Genie - Day 7: Job Well Done

Er... Job: Well? Done.

It is satisfying to accomplish something, although not all jobs are measurable and not everyone will measure even the same job the same way. Our house painting project is a good example.

Did we paint on every side of the house and all the trim? Yes, we did. Did we paint every square inch? Um. No. However, we still consider the job “done” because we met our goal of scraping, priming, and painting all weathered areas, particularly on the second story. Considering how badly those areas were before our endeavor, and how much better protected and glowing they look now, we even consider the job “well done” (or done well). Now, if we had been painting the house a different color or if we had left an area of flaking paint, we could not claim such success.

Of course, there is another thought to consider if we are to be honest. In the back of our minds I think we had also dreamt of putting a coat of paint even on those protected areas that looked okay to freshen them up and feel like we had completely finished the job. However, after the store discontinued the paint we were using and all the hours we pushed ourselves to work each day to make use of the time we had the Genies, we just plain ran out of steam. Our body aches and diminishing energy drive simply overwhelmed our desire for perfection. So, the job is, well, done. It may just be a twist in semantics, but either way, we consider our house painting escapade an accomplishment.

Genie - Day 5: A Dose of Reality

Note to Self:
- Big toys do make the job go faster!
- I’m not 20 any more. Heck, I’m not even 30 or 40 any more. Why am I doing this?
- If I’m driving, don’t say left if you mean right; it could cost us the chimney.
- Bruises aren’t always visible.
- My eyebrows feel sticky, better check on that.
- If I only do half the physical work Don does, how can I feel just as exhausted?
- I still feel like I am swaying even after I turn off Four-by-Four for the night.
- What do you mean, someone wants dinner?
- Don’t aim the paint sprayer at yourself when you bend over to move a hose.
- Don’t aim the paint sprayer at yourself at any time.
- Lose fifty pounds.
- Lose it NOW.
- Does this joystick work backwards?
- When you ride with me, hold on and...DUCK!
- What divot in the lawn?
- Don’t close your eyes in the shower because it will start the rocking.
- Who took my stamina?
- Five glasses of water and I still can’t pee.
- Why are the neighbors smirking?
- How much is vinyl siding again?

Genie - Day 3: I Can See Your House From Here

By the time we drug ourselves into the house at 6:00 this evening, we had accomplished our first painting goal. Yesterday, the electric company unhooked the wires that supply the apartment because they block access to the north end of the house and the back dormer. Since that leaves Mom without her electric wall heaters, our goal was to get the three sides of the house that demand access via the backyard finished by tonight so that the electricity can be restored by tomorrow afternoon.

As of last night, Don had done the hardest work of power washing and scraping all of this area. Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately for me, I was called to sub so I only helped him finish taping paper over the windows later on. Genie Boom also called in her brother, Four-by-Four, because he is taller and has a longer reach that can extend across the pond on the north side of the house. Painting the second floor dormer.
Working together, Don and I took turns today with the painting and driving; one would paint while the other kept repositioning the cage. Between the spray painter and 4X4, the job went quickly and we made our way around the back of the house twice, once with primer and again with a top coat. So tomorrow we will only have to remove the paper from the windows and Mom can get her electricity restored. I got into a little bit of trouble for stopping to take pictures, but how often am I up this high (in the US anyway)?
Scraping and painting is a tiresome job that we have done many times. Although it was wearisome today for me because of the hot sun, there was definitely a fun side. Whereas, Don hated the height and the swaying of the cage, I have to admit that the tomboy in me really enjoyed learning how to negotiate both Genies. There are infinite possibilities for disaster, but they were still fun to carefully drive and power around into different heights and positions.

Okay, so maybe Jeremy got so many Tonka trucks because I secretly had a fascination for them, too. Who knows.

I Dream of Genie: Day 1

This is our new friend, Genie Boom. Genie is going to help us reach the north and south peaks of our house and the dormers. In the past, we have either painted up or out as far as we could reach with an extension ladder, or as far as Don could extend himself on the roof with the help of a rope tied to the chimney. The last time the peak was painted he lay down on the roof and hung his head and shoulders over the edge to paint upside down. I’m pretty sure I didn’t know about that plan until after it was executed.

So, now that there has been a new rule firmly in place for the last few years – absolutely no climbing on the upper roof, let alone hanging over the edge – we have begun to rely on outside help. This exchange of lower cost efficiency for higher retention of life and limb suits me fine, but irritates my better half. However, grudgingly acquiescing to the possibility that he no longer bounces, he has finally contracted the services of Genie. Of course, he did worry himself to a wheezing state over getting the best deal versus the taller machine, but it is working out in the end.

The nice gentleman who came by today to show Don how to operate the lift commented, “Man, I don’t see how you painted this house with ladders. There are some pretty tricky parts to this roof.” Exactly my point. Thank you, Genie.

Breakfast?

This used to be a family size pizza and a pan of garlic cheese bread until it became breakfast for six hungry young women. I had offered all kinds of breakfast foods, but once the cold pizza was spotted, it was all over. Driving a variety of distances ranging from 240-400 miles after work on Thursday, Danielle and five college friends converged at our house at 4 a.m. After collapsing for five hours of sleep they readied themselves for a full day at the rodeo. Ah, to be young and resilient. The cinnamon rolls were to help fortify them before they headed home Saturday morning.

How About Matching Shirts?

It was supposed to be an easy sub day; half a day, actually, because of an early dismissal for Roundup. Around here, the world almost stops turning during the week of roundup. Yep, partner, we’re talking cowboys and rodeo queens, calliopes and broncs. The barbecues, nighttime dances and main street entertainment can only be outdone by the underground tour complete with speakeasy and saloon girls (actresses, of course). It is all fun to do once or twice in your life, but then it just becomes too much of a pain-in-the-neck rerun.

Anyway, I left the house yesterday feeling pretty confident because I was fairly sure I would be teaching a great class that I substitute taught last week. That meant a comfortable morning and then lunch and a DVD date at home with Mom. The surprise came when I walked into the office of the school district where I was to substitute and found out the whole school was going on a field trip. That should be fun, right?

Needless to say, the field trip was to the Roundup; or a children’s version of it. The Children’s Roundup is actually a cool idea and I was glad to be able to experience it. Neighboring school districts are invited to bus their students in to walk around the teepee village, go through the Hall of Fame Museum, bring a picnic lunch, and watch the adult roundup trials followed by the Children’s Roundup, in which special education students and their parents participate. So, what’s the big deal, you ask? None, except that doing this as a sub creates some interesting challenges.

Imagine the responsibility of taking a group of children you barely know on a field trip in which you must negotiate through crowds and traffic as you walk from one sightseeing activity to another. Add to that the uncomfortable fact that, although you kind of recognize their faces from subbing once before and have a list of their names in your hand, you have yet to reconcile the two. So, when a couple of preteens separate from the group (uncannily, always at least five yards out of your reach) and nearly get sucked into a passing crowd, you are reduced to futilely waving your arms and demanding in a stern but apparently ignorable tone, “Hey! Get back here! Hey! You guys!”

There are yet more catalysts in this recipe for disaster. The first is the fact that once children have been still awhile in the grandstands, they get restless and begin slipping in with other groups of students for social purposes. Now the faces tend to blur together when you try to count noses. Parents add another twist by showing up to take their child away to share lunch with them or to claim their children early rather than let them ride back on the bus. The complication in both of these centers on whether or not they stop to tell you what they are doing first. All I can say is God bless the parent who wrote a note to let me know ahead of time!

I must have counted and recounted my ducklings at least fifteen times throughout the morning. The kids were great, but I couldn’t discount how easily we could have lost someone. I feel fortunate to have brought back the same children with whom I started out, minus the four who were picked up by parents and the two who rode in another bus without telling me. Yikes. Next time, I will seriously consider tattooing their foreheads in red and attaching leashes to their belts. As two of the regular teachers sympathetically said to me upon our return, “I looked at you today and thought, what a day to sub.” You're telling me.

FALLing

According to the calendar, there is one more week until the official first day of autumn, but the signs of its approach are undeniably already here. Daylight starts earlier and fades sooner, early mornings are cold enough for a jacket, school buses are once again making their daily runs, the hummingbird feeders have been thoroughly rejected, my fall bulbs have poked their noses through the ground, and the maize of the harvested wheat fields has over-ripened into a burnished gold. One of the things I love about this area is that we experience all four of Earth’s seasons, but I do hate to see my favorite one end.

This cycle of seasons parallels life, of course, and autumn seems to be the season of letting go, something with which I struggle. Whether it is letting go of growing children, aging parents, or lazy summer days, I fight the inevitable for as long as I can. Yes, I understand that life, especially new life, depends upon death and dormancy; I, too, have read The Giving Tree. However, it is much more satisfying to wax philosophically about it while lounging at a safe distance in a deck chair with a cold lemonade in my hand on a warm July day than when I feel the nearness of its cold breath seeping down my neck.

Herein lies my greatest error: the tendency to waste the precious little time that is left to me by fretting about what might be approaching. Therefore, I am hereby documenting these seasonal changes with a determined fearlessness about what is to come because I am determinedly devoted to enjoying what has not yet passed. I will take time to marvel at the last fingers of golden sunshine that bathe the still golden hills, feel the luxuriance of the grass under my bare feet as I walk across my tender lawn, and treasure the simple things we can still do together. After these fade into fall I will content myself with different colors, joys, and traditions, knowing that a new summer will come again in time.

Wha'd'yamean Band Teacher! Marching Where?

While school started two weeks ago for teachers and students in this area, substituting began this week for me. Surprisingly, the one day for which I was scheduled on Tuesday became two and one-half days by Friday. The comical part is that during this short time I was a band teacher, a fifth grade teacher, and a middle and high school art teacher. I’m not sure what I’ll be next week.

Variety is definitely the spice of substitute teaching, in more ways than one. Of the 90+ different kids with whom I came into contact in two school districts, only one class of about 18 were difficult. Well, let’s be honest, they were more than difficult. At least 14 of the people in that room were unmotivated and thoroughly disinterested. And we’re just talking about an art class; imagine their level of disdain in a core subject! Power plays, shirking, skulking, and noisy obnoxiousness abounded freely. I kept a lid on things, but just barely, and I won’t even bother describing the slipshod work that was handed in. Apparently, this is their demeanor with full time teachers as well as substitutes, but I felt bad that I wasn't able to get more out of them anyway. By February, I predict that they will achieve the dreaded class from hell status, which, sadly, will ring as a badge of honor in their minds.

Invariably, as I mentally rewind such days I cannot help but try to dissect each replay in an effort to understand what was really happening under the surface. Obviously, low self-esteem and powerlessness were the bases of much of the negative behavior, but how can that be better impacted in an effort to instill intrinsic motivation? Of course, the worst realization of my reflection is that, as a substitute teacher, I can actually do next to nothing to make a difference. This relieves me of the stress, but also any possibility of intervention. I might be completely ineffectual if I was a full time teacher, but at least I could try.

For now, I will content myself with the continuation of my mental exercise as to what I would try next within the context of a full time position. Obviously, first would come assigned seating and a large, loud cowbell for commanding instant attention throughout the room, supported by instant penalty and removal of a student for failure to comply with any instruction; stiff, but necessary follow-through. Next would come explicit instruction and concept practice as a large group to minimize or control interpeer dialog. Perhaps periodically inviting individuals up to the document camera to share their progress with the class would also inspire, at the very least, some motivation to follow directions and produce something positive, and at the most would offer a means of praise and pride at their accomplishments. An aide in the room would also make a welcome difference.

I will keep these ideas in mind if I am asked to sub these kids again. In the meantime, I will offer prayers of stoutheartedness for their teachers.

Tension in the Home

We have been trying to get into the psyche of the cat and dog world here the last couple days in order to break down barriers between Ellie and a visiting cousin, Bella (which I believe is short for Bella Luna de la Notte). Sorely feeling the vulnerability of being the only feline in the house now, Ellie has become quite aware of her greater responsibilities to defend the home place, even from others of her own kind who wander into our yard. No longer does she have brothers to take on the task of escorting interlopers off the property. So, when cousin Bella came to stay for a few days this week, Ellie faced her with mixed emotions and a lot of spitting.

Bella is sweet tempered and quite polite; a bit hard of hearing with perhaps slightly hampered vision. Being fully open about acknowledging her place as visitor-to-another’s-turf, she steps carefully and waits to be invited before moving, all the time somewhat pre-occupied with wondering when her family will be back.

Ellie, feeling somewhat betrayed that another should be adopted, even temporarily, and allowed to wander the house freely and even sleep upstairs, is intent on flushing out any greedy motives to infringe as well as to physically protect herself from this large, unknown canine. To this end she has vigilantly refused to give up her favorite spaces and has decided she has little appetite.

We humans have tried to acknowledge and comfort both parties and help them find safe ways to move past one another and even exist within the same room; not an easy task, by any means, but one that shows improvement. Last night, for instance, we all managed to get upstairs to our agreed upon sleeping places without any growling, whining, or hissing. Oh, to be sure, suspicion still lurked freely, but no accusations were flung about as had occurred the night before. This is definitely progress.

When Life Gives You Lemons...Make Snickerdoodles

In my estimation, cookies are best when they are still warm from the oven. You know, that stage whereby they are cool enough to hold together when they are handled but warm enough that you can still smell them from the next room. Disregarding all sensibility, I behave as if they impart fewer calories during that small window of time before they become a cool, crisp, forbidden entity. In fact, that is the only time I will partake of chocolate chip cookies; when the brown sugar dough has melded into a chewy goodness that is interspersed with chips that are melted and oozing.

Baking cookies is one of my favorite pastimes. I not only feel a sense of accomplishment from it, but it also serves as a sort of security. When I am bored or anxious, sad or celebratory, preoccupied or reflective, I bake. The physical motions of measuring and mixing are deeply ingrained and mechanical so that I can either focus on what I am doing as a temporary mental diversion or let my hands take over and immerse myself in meditation as I work. Either way, the result is delicious.

Yep. I’m a winner.
Today I wore my shirt inside out.
All day.
I even wore it that way downtown to get the mail
and stop at the ATM.
Perhaps people weren’t just being friendly

when they smiled at me.
*sigh*

Nobody else dressed me.
I didn’t dress in the dark.
I wasn’t low on oxygen from walking on the treadmill.
I wasn’t under the influence of anything stronger than iced tea.
I wasn’t distracted from being busy.
I don’t have dementia.
There is simply no excuse other than I just woke up a dweeb today.

Know what else?
It took me until 3:00 to notice my mistake.
*sigh* (shaking head)

At least I didn’t work today...

I might have fit in with the kids,
but I’m not sure my appearance would have added to my

credentials.

A Step Ahead of the Devil

I received in my email a sisterhood forward a week ago. You know, one of those irritating ones that spoils its nice sentiment with guilt-laden instructions to send it on to a prescribed number of others and back to the person that sent it to you to prove your friendship. Worse, I think, are the religious or humanitarian ones which cast aspersions on your redemption status or personal convictions, intimating a lack thereof if you choose to break the chain of forwards. Anyway, this one was worth sending back to my friend to let her know that I actually appreciated the thoughts, but I took my chances in not forwarding it to anyone else.

My favorite part of the email was a quote that still makes me laugh out loud:

Be the kind of woman that when your feet hit the floor each morning, the devil says, “Oh crap. She’s up!”

I mean, picture it. What kind of a woman would that be? I am thinking that she would be a wild combination of Mother Teresa and Charro; someone quick to consternate single-minded wickedness with overwhelming sincerity, abundantly simple good works, and cleverness that outwits all possible obstacles. I picture someone funny and fun; someone motivated by compassion and drunk with joy; a woman who hands out sailboards to those who need to ride across waves of pain and teaches the lonely to Salsa dance together; a tireless champion of the human spirit.

Wow. I want to be her when I grow up.

“Oh crap. She’s up!”

Definitely Not a Sing-a-long

The tickets came to us as a combined birthday present. Both of us have been to plays, amateur hometown and college affairs, but certainly never one that reached Broadway, performed by professionals. It was the musical we would have chosen, though, because we had seen the movie half a dozen times on t.v. We never set out to watch the movie, but there was something about the music that unfailingly sucked us in as soon as we heard Chaim Topol’s tones and cadences fill the living room. "If I were a rich man, yuddy diddy diddy diddy diddy diddy diddy dum..." Can you hear the violin? Are you finishing the stanza in your mind? ("I would...biddy biddy bum") Sailing across the Keller Auditorium, his 73 year old voice was just as deep and rich on this day, the second to last day of his farewell US tour, as it was thirty-six years ago when the movie was made. Although the tickets were given to us on the condition that we would not sing along, it was a difficult pact to keep. Does humming count?

Fiddler on the Roof is a story with timeless themes running through it and the main character, Tevye is one with whom most of us can identify. Set in the village of Anatevka, Russia, the play speaks of political bigotry and revolution, cultural tradition and modernity, family love and turmoil. Above all, Tevye embodies the dynamic faith and humor of a parent seeking to understand and meet the challenges of the world and God’s perceived will while holding his family together the best he can, balancing determinedly like that fiddler on the roof. (Tradition!)

Besides the performances, it was also fascinating to see how a minimum of stage props, effective lighting, and transitional background music could be smoothly manipulated into a handful of scene changes with very little distraction. I am in awe of the seamlessness of the entire operation that managed to draw us right into Tevye’s very life. And, although this play has been running off and on since the sixties, with Topol playing Tevye since his twenties, I felt as though this was only the 25th performance instead of the 2500th. What a privilege for us, and what a joy!

http://www.fiddlerontour.com/index.html
http://www.oregonlive.com/performance/index.ssf/2009/08/topol_isnt_saying_farewell_to.html