Are you ever afraid somebody will find your blog by Googling specific keywords? I know this might come as a shock to you, what with my blog popping up for people searching for Apollo 18 spoiler alert, skank reptile photo, gooey duck, and sandra bullock butt. But I don't feel like taking chances. I don't live life on the edge. So I will attempt to tell my tale without using certain terms. Please bear with me.
Each workday is a series of points on a learning curve. I try to instill in my students the difference between being a student, and being a teacher. As in, some rights are inherent to teachers, but not students. Such as being the leader of the classroom. The one who establishes the rules. It's not a free-for-all, with equal rights enjoyed by all.
With a few minutes left in class, I mentioned some current events that I'd read about or seen on the news. Such as Venus and Jupiter being so close in the evening sky. The upcoming anniversary of the submersion of a giant ocean liner. They shared a few stories. And I mentioned one I read that morning concerning a young lass who was in litigation with a medical facility in a southern state that juts out into the ocean, over a heartbreaking health care faux pas. It seems that a female professional in that facility, in attempting to sever some intravenous tubing in an infant, inadvertently severed instead the smallest digit of said infant's wee mitt.
And if that wasn't bad enough, just last week I saw on the news a story of another unfortunate cherub who had his smallest digit gnawed off by a newly-weaned canine as his maternal unit snoozed on the divan right next to him. And when a friend woke her and informed her that her son had red cells, plasma, and platelets all over him, the maternal unit swore that the bambino had never uttered a sound. And furthermore, when she could not find the digit, she dialed emergency services.
Both were horrendous stories. And I raised the question as to how these folks in charge could not KNOW THAT SOMETHING WAS TERRIBLY AMISS. Seriously. Wouldn't a normal person catch on, and put a stop to the horror before it reached fruition?
The class agreed. But one objected to the news items. She demanded that I cease such storytelling, because she could not stand to hear about the separation of minute digits from their rightful owners. I suggested she not listen. After all, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's voice is routinely tuned out by countless adolescents on a daily basis. Still, she objected. In fact, she rushed my control center with the threat of removing her footgear and placing her tootsies upon me, as I have previously voiced my aversion to human paws.
Can you see how wrong this tactic is? She, however, could not. First of all, I pointed out that she did not have to listen or join in the conversation. Because she did not want to hear about it did not give her the right to make physical contact with Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. After all, while I did not speak this concept out loud, it's not like I approached her and rubbed severed infant digits on her person. And besides, the removal of footgear of the sort previously called th0ngs was not actually making much of a statement, since the exposure would do little to change the view of one's gal-hooves.
For her unreasonableness, a few members of the class moderately mocked her manufactured angst. To the point that one sort-of threatened to find out her locker number and place in it...okay, so she saw the futility of promising to place a severed infant digit there, because, contrary to recent reports, they are quite hard to come by. So we all, complainer included, had a chuckle at the idle threat.
Seriously. Some people live to complain. Did I not sit idly by and listen to her story of hoarding holiday sweets in footgear designed for tramping in frozen precipitation, consuming several tidbits nightly, only to discover several weeks later, upon dumping the contents onto the floor, a deceased rodent? Yet I did not complain. I'm an equal-opportunity nausea-inducer.
But I'm the captain of my educational vessel.
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Friday, March 30, 2012
One Hand Scratches The Other
I'm a bit late getting this story out tonight. That's because I'm having trouble typing with both hands. Don't you worry about Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. She has not suffered a debilitating injury. Au contraire! You might even say Mrs. HM is just teeming with life tonight.
Today at school, a student asked me who she should tell if she thought another student might have head lice. I'm hoping my recoil was not all that noticeable. Ever since that incident, I have been scratching. And scratching. I feel like mini critters are crawling all over my scalp. And my neck. And down my spine. And in my eyebrows. And on the backs of my arms.
Since the school nurse was not due to arrive for another couple of hours, and the host in question was in this girl's next class, I sent her to the office. With strict instructions, of course, to keep her mouth shut if anybody was in there besides the secretary. And not to accuse, but to simply say she suspected. And not to mention a name unless nobody else was in the office.
I think the mission went well. Tattler waited for another student to clear out before broaching the subject. She did admit that an administrator was there, but if you can't trust an administrator with pertinent health issues, who CAN you trust?
Tattler said the host has long hair, and sits at the desk in front of her. Host's hair has been hanging down on Tattler's desk. She brushes it off. And yesterday, she saw some tiny visitors. Not wanting to host a hair party of her own, she came forward to launch an investigation.
It will be an itchy weekend while I wait to see what develops.
Today at school, a student asked me who she should tell if she thought another student might have head lice. I'm hoping my recoil was not all that noticeable. Ever since that incident, I have been scratching. And scratching. I feel like mini critters are crawling all over my scalp. And my neck. And down my spine. And in my eyebrows. And on the backs of my arms.
Since the school nurse was not due to arrive for another couple of hours, and the host in question was in this girl's next class, I sent her to the office. With strict instructions, of course, to keep her mouth shut if anybody was in there besides the secretary. And not to accuse, but to simply say she suspected. And not to mention a name unless nobody else was in the office.
I think the mission went well. Tattler waited for another student to clear out before broaching the subject. She did admit that an administrator was there, but if you can't trust an administrator with pertinent health issues, who CAN you trust?
Tattler said the host has long hair, and sits at the desk in front of her. Host's hair has been hanging down on Tattler's desk. She brushes it off. And yesterday, she saw some tiny visitors. Not wanting to host a hair party of her own, she came forward to launch an investigation.
It will be an itchy weekend while I wait to see what develops.
Thursday, March 29, 2012
We Might Be Raising A Celebrity
Juno is the new Lassie. Without the fortune and Rudd Weatherwax.
This afternoon, The Pony and I rolled up the driveway to the sight of Juno romping to the end of the garage. She still was not putting weight on her bad leg, but she was full of energy. She ran around to the porch to wait and peek at me as I left the garage. We had our full-on lovefest. At one point, I thought she was going to jump down to get to me before I got through the door.
As I went up the steps, she playfully nibbled on my fingers on the handrail. She trotted on three legs around the corner to the kitchen door to wait for me. She seemed to be in fine spirits. As I went in, she hustled around the kitchen nook to get to the water dish over by the laundry room door.
Upon entering the Mansion proper, I was accosted by the #1 son. Okay, it was not until I called, "Pizza is here!" that he deigned show his face. But still, as he was filling his plate, he inquired about Juno. The former "boy" pup he just HAD to bring home from Grandma's house. The forgotten pet he has shunted aside for six months now.
"Did Juno come up on the porch for you and Pony?"
"Yes."
"Well, I couldn't get her up on the porch. She would hardly move. I took her a bowl of water, and she lapped it up. I'm kind of worried about her."
"She ran around the garage to see us, then hopped up on the porch. Still on three legs, but she seemed to feel better."
"Oh. Because she looked pitiful when I got home."
That little rascal! Playing the Lame Card to get attention from #1. I need to scan Variety in search of open calls for nondescript, silky black mutts.
This afternoon, The Pony and I rolled up the driveway to the sight of Juno romping to the end of the garage. She still was not putting weight on her bad leg, but she was full of energy. She ran around to the porch to wait and peek at me as I left the garage. We had our full-on lovefest. At one point, I thought she was going to jump down to get to me before I got through the door.
As I went up the steps, she playfully nibbled on my fingers on the handrail. She trotted on three legs around the corner to the kitchen door to wait for me. She seemed to be in fine spirits. As I went in, she hustled around the kitchen nook to get to the water dish over by the laundry room door.
Upon entering the Mansion proper, I was accosted by the #1 son. Okay, it was not until I called, "Pizza is here!" that he deigned show his face. But still, as he was filling his plate, he inquired about Juno. The former "boy" pup he just HAD to bring home from Grandma's house. The forgotten pet he has shunted aside for six months now.
"Did Juno come up on the porch for you and Pony?"
"Yes."
"Well, I couldn't get her up on the porch. She would hardly move. I took her a bowl of water, and she lapped it up. I'm kind of worried about her."
"She ran around the garage to see us, then hopped up on the porch. Still on three legs, but she seemed to feel better."
"Oh. Because she looked pitiful when I got home."
That little rascal! Playing the Lame Card to get attention from #1. I need to scan Variety in search of open calls for nondescript, silky black mutts.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
The Enticing Farmer H
I asked Farmer H to take a look at Juno last night. Right after he carried the new little black chick over to the burn pile and tossed it on the flames. Cremation, you know. Even though The Pony had just checked on the five (make that four, now) new chicks, and announced that the little black one was breathing and blinking. The hen rolled his egg out of the nest to start with. Farmer H picked it up and helped the chick get the end open, then put it back in the rabbit-turned-chicken hutch. Where the other four chicks promptly started pecking at it. I'm hoping at the shell. But it might have been the chick. Pecking order, you know. I suppose mother knows best. She rolled his egg out for a reason.
Farmer H pronounced Juno fit as a fiddle. In the bloom of health. A robust specimen of nondescript black mixed breed canine. In other words, he did not see a need to take her to the vet. She DID recover from previous leg ailments. So we are taking a wait and see attitude. She does not whimper or cry out or try to bite if her leg is touched. Or whacked, twice, by my book bag. She still favors the leg, but has learned to limp better. She drug the lagging limb over Tank's back when he got in her way. So it doesn't seem to hurt her unless her weight is on it.
I'd better not catch Farmer H enticing her toward the burn pile.
Farmer H pronounced Juno fit as a fiddle. In the bloom of health. A robust specimen of nondescript black mixed breed canine. In other words, he did not see a need to take her to the vet. She DID recover from previous leg ailments. So we are taking a wait and see attitude. She does not whimper or cry out or try to bite if her leg is touched. Or whacked, twice, by my book bag. She still favors the leg, but has learned to limp better. She drug the lagging limb over Tank's back when he got in her way. So it doesn't seem to hurt her unless her weight is on it.
I'd better not catch Farmer H enticing her toward the burn pile.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
What, Oh What, Has My Little Dog Done?
The Pony and I came up the Mansion driveway this afternoon, and Juno did not bound to meet us. I pulled T-Hoe into the garage, and Juno did not run in to eat the cat food. She did not appear on the porch. When I got out, she was not leaning over to peer at me through the garage door. I called to her.
She came limping slowly from her dog house!
Juno was in an epic battle while we were away at school. She has two puncture wounds that look like snake fangs over her right eye. A little higher on her forehead, there is a bigger, deeper puncture wound with a scab forming. Beside her left eye is a bald spot half the size of a dime. But her worst injury is with her back right elbow-foot area. You know, that part of a dog's hind leg like an elbow. It looks a little swollen. At first, I thought she was just favoring her paw. But she holds the leg funny when she tries to limp. And she rests the paw on the porch when she is standing.
Poor Juno. She leaned in for our everyday afternoon lovefest. She sat down, gingerly. She put her muzzle along my neck, with her nose on the bottom of my chin. I leaned to hug her. And knocked my book bag over onto her lame leg. She took it well. Gave me a look like, "New Mommy! How can you do that to me?" I was ashamed. I set up the book bag. I hugged Juno an extra long time. Then Pony came back out, and I told him of her injuries. And how I had accidentally knocked the book bag on her owie. The Pony tut-tutted. He patted Juno. He went to pick up my stuff...and promptly knocked the book bag over again onto Juno's owie. Poor Juno. I know her life was no picnic before we took her in. But we are kind of pushing that torture envelope.
I'm thinking she tangled with some critter that was having none of her shenanigans. The neighbors have horses. But they don't puncture-bite and claw. The cats could have got her. But they are not so good at laming. Juno had dried mud on her silky, feathery black fur. I can't put those clues together. Maybe she was in TWO epic battles.
I know she had her rabies shot when she had her very special operation a few months ago. And I know that when she was younger, she hurt her front legs and could hardly walk for a week. Then she was all better, loping, jumping, racing willy-nilly.
We are predicting a full recovery by the weekend. Until then, sad panda Juno will have to stand between The Pony and I, unable to decide which person is more worth the effort to limp toward.
Poor Juno.
She came limping slowly from her dog house!
Juno was in an epic battle while we were away at school. She has two puncture wounds that look like snake fangs over her right eye. A little higher on her forehead, there is a bigger, deeper puncture wound with a scab forming. Beside her left eye is a bald spot half the size of a dime. But her worst injury is with her back right elbow-foot area. You know, that part of a dog's hind leg like an elbow. It looks a little swollen. At first, I thought she was just favoring her paw. But she holds the leg funny when she tries to limp. And she rests the paw on the porch when she is standing.
Poor Juno. She leaned in for our everyday afternoon lovefest. She sat down, gingerly. She put her muzzle along my neck, with her nose on the bottom of my chin. I leaned to hug her. And knocked my book bag over onto her lame leg. She took it well. Gave me a look like, "New Mommy! How can you do that to me?" I was ashamed. I set up the book bag. I hugged Juno an extra long time. Then Pony came back out, and I told him of her injuries. And how I had accidentally knocked the book bag on her owie. The Pony tut-tutted. He patted Juno. He went to pick up my stuff...and promptly knocked the book bag over again onto Juno's owie. Poor Juno. I know her life was no picnic before we took her in. But we are kind of pushing that torture envelope.
I'm thinking she tangled with some critter that was having none of her shenanigans. The neighbors have horses. But they don't puncture-bite and claw. The cats could have got her. But they are not so good at laming. Juno had dried mud on her silky, feathery black fur. I can't put those clues together. Maybe she was in TWO epic battles.
I know she had her rabies shot when she had her very special operation a few months ago. And I know that when she was younger, she hurt her front legs and could hardly walk for a week. Then she was all better, loping, jumping, racing willy-nilly.
We are predicting a full recovery by the weekend. Until then, sad panda Juno will have to stand between The Pony and I, unable to decide which person is more worth the effort to limp toward.
Poor Juno.
Monday, March 26, 2012
Another Transgression From Farmer H
It's true. Farmer H has transgressed yet again. I know you are thinking, "Oh, my. How very uncharacteristic of Farmer H." Give it a rest already. That leopard cannot change his spots.
Sunday evenings are a free-for-all in the dining department of the Hillbilly Mansion. I whip up a sumptuous repast, but all inhabitants are free to move about the Mansion. Farmer H eats in his La-Z-Boy, the #1 son squats on a stool at the cutting block if the food is messy, or takes it to the desk in his room if not, and The Pony and I, who are mainly concerned with feeding our Amazing Race addiction, retire to the basement to stuff our gaping maws.
Yesterday, I whipped up a pot of smoked sausage, cabbage, and potatoes, with sides of cooked apples and corn muffins. The Pony, with his limited palate, chose to consume only corn muffins, butter, apple slices, and peanut butter.
As a courtesy, I dished up the vittles from the overflowing pot. Genius likes juice in his cabbage-y bowl of goodness. And lots of potatoes. Farmer H, he of the towering bowl of soup, prefers no juice, lots of sausage, and equal parts potato and cabbage. They both wanted some cooked apples. I called to them to come and get it, being bereft of a triangle to beat as a feeding signal. Genius appeared forthwith. Farmer H likes to try and out-passive-aggressive me.
"You go ahead. I'll be in there in a minute."
"No, yours is ready. Come and get it."
"That's okay. You go first."
"I'd really rather you get it over with, before it gets cold."
"Go ahead."
So I went about making my bowl. It was piled a bit higher than Farmer H's bowl, because he always goes back for seconds when I can't see him picking out only meat. And mine had juice in it. Then I added some sea salt and ground black pepper from the grindy gadgets that my teaching buddy, Mabel, gave me for Christmas. I set it over to the side, by the sink, all by its lonesome, nary a cooked apple in sight, while I dashed in to move laundry from the washer to the dryer. Over my shoulder, I heard Farmer H.
"So I take it this one is mine?" He was standing at the sink. He had completely bypassed the section of the counter where I place his food. Where his dry bowl of cabbage surprise sat next to his bowl of cooked apples with cinnamon. His bowl, unadorned, waiting for him to add his own ground pepper, no salt.
"NO! That one is mine! Can't you see that I've already put pepper on it? And it's full of juice?"
"Fine. You always do this! I don't care if I ever eat!" Farmer H threw up his arms. He always flails like that in his hissy-fits. He stormed back to his La-Z-Boy. One of these days, I'm going to call his bluff, and toss his food to the dogs. We'll see if he doesn't care if he ever eats.
I swear, I could have had a corn muffin sliced open, buttered, with a bite taken out, and he STILL would have made a beeline for my meal. He goes out of his way to be dense, I fear. It's like when he digs through the dish drainer for a fork, yet won't put away the utensils he pulls out that are not forks. "Well, I don't know where you keep anything!" But he sure knows where to look for forks and spoons and knives. Just not where to put them. In that plastic utensil holder with the sections shaped like forks and spoons and knives.
The minute my head bobbed out of sight down those basement stairs, Farmer H was sprinting for the kitchen. I can only imagine the bellow that he would emit if the food he didn't care if he ever ate was gone.
Sunday evenings are a free-for-all in the dining department of the Hillbilly Mansion. I whip up a sumptuous repast, but all inhabitants are free to move about the Mansion. Farmer H eats in his La-Z-Boy, the #1 son squats on a stool at the cutting block if the food is messy, or takes it to the desk in his room if not, and The Pony and I, who are mainly concerned with feeding our Amazing Race addiction, retire to the basement to stuff our gaping maws.
Yesterday, I whipped up a pot of smoked sausage, cabbage, and potatoes, with sides of cooked apples and corn muffins. The Pony, with his limited palate, chose to consume only corn muffins, butter, apple slices, and peanut butter.
As a courtesy, I dished up the vittles from the overflowing pot. Genius likes juice in his cabbage-y bowl of goodness. And lots of potatoes. Farmer H, he of the towering bowl of soup, prefers no juice, lots of sausage, and equal parts potato and cabbage. They both wanted some cooked apples. I called to them to come and get it, being bereft of a triangle to beat as a feeding signal. Genius appeared forthwith. Farmer H likes to try and out-passive-aggressive me.
"You go ahead. I'll be in there in a minute."
"No, yours is ready. Come and get it."
"That's okay. You go first."
"I'd really rather you get it over with, before it gets cold."
"Go ahead."
So I went about making my bowl. It was piled a bit higher than Farmer H's bowl, because he always goes back for seconds when I can't see him picking out only meat. And mine had juice in it. Then I added some sea salt and ground black pepper from the grindy gadgets that my teaching buddy, Mabel, gave me for Christmas. I set it over to the side, by the sink, all by its lonesome, nary a cooked apple in sight, while I dashed in to move laundry from the washer to the dryer. Over my shoulder, I heard Farmer H.
"So I take it this one is mine?" He was standing at the sink. He had completely bypassed the section of the counter where I place his food. Where his dry bowl of cabbage surprise sat next to his bowl of cooked apples with cinnamon. His bowl, unadorned, waiting for him to add his own ground pepper, no salt.
"NO! That one is mine! Can't you see that I've already put pepper on it? And it's full of juice?"
"Fine. You always do this! I don't care if I ever eat!" Farmer H threw up his arms. He always flails like that in his hissy-fits. He stormed back to his La-Z-Boy. One of these days, I'm going to call his bluff, and toss his food to the dogs. We'll see if he doesn't care if he ever eats.
I swear, I could have had a corn muffin sliced open, buttered, with a bite taken out, and he STILL would have made a beeline for my meal. He goes out of his way to be dense, I fear. It's like when he digs through the dish drainer for a fork, yet won't put away the utensils he pulls out that are not forks. "Well, I don't know where you keep anything!" But he sure knows where to look for forks and spoons and knives. Just not where to put them. In that plastic utensil holder with the sections shaped like forks and spoons and knives.
The minute my head bobbed out of sight down those basement stairs, Farmer H was sprinting for the kitchen. I can only imagine the bellow that he would emit if the food he didn't care if he ever ate was gone.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Mrs. HM Should Be Ashamed Of Herself
Friday was the local science fair at our nearby junior college. When you go year after year, you start to recognize people from other schools. For the last four years, there has been a certain parent who monopolizes an entire section of the bleachers.
The first year, I was unprepared for the onslaught. I sat in my usual place. After all, I've been taking students there for years. This woman walked in, looked at me, and said, "Oh. I usually sit here against the wall. It's better for my back." I was reading at the time, and glanced up. As in, you talkin' to me? Since I was not sitting against the wall, and even if I had been, there was no reason for me to respond or to move. First come, first served. Festival seating. No reservations.
Loquacious Lil continued. "Our bus was late. I hope they have time to set up. My daughter is the one over there. I usually bring my wheelchair, but I left it in the car today." I was the only other person there. The students were in a long line, filing down the steps to check in their projects and set up on the tables. She had to be talking to me. Being the polite sort, I glanced at her and nodded. But I did not close my book. "Do you have kids here? What school are you from? Is this your first year? My daughter is in middle school. I need to go tell her to fix her board." LL climbed down from her perch and got in line with the students. Her daughter did not look too happy.
I thought about moving, but that might look rude. So I sat my ground. My other sponsoring teacher came in and sat by me. Before I could give her the heads-up, LL returned. Again with the spouting of too much information. My pal uttered a few noncommittal sentences like, "Oh, really? Is that so?" and turned to give me the crazy sign. "That woman is wacko." I nodded. We waited ten or fifteen minutes, barraged by banal chit-chat, then got up. "Let's move over here, where we'll have more room when the kids come up." LL remained with her back against the wall. It was easier to tune her out from a distance.
The second year, LL showed up again. Claimed the wall and section for her own, even though we were there first. I had different sponsoring teachers, this time from Lower Basementia. They caught on quick that we needed to hightail it down the line.
The third year, SSDY. LL nearly trapped me alone, but I saw her coming and moved before she could waddle past the front doors. She had blankets and snacks for the kids during down time. It was party central in that section. Oh, she hollered a greeting to me. I nodded. More talk of the phantom wheelchair. More talk of her daughter. I scooted away to be with my own people as soon as they arrived.
This year, LL brought the wheelchair. I don't know the nature of her different-abledness. I don't even wish to speculate. But here's what I observed. I was down on the main floor when she showed up. And heavens to mergatroid, I had left my bag on the bleachers where she always planted herself. I went up the steps and inconspicuously snagged my bag and kept on walking. Or so I thought.
"Miss! Oh, Miss! You don't have to leave. There's plenty of room for you to sit here."
"Oh, that's all right. I want to be in the middle where I can see everything."
My fellow sponsors arrived. We sat a few minutes. One of them said, "Dang it! There's that crazy lady. I am not in a mood to listen to her all day. Let's move down." LL was in the middle of laying out a blanket where I used to sit after avoiding her. That meant TWO sections she was taking up this year. She wheeled herself there using her feet. Like walking while sitting down. A walkchair. She hollered down to the floor. "I'm putting our blanket here for you!" Her daughter ducked her head. That's how I knew which one was the daughter.
LL sat at the corner by the steps down to the main floor. It's a narrow area anyway. And with her walkchair there, it was single file only. Every person entering the field house, wishing to sit and watch from the bleachers, had to squeeze through that bottleneck between the walkchair and a trash can. Anyone in the bleachers wishing to visit the restrooms also had to thread that needle. LL could have walked her chair five feet and sat at the rail, overlooking the gym floor from the end of the field house. But she didn't.
With nobody to regale with stories of her daughter, LL must have grown bored. She walked herself down to the cafeteria. I don't know if she purchased anything. Perhaps she was seeking companionship. She spent about an hour there before foot-wheeling it back to her territory. After a bit, she climbed up to the third bleacher and leaned against the wall. She left her walkchair in its aisle-blocking position. I noted that she did not go to the steps and use the handrail. She climbed up three bleachers, sure-footed as a mountain goat.
We could hear her talking, but nobody wanted to look. Just in case she was talking to US. A short discussion ended with the idea to hang out behind the bleachers in the sponsor area until lunch. A more secluded locale. It was not for the sole purpose of escaping LL. Some parents had brought their children, and stood in front of us, talking shop with the Lower Basementia sponsors. This is all well and good, but after thirty minutes, everything that needs saying has been said. Besides, our school was not in session that day. Two of us were there for free, giving up a day off, not reaping any benefit through career ladder. Having put in nine hours last week during parent conferences, we saw no reason to be a captive audience for parents who had not come to talk at that opportunity.
Lunch came and went. We returned to the bleachers. A crowd began to form, filled with parents coming to view the projects and awards ceremony. LL walkchaired herself back to the cafeteria area. She returned on the other side of the field house. I saw her lift one leg and hold it out. She pulled herself along with the good leg, and used her hands on the wheels. Then she parked at her corner again to force the flowing tide of spectators to a trickle.
And now, the shameful part. The part I've been building up to for the last fourteen paragraphs. Genius had joined us on the front row. Awards were handed out. Genius snagged a second place this year. All of our students got a ribbon. And Loquacious Lil's daughter also got a ribbon! I know that, because LL let out a yelp of joy. She stood up and walked to the middle section and took a picture over the rail. All actions that were lost on Genius. Perhaps he was down on the floor having his picture taken, writing down his address for the mailing of prize money, when LL was doing this. But one thing is for sure. When she walked by in the opposite direction, having shot down and back up twenty steps with the speed of a frog's tongue snagging a fly, waving her daughter's ribbon, announcing to the crowd, "She was so surprised, she forgot this on the judge's table!" Genius did a double-take. His eyes bugged out. He saw her settle back into her walkchair. And he looked at me with his eyebrows raised.
I couldn't resist. "It's a MIRACLE!"
"That is so wrong! I can't believe you!" But he was laughing. He ducked his head. Shook it. "You are terrible!"
Oh, well. I suppose all mothers have their own way of embarrassing their kids.
The first year, I was unprepared for the onslaught. I sat in my usual place. After all, I've been taking students there for years. This woman walked in, looked at me, and said, "Oh. I usually sit here against the wall. It's better for my back." I was reading at the time, and glanced up. As in, you talkin' to me? Since I was not sitting against the wall, and even if I had been, there was no reason for me to respond or to move. First come, first served. Festival seating. No reservations.
Loquacious Lil continued. "Our bus was late. I hope they have time to set up. My daughter is the one over there. I usually bring my wheelchair, but I left it in the car today." I was the only other person there. The students were in a long line, filing down the steps to check in their projects and set up on the tables. She had to be talking to me. Being the polite sort, I glanced at her and nodded. But I did not close my book. "Do you have kids here? What school are you from? Is this your first year? My daughter is in middle school. I need to go tell her to fix her board." LL climbed down from her perch and got in line with the students. Her daughter did not look too happy.
I thought about moving, but that might look rude. So I sat my ground. My other sponsoring teacher came in and sat by me. Before I could give her the heads-up, LL returned. Again with the spouting of too much information. My pal uttered a few noncommittal sentences like, "Oh, really? Is that so?" and turned to give me the crazy sign. "That woman is wacko." I nodded. We waited ten or fifteen minutes, barraged by banal chit-chat, then got up. "Let's move over here, where we'll have more room when the kids come up." LL remained with her back against the wall. It was easier to tune her out from a distance.
The second year, LL showed up again. Claimed the wall and section for her own, even though we were there first. I had different sponsoring teachers, this time from Lower Basementia. They caught on quick that we needed to hightail it down the line.
The third year, SSDY. LL nearly trapped me alone, but I saw her coming and moved before she could waddle past the front doors. She had blankets and snacks for the kids during down time. It was party central in that section. Oh, she hollered a greeting to me. I nodded. More talk of the phantom wheelchair. More talk of her daughter. I scooted away to be with my own people as soon as they arrived.
This year, LL brought the wheelchair. I don't know the nature of her different-abledness. I don't even wish to speculate. But here's what I observed. I was down on the main floor when she showed up. And heavens to mergatroid, I had left my bag on the bleachers where she always planted herself. I went up the steps and inconspicuously snagged my bag and kept on walking. Or so I thought.
"Miss! Oh, Miss! You don't have to leave. There's plenty of room for you to sit here."
"Oh, that's all right. I want to be in the middle where I can see everything."
My fellow sponsors arrived. We sat a few minutes. One of them said, "Dang it! There's that crazy lady. I am not in a mood to listen to her all day. Let's move down." LL was in the middle of laying out a blanket where I used to sit after avoiding her. That meant TWO sections she was taking up this year. She wheeled herself there using her feet. Like walking while sitting down. A walkchair. She hollered down to the floor. "I'm putting our blanket here for you!" Her daughter ducked her head. That's how I knew which one was the daughter.
LL sat at the corner by the steps down to the main floor. It's a narrow area anyway. And with her walkchair there, it was single file only. Every person entering the field house, wishing to sit and watch from the bleachers, had to squeeze through that bottleneck between the walkchair and a trash can. Anyone in the bleachers wishing to visit the restrooms also had to thread that needle. LL could have walked her chair five feet and sat at the rail, overlooking the gym floor from the end of the field house. But she didn't.
With nobody to regale with stories of her daughter, LL must have grown bored. She walked herself down to the cafeteria. I don't know if she purchased anything. Perhaps she was seeking companionship. She spent about an hour there before foot-wheeling it back to her territory. After a bit, she climbed up to the third bleacher and leaned against the wall. She left her walkchair in its aisle-blocking position. I noted that she did not go to the steps and use the handrail. She climbed up three bleachers, sure-footed as a mountain goat.
We could hear her talking, but nobody wanted to look. Just in case she was talking to US. A short discussion ended with the idea to hang out behind the bleachers in the sponsor area until lunch. A more secluded locale. It was not for the sole purpose of escaping LL. Some parents had brought their children, and stood in front of us, talking shop with the Lower Basementia sponsors. This is all well and good, but after thirty minutes, everything that needs saying has been said. Besides, our school was not in session that day. Two of us were there for free, giving up a day off, not reaping any benefit through career ladder. Having put in nine hours last week during parent conferences, we saw no reason to be a captive audience for parents who had not come to talk at that opportunity.
Lunch came and went. We returned to the bleachers. A crowd began to form, filled with parents coming to view the projects and awards ceremony. LL walkchaired herself back to the cafeteria area. She returned on the other side of the field house. I saw her lift one leg and hold it out. She pulled herself along with the good leg, and used her hands on the wheels. Then she parked at her corner again to force the flowing tide of spectators to a trickle.
And now, the shameful part. The part I've been building up to for the last fourteen paragraphs. Genius had joined us on the front row. Awards were handed out. Genius snagged a second place this year. All of our students got a ribbon. And Loquacious Lil's daughter also got a ribbon! I know that, because LL let out a yelp of joy. She stood up and walked to the middle section and took a picture over the rail. All actions that were lost on Genius. Perhaps he was down on the floor having his picture taken, writing down his address for the mailing of prize money, when LL was doing this. But one thing is for sure. When she walked by in the opposite direction, having shot down and back up twenty steps with the speed of a frog's tongue snagging a fly, waving her daughter's ribbon, announcing to the crowd, "She was so surprised, she forgot this on the judge's table!" Genius did a double-take. His eyes bugged out. He saw her settle back into her walkchair. And he looked at me with his eyebrows raised.
I couldn't resist. "It's a MIRACLE!"
"That is so wrong! I can't believe you!" But he was laughing. He ducked his head. Shook it. "You are terrible!"
Oh, well. I suppose all mothers have their own way of embarrassing their kids.
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