came back, my room still stank. "Do you SMELL that?" I asked Tomato-Squirter, who had followed me back as we tried to ascertain who might have brought the stench.

"I smell SOMETHING. Not sure it's BO. Kind of a foody, garlicky undertone…"

I dismissed her as not knowing what she was talking about. She always complains about her stinkers. Maybe her smeller was on the fritz, the lining having been burned out already, with it not even the end of 1st quarter yet. After she left, and The Pony entered after his Scholar Bowl practice, I asked him if he smelled BO.

"I smell SOMETHING."

The Pony does not go to extremes of any facet. I didn't give his opinion much weight. As I walked by the wastebasket on the way out, I looked at the trash. I had assumed that Styrofoam bowl held Planter's Cheese Balls, or some dry snack handed out by one of the nurturing teachers at the other end of the hall to her own sons, and their sporty friends. But no. This bowl had a glisten to it. And a plastic fork laying askance. Sweet Gummi Mary! The BO smell was very strong near the wastebasket. I leaned over. The smell was coming from that bowl!

I have no idea what that kid ate, but I'll be ding-dang-donged if I'd sit in class and chow down on a bowl of BO with a plastic fork.

If only I had a free air freshener thingy with a fragrance like photography film developer to stick up in my classroom and improve the smell.

Feast Or Famine, Thief Or Jammin'

Sweet Gummi Mary! If it’s not one thing it’s the opposite!

There is no happy medium this year. Just a disgruntled large. It is the Era of Extremes. Only last week, I had four students leave their textbooks behind in my class. My room was jam-packed with abandoned books. That’s a no-no, emphasized from the very first day, that results in loss of free points garnered by merely showing up with leanin’ material, doing what you’re supposed to do, and taking all your accouterments with you as you leave. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.

But no. Apparently Mrs. Hillbilly Mom’s classroom is a locker shared by 110 pupils. Oh, and it’s also a wastebasket, kitchen cabinet, rec room, bedroom, ballroom, and news studio. But we’re not here to discuss the multifaceted identity of Mrs. HM’s classroom today. We’re here to talk about those books.

Do you know how much trouble an abandoned book is? First, it’s there on a desk in the way of another occupier. Second, you have to listen to a myriad of informants. “Hey! There’s a book. I found this book. It belongs to Fred. (Fred has not been around since 20011, try again.) What should I do with it? Here. Here’s a book I found.” Let the record show that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom does NOT want a found book plopped on her own desk. Because, well, WORK goes on at Mrs. HM’s desk, and an extra book is very much in the way.

So…the Great Book Identification Project gets underway. Records are checked to determine the borrower. Schedules are looked up to see what time would be most inconvenient to put in a call for the abandoner to return for his orphan. Lunch time is always a good reminder. Nobody really wants to get up from a delicious tray of cafeteria food and cease cuttin’ up with one’s peers just to traipse down the hall to be saddled with a textbook for the rest of the festive feeding session.

But remember, this is the Era of Extremes. A mere two days after the massive book dump, Mrs. HM returned to her classroom from lunch to find and interloper. Oh, she didn’t have a label that proclaimed INTERLOPER. No. She was walking down the hall, all innocent and stuff, carrying one of Mrs. HM’s textbooks under her arm, oblivious to the fact that her close proximity to Mrs. HM’s door, and the light in that room that was now ON, when it is normally OFF once there is no motion in the room for ten minutes, had marked her as an interloper. Problem is, she’s not even in any of Mrs. HM’s classes!

“Hey! What are you doing with my book? Why were you in my room?”

“Oh. I was just getting this book for Trixie. She told me to. She said she sits in the corner. So I got this book off the table in the back. It’s hers, isn’t it? It was the only one I could find.”

“Let me see the number. No. That is NOT Trixie’s book. Give it to me. Now I have to carry it back to where you got it. Don’t go in my room if you don’t have my class and don’t have permission.”

“Can I look for Trixie’s book?”

“You can look at her desk, right there in the front, nowhere near the back table. See? Nothing on or in Trixie’s desk. She must have been mistaken.”

So I took that book and stashed it in the cabinet, so nobody else could grab it, what with this being the era of extremes, and kids now wanting EXTRA textbooks, rather than leaving them behind. I knew this was not Trixie’s book without looking it up. No, Mrs. HM does not have every student’s book number memorized. She’s not THAT good. But close. The books are given out in numerical order, so I knew that book number 11-02 could not have been assigned to Trixie’s class. I also knew that a student just moved, and the office worker brought me his book. Which she plopped right on my desk, necessitating relocation to the back table during class, what with Mrs. HM not all that keen on opening up the cabinet and bending over to put a book on the bottom shelf while her own bottom would be on display to the class.

And wouldn’t you know it, the very next hour, a kid came waving a book under Mrs. Hillbilly Mom’s nose. “I found this book. What should I do with this book. It was in my desk. Do you know whose it is? Where should I put it? It’s a library book. The librarian will want it. We can’t leave it in the desk. Somebody might take it.” Little did he know.

My desks are arranged with the opening facing the front of the room. So kids can’t hide their hands clutching cell phones and text all the livelong class period. So very few of them ever stash their stuff in the desks, not wanting to lean over and fumble around putting books in and taking books out. Most things that end up there are because the front person was turned around against the rules, and put their stuff in the wrong desk.

I was not about to look up Trixie and call for her to come get her book.

“That’s a library book. Take it to the librarian. She can figure out who it belongs to.”

There’s more that one way to skin a book.