I was going to spray the vineyard with fungicide. I got on the lawn mower to drive it to the sprayer in the shed. It went ten feet and quit. I checked the gas tank. It had over a half-tank of fuel sloshing around. I started it again and went two feet. It started and died without moving. Crap. I went into the house to report to Mom that the spraying wouldn't happen today, either.
"This has been a frustrating couple of days mechanically," I told Mom.
"Well, let's face it," she said, "it has been a frustrating couple of weeks or three."
I waved my hand at her. "Yeah, but that's you. We're talking about me now."
She snorted and waved her hand, "Oh, okay, that's just me."
"Focus, Mom. It's all about me right now." Hands were waving, fingers were pointing to me. "Focus."
"Okay," she breathed, recovering from laughing and wiping her tears. She tucked her hands between her knees and leaned forward. "I'm focused. Go."
Mom got the Reader's Digest synopsis. Not here.
First I had trouble getting the spear off the tractor. It's a nifty little 3-speared jousting device (weighing way more than I can pick up) that is attached to the tractor's bucket with a bolt and nut through a hole. The spear stabs those big round hay bales so you can move them. My nephew puts it on because he is a strong young man, and he usually takes it off for me so I can use the tractor. He had left it on the night before because they needed to get to his nephew's soccer game. No biggy as long as it's just finger tightened. I can get it off. Usually.
The trickiest part is figuring out lefty-loosey with a wrench on an upside-down nut you can't see. You can't see it because the bucket is low enough that it won't accidentally fall on your head. This is important for me. I know that there are some people who think all those mishaps over the married years were because of the drinking, you know: the concussion in the bathtub, the trip over the cat and through the sliding glass door, the death-by-toilet episode, the cell-phone debacle. But I have proven over the past six months of sobriety that this is actually a finely honed talent of mine. Who else can get a concussion while feeding a cat? I think the step of keeping the spear low is vital for me.
So I would figure out lefty-loosey with my hands (my fingers know) and then try to duplicate it with the wrenches. There are two wrenches: one for the nut and one for the bolt. The wrench on the bolt kept slipping. I switched wrenches, letting the shorter handled monkey-wrench wedge itself against the bucket, and concentrating on the nut I can't see. This takes a bit of positioning of the body between the spears to reach it. The wrench on the nut fell to the ground. I un-positioned myself and scooted it out from under the tractor with the other wrench. Then I repositioned the monkey wrench, figured out lefty-loosey with my fingers, and tried again. (Have I mentioned that my nephew is a strong young man?) The wrench clattered to the ground.
"This is unacceptable!" I yelled, throwing in a few cuss words that I very seldom use anymore. I stomped to the tractor, climbed up, turned it on, and raised the bucket. I would just leave the tractor running which would decrease the chance of hydraulic failure and death by tractor-spear. I didn't even need my fingers to figure out lefty-loosey: I could see it. One good tug to counter the super-strength of my nephew, and the nut was free to spin, and the bolt was removed. I marched to the seat, lowered the bucket, and left that spear in the dust.
I entered the vineyard in triumph, lowered the shredder to a nice low height, and turned it on. Within 10 feet, I had snagged a roll of wire hidden in the grass (it was in front of the bigger roll of wire that I could see and so went around). I turned off the shredder. Cuss, cuss, cuss. People just leave things lying all over this ranch, and by golly, why can't they pick them up? I'm going to pick up every darned stray object on this ranch all at once on purpose so I don't continue picking them up one at a time accidentally with the shredder. By golly. Cuss, cuss.
I backed the tractor up and the wire nearly came loose. Hmmm. Maybe this wasn't as bad as I thought; the wire didn't seem to be wrapped tightly around the blades. I got down and tugged on it. No movement. Back on the tractor I went forward, and the wire moved. I backed up, went forward, backed up, went forward. I got down and tugged. No movement. I bent over, ass in the air, head by my knees, trying to see under the shredder. I knelt down and tried again to look under the shredder. I'd have to get it out of the grass so I could see. I left the vineyard and drove back to the shed where the tools are, dragging that wire all the way. On the driveway to the barn, I could see that the bundle was stuck on the bent corner of the shredder's frame by just one wire. I got wire cutters even though I know that I can't cut fence wire with wire cutters, but the bolt cutters were in Robert's truck last I knew. I got a hammer and tried pounding it down. I went to put the hammer away, and TADA!!!! There, hanging on hooks in all their vibrant red glory were the bolt cutters. I grabbed them.
As I turned around, I saw dog shit on the floor of the shed with a distinctive Teva print smooshed through it. Some dog (obviously not my dog, because she is a good girl) had shit in the shed. Naturally I stepped in it. I sighed and went about the business of snipping the wire and tossing the smashed-up bundle in the bucket to put in the trash trailer. I wiped my foot on the grass, got on the tractor, dumped the wire and shredded the darned vineyard. Without further incident. Except for the rebar from the removed row 13 which is now lying next to row 12 which caused a ruckus but didn't get caught.
"Okay," I said to Mom, "I'm done. That's it. This fall I'm picking up all the crap around the ranch. But first I have to go move the lawn mower because it's sitting behind your van."
"Okay," she said.
I left the room, but turned and came right back. She put her head down on the desk. "What now?"
I told her about my Facebook status. I thought it would make a dandy t-shirt, or an awesome first line for a novel, but I used it on Facebook: "Shit happens. I just never see it until after I step in it."
I'm going to go shred now. Wish me luck.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Harvest
Glossary of Vineyard Tending Terms:
bird netting: a net which is placed over the grapevines in a continuous feed without cutting it to fit the rows (penalty for cutting: the Wrath of Mom) for the purpose of trapping birds for the cats and border collie to chase and catch. (Incidental benefit is that the netting prevents the birds from eating 3/4 of the grape.)
hedging: a) daily stroll up and down the aisles dressed in Easter finery and strappy high heels, waving hedge trimmers at the vines (source: commercial for Saks--or was it Macy's?) b) drudge work of trimming back rampant grapevines which seek daily to recreate that gut-wrenching final hand-holding scene in the old black and white film "Last of the Mohicans" across the aisles.
netting platform: a metal contraption that attaches to the back of the tractor with a flat place for standing, a hoop to hold the bag containing the bird netting, and a boom or arm with two hoops for feeding the netting out over the rows of grapevines. Along with netting for one acre of vineyard, the platform costs the equivalent of two years' profit.
verizon: when the grapes start turning purple indicating that "The Birds" are about to do a Hitchcock on the vineyard.
So what They said about bird netting was that once it was on, you were done with everything except spraying and praying until harvest. A few weeks of relief from the daily grind during the height of summer. Hallelujah. That's what they said, and by golly, that's what Mom and I were determined to believe.
While we were finishing the hedging so we could get the net on, I said, "That net's going to be tough to get off."
Mom said, "The vines stopped growing sooner last year."
"What?" I was confounded. Cabernet vines stop growing? Maybe in October. Mom and Dad planted the damned cabernet because they were a "vigorous" vine. The reason the no work in the vineyard from verizon to harvest sounded so good to me was because of the vigor of those vines. Vigorous is now one of my favorite cuss words meaning something akin to "royal pain in the ass."
"They always slow down after verizon, and we stop hedging in early August."
"We stop hedging when they harvest, Mom."
"At least it will give us a break."
Putting up the netting was a snap. (Ha.) It only took four of us: me to drive the tractor, Victoria to stand on the platform and feed the netting out of the bag and through the loops on the boom and Susan and Robert to walk behind, spreading the net out and draping it over the vines. Snap. Four hours of snap, and I was doubly determined to be done until harvest, when we'd take the net off the day before the pickers came.
A week later, Susan told Mom, "The wind blew the netting off the vineyard."
Mom looked out the window and said, "No. The vines are just growing through it."
"Oh. That's going to be fun to take off."
Every day, I walked by the vineyard on the way to help Mom take care of Dad, and thought, "Oh, that's going to be a bitch."
So what did we do about it? Mom sprayed. We prayed. That's what they said to do. I was praying that the vines really would stop growing. Soon. Before it was impossible to take the net off.
Grape harvest always, always, always takes place in August, usually the same weekend as the TICA South Central Regional Show and Banquet. I usually miss the show because of the harvest. When the Regional was in Austin, I did both harvest and banquet! This year I actually planned to miss the harvest and go to the Regional in LaFayette, Louisiana. Well, the grapes couldn't have me missing it, so harvest was about 2 weeks late.
When I got home from Louisiana, Mom told me that now They said that we were supposed to go through the vineyard daily fluffing up the netting so the vines didn't grow through the holes and entangle the net. She would pay me $10 an hour (my going rate for shredding the fields) to help trim the vines off the top of the net before harvest for three or four hours a day. Mind you, one hour in the vineyard is plenty of work for me, let alone for my 75 year old mother with her bad knees. But we did the time.
"Why do I always make mistakes?" Mom said. "I make new ones every year, but there's always something. In another twenty years, I should have this down."
"Oh, I can just see us out here in twenty years, Mom. I'll be the one in my seventies needing a walker. You'll be 95."
We finished with a day to spare. Well, of course we just thought it was a spare day. Turned out to be the day we should have put the platform on the tractor because naturally that fifteen minute job took over an hour.
Even though Mom and I had put in the grueling hours it took to get it ready, taking the netting off was still not a snap. I have decided that the only snap around here would be if we changed the name of the place from River Ridge Ranch and Vineyard to Murphy's Law Happens. Now that would be a snap. Snap.
It took five of us this time, with Victoria's boyfriend Patrick helping on the platform to pull the netting through the hoops. We were supposed to have the netting off the day before harvest, but Susan's husband had an auction (Charlie is an auctioneer) on Saturday, and their projected arrival time of 3:00 to help with the netting turned into twice later than the usual two hour tardniess. By the time the shredder was off the tractor and the platform was on, we had about a half hour of daylight left.
We worked through dusk. "Do you want flashlights?" I hinted to Susan.
"Do you have one?" She asked with a definite note of hope in her voice.
"Yeah, they're in the house."
"Oh." We worked through full dark. Susan and Robert had to stop about every five feet to untangle the net from the rebar ties. I could see because the tractor had lights, but they couldn't. So I went to the house and got flashlights. We were going so slow that we quit after another two rows, hoping that we could keep ahead of the pickers in the morning.
That didn't happen either. Harvest time was set for 6:30 in the morning, when the earliest hint of light allows limited vision. The pickers showed up at five. They were only a row behind by the time we got back to it, and they caught up with us, and passed us. They lifted the net and draped it on the top of the vines to pick underneath. This made it a heck of a lot easier to take the netting off--definitely the reason we finished at the same time as the pickers (as opposed to an hour later). Susan said, "Next year, we're taking the net off after they pick."
The harvest is in. The grapes are done. Until it all starts over again.
bird netting: a net which is placed over the grapevines in a continuous feed without cutting it to fit the rows (penalty for cutting: the Wrath of Mom) for the purpose of trapping birds for the cats and border collie to chase and catch. (Incidental benefit is that the netting prevents the birds from eating 3/4 of the grape.)
hedging: a) daily stroll up and down the aisles dressed in Easter finery and strappy high heels, waving hedge trimmers at the vines (source: commercial for Saks--or was it Macy's?) b) drudge work of trimming back rampant grapevines which seek daily to recreate that gut-wrenching final hand-holding scene in the old black and white film "Last of the Mohicans" across the aisles.
actual attire with live grasshopper (not jewelry)
verizon: when the grapes start turning purple indicating that "The Birds" are about to do a Hitchcock on the vineyard.
 |
| verizon |
So what They said about bird netting was that once it was on, you were done with everything except spraying and praying until harvest. A few weeks of relief from the daily grind during the height of summer. Hallelujah. That's what they said, and by golly, that's what Mom and I were determined to believe.
While we were finishing the hedging so we could get the net on, I said, "That net's going to be tough to get off."
Mom said, "The vines stopped growing sooner last year."
"What?" I was confounded. Cabernet vines stop growing? Maybe in October. Mom and Dad planted the damned cabernet because they were a "vigorous" vine. The reason the no work in the vineyard from verizon to harvest sounded so good to me was because of the vigor of those vines. Vigorous is now one of my favorite cuss words meaning something akin to "royal pain in the ass."
"They always slow down after verizon, and we stop hedging in early August."
"We stop hedging when they harvest, Mom."
"At least it will give us a break."
Putting up the netting was a snap. (Ha.) It only took four of us: me to drive the tractor, Victoria to stand on the platform and feed the netting out of the bag and through the loops on the boom and Susan and Robert to walk behind, spreading the net out and draping it over the vines. Snap. Four hours of snap, and I was doubly determined to be done until harvest, when we'd take the net off the day before the pickers came.
Mom looked out the window and said, "No. The vines are just growing through it."
"Oh. That's going to be fun to take off."
Every day, I walked by the vineyard on the way to help Mom take care of Dad, and thought, "Oh, that's going to be a bitch."
So what did we do about it? Mom sprayed. We prayed. That's what they said to do. I was praying that the vines really would stop growing. Soon. Before it was impossible to take the net off.
 |
| Robert |
 |
| Susan |
"Why do I always make mistakes?" Mom said. "I make new ones every year, but there's always something. In another twenty years, I should have this down."
"Oh, I can just see us out here in twenty years, Mom. I'll be the one in my seventies needing a walker. You'll be 95."
We finished with a day to spare. Well, of course we just thought it was a spare day. Turned out to be the day we should have put the platform on the tractor because naturally that fifteen minute job took over an hour.
Even though Mom and I had put in the grueling hours it took to get it ready, taking the netting off was still not a snap. I have decided that the only snap around here would be if we changed the name of the place from River Ridge Ranch and Vineyard to Murphy's Law Happens. Now that would be a snap. Snap.
Below, the bored tractor driver tries to entertain herself which draws a chorus of objection from the rest of the crew: "No texting while driving!" She replies, "I'm not texting! I'm posting on FaceBook."
 |
| Next year's warning label: "Do not read warning labels while operating tractor." |
 |
| Patrick |
We worked through dusk. "Do you want flashlights?" I hinted to Susan.
"Do you have one?" She asked with a definite note of hope in her voice.
"Yeah, they're in the house."
 |
| Victoria |
That didn't happen either. Harvest time was set for 6:30 in the morning, when the earliest hint of light allows limited vision. The pickers showed up at five. They were only a row behind by the time we got back to it, and they caught up with us, and passed us. They lifted the net and draped it on the top of the vines to pick underneath. This made it a heck of a lot easier to take the netting off--definitely the reason we finished at the same time as the pickers (as opposed to an hour later). Susan said, "Next year, we're taking the net off after they pick."
The harvest is in. The grapes are done. Until it all starts over again.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Achey-Breaky Tractor of Tears
At Uptown Blanco’s Sunday brunch in July, I was walking back from the buffet with my omelet, and our waitress Bonnie asked, “Are you shrinking?”
“Yes, I am,” I beamed. “I’ve lost over 200 pounds.”
“No!”
“Yep. My husband and some off of me, too.” (My family loves that joke. I surely didn’t invent it, but I have made good use of it, beginning at my birthday brunch one week after the Divorce announcement. On that day, I sighed contentedly over my last Mimosas, and said, “Marriage is fattening. I’ve already lost 175 pounds.”)
She laughed. “Well it all looks good on you!”
Everyone comments on how good I look, how happy I look. I do look happy. I am happier. I like my life better these days. I like the energy and sheer joyfulness of being sober. I like being able to get things done. (If you feel a “but” coming on, you may know me well.)
With all the rain this spring, the wildflowers and weeds are rampant. Wildflowers are the heart and soul of my favorite form of gardening, and I made good use of them in my yard this year. Weeds are wildflowers where Mom doesn’t want them. I’ve been working on round three of field shredding, and the beggar lice plants are already four feet high in the lower eastern pasture. Before I could get back to it, I had to finish the coastal field. In the process of shredding the coastal field, I developed an aversion to the tractor.
It wasn’t the heat or the dust that had me looking for any little spit of water from the sky as an excuse not to shred. “Oh, darn; it’s raining. Can’t shred.” I mean, granted it’s hot as heck out there, and after three hours of being coated with dust, I resemble a golem, a very itchy golem in dire need of a shower, but that wasn’t the aversion. It was more of an emotional nature.
When I work on the tractor, I wear noise-cancelling ear buds attached to my i-Pod Nano and listen to books. Otherwise, the sheer boredom would pretty much guarantee that Mom would have to hire someone else to shred, and I would lose the little income I actually have to spend on frivolities like paint for the porch, food, birthday presents and, well, books to listen to on the tractor.
The other day, I’d only been out there for an hour when my book ended. Without the enchantment of a narrative pumped directly into my brain, I was left alone with my own thoughts.
And the first thought was, “I don’t remember marrying an asshole.”
Relatively harmless thought, eh? I could easily take that in a humorous direction. Yep. I don’t remember saying, “Hey, this guy’s a jerk; I think I’ll marry him.” Wahaha.
But no! I guess I’ve had it too easy lately, wrapped up in the sheer joy of being unchained, free from daily degradation and hang-overs. I got hit instead with a wallop of melancholy at thought number two. “I remember marrying a kind, thoughtful, funny guy who seemed to give a shit about me.” Within seconds, my face was covered in muddy rivulets as I went from feeling like I’d won the lotto to realizing that this was Divorce, that the man I’d thought was my best friend wasn’t a friend at all, that my heart has been blown to smithereens. Ouch.
Okay, so I didn’t marry an asshole, but by golly I’m divorcing one, thank God. I came to terms with these thoughts and was able to reclaim my emotional equilibrium within a few hours. It took two days to recover from the swelling of all that eye-leaking. I am too old to cry without severe poofing of the eyelids.
The next time I went out on the tractor, I was well-armed with seven hours of book and a back-up. Fat lot of good it did me. I kept having to rewind the book as my own thoughts pirated my brain. Within moments, I was bowed down by the weight of the loss and crying again. The loss of my babies, the loss of my sobriety, the loss of my spiritual life, the loss of my teaching career, the loss of ten years of my life. By the time I made it to the shower that day, I had renamed the John Deere my “Achy-Breaky Tractor of Tears.”
It was with intense trepidation that I returned to the pasture the next day. Most of the beggar lice was down, but I had a good six hours of shredding left. The swollen folds of skin around my eyes still resembled bruised bloodhound eyes. I didn’t think I could take another round of tractor therapy, so I was hoping that Alice Hoffman would have my undivided attention. For the most part, she did.
That part of my attention that wandered was caught up in the daily glories of living on a ranch. The weather was a little cooler (Texas summer cold front: high in the mid nineties), a little less humid. Yummy whipped cumulous clouds floated across a vivid blue sky. I was able to avoid most of the dust as a cool breeze wafted across the river and up the slope to my side. Dragonflies flew beside the tractor, and purple martins swooped around me feasting on grasshoppers. A fox bounded out of the weeds in front of me to escape in the abundant greenery lining the banks of the tank.
Thank God for a day of reprieve from the grief. I want so much to be able to just build a bridge and get over this, to not have to go through it. I know better, I really do. So thank God, also, for that Achy-Breaky Tractor of Tears. At least I’m not breaking down in the middle of the bank or grocery store.
“Yes, I am,” I beamed. “I’ve lost over 200 pounds.”
“No!”
“Yep. My husband and some off of me, too.” (My family loves that joke. I surely didn’t invent it, but I have made good use of it, beginning at my birthday brunch one week after the Divorce announcement. On that day, I sighed contentedly over my last Mimosas, and said, “Marriage is fattening. I’ve already lost 175 pounds.”)
She laughed. “Well it all looks good on you!”
Everyone comments on how good I look, how happy I look. I do look happy. I am happier. I like my life better these days. I like the energy and sheer joyfulness of being sober. I like being able to get things done. (If you feel a “but” coming on, you may know me well.)
With all the rain this spring, the wildflowers and weeds are rampant. Wildflowers are the heart and soul of my favorite form of gardening, and I made good use of them in my yard this year. Weeds are wildflowers where Mom doesn’t want them. I’ve been working on round three of field shredding, and the beggar lice plants are already four feet high in the lower eastern pasture. Before I could get back to it, I had to finish the coastal field. In the process of shredding the coastal field, I developed an aversion to the tractor.
It wasn’t the heat or the dust that had me looking for any little spit of water from the sky as an excuse not to shred. “Oh, darn; it’s raining. Can’t shred.” I mean, granted it’s hot as heck out there, and after three hours of being coated with dust, I resemble a golem, a very itchy golem in dire need of a shower, but that wasn’t the aversion. It was more of an emotional nature.
When I work on the tractor, I wear noise-cancelling ear buds attached to my i-Pod Nano and listen to books. Otherwise, the sheer boredom would pretty much guarantee that Mom would have to hire someone else to shred, and I would lose the little income I actually have to spend on frivolities like paint for the porch, food, birthday presents and, well, books to listen to on the tractor.
The other day, I’d only been out there for an hour when my book ended. Without the enchantment of a narrative pumped directly into my brain, I was left alone with my own thoughts.
And the first thought was, “I don’t remember marrying an asshole.”
Relatively harmless thought, eh? I could easily take that in a humorous direction. Yep. I don’t remember saying, “Hey, this guy’s a jerk; I think I’ll marry him.” Wahaha.
But no! I guess I’ve had it too easy lately, wrapped up in the sheer joy of being unchained, free from daily degradation and hang-overs. I got hit instead with a wallop of melancholy at thought number two. “I remember marrying a kind, thoughtful, funny guy who seemed to give a shit about me.” Within seconds, my face was covered in muddy rivulets as I went from feeling like I’d won the lotto to realizing that this was Divorce, that the man I’d thought was my best friend wasn’t a friend at all, that my heart has been blown to smithereens. Ouch.
Okay, so I didn’t marry an asshole, but by golly I’m divorcing one, thank God. I came to terms with these thoughts and was able to reclaim my emotional equilibrium within a few hours. It took two days to recover from the swelling of all that eye-leaking. I am too old to cry without severe poofing of the eyelids.
The next time I went out on the tractor, I was well-armed with seven hours of book and a back-up. Fat lot of good it did me. I kept having to rewind the book as my own thoughts pirated my brain. Within moments, I was bowed down by the weight of the loss and crying again. The loss of my babies, the loss of my sobriety, the loss of my spiritual life, the loss of my teaching career, the loss of ten years of my life. By the time I made it to the shower that day, I had renamed the John Deere my “Achy-Breaky Tractor of Tears.”
It was with intense trepidation that I returned to the pasture the next day. Most of the beggar lice was down, but I had a good six hours of shredding left. The swollen folds of skin around my eyes still resembled bruised bloodhound eyes. I didn’t think I could take another round of tractor therapy, so I was hoping that Alice Hoffman would have my undivided attention. For the most part, she did.
That part of my attention that wandered was caught up in the daily glories of living on a ranch. The weather was a little cooler (Texas summer cold front: high in the mid nineties), a little less humid. Yummy whipped cumulous clouds floated across a vivid blue sky. I was able to avoid most of the dust as a cool breeze wafted across the river and up the slope to my side. Dragonflies flew beside the tractor, and purple martins swooped around me feasting on grasshoppers. A fox bounded out of the weeds in front of me to escape in the abundant greenery lining the banks of the tank.
Thank God for a day of reprieve from the grief. I want so much to be able to just build a bridge and get over this, to not have to go through it. I know better, I really do. So thank God, also, for that Achy-Breaky Tractor of Tears. At least I’m not breaking down in the middle of the bank or grocery store.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Emotional Tiggers
One Saturday morning in late May, I had a few quick errands to run on the northern outskirts of San Antonio. Borrowing Mom's van was not an option since one of those errands was picking up the 5' x 8' trailer I'd bought for Mom yesterday from Tractor Supply. With a forecasted high around 95, I had to plan a suitable strategy for surviving the trip in my '95 Jeep Wrangler sans air-conditioning.
First I would hit HEB Plus, the Disneyland of grocery stores, where I could leave the windows down; an empty Heap, oh, I mean Jeep, meant no temptation. From there, I would head over to PetSmart for a rapid dash to swoop up cat litter and food. Such a quick errand would allow me to leave the windows open, fragile groceries chilling in blue insulated grocery bags. Tractor Supply would be next. The trailer was already paid for, the title done, so it would be all ready for me to slap on the Jeep and head for home. I could be home by noon. It could happen.
Saturday is not my day of choice for running any errands, let alone wading through the crowds of a popular grocery store. My agoraphobia may be mild, but shopping is one of the main triggers. At least it's not a mall. At least I've been there before with my sister. I was bolstering my already mopey self with heavy walls of Zen denial and lists of "at leasts," when the first notes of Paul Simon's "Kodachrome" played on the stereo. With an eager grin, walls shed, I cranked it up and belted it out. Oh yeah. I do indeed "got a Nikon camera." Two in fact: one D-80 for the digital world and one N-90S for Kodachrome. That's right. I am a photographer, a poet, a mighty woman worthy of great things. Oh yeah. "Mama don't take my Kodachrome away!"
Still grinning, I parked my beloved at the back of the parking lot, grabbed my canvas bags, put them in a cart and trekked off to the store. I calmly navigated through oodles of produce picking humanity, intent on my list. Weaving through home goods to pick up the ever important toilet paper and baggies led me to the far side of the cavernous grocery park for some health and beauty. Dad needed bed pads. I needed body powder. Body powder. He didn't like my body powder. Bleak thoughts threatened to pull my mood back down.
I passed two women, mother and daughter, examining sun screens. "I don't know," the mother said, "I just don't believe it could be 100%." I caught myself mumbling, "That's not what it means." Shit howdy. What was I doing? I stopped my cart, backed up and said, "Excuse me, but it's doesn't mean 100%. The SPF number means you can stay out in the sun that much longer than without sunscreen." Of course, there is debate as to whether anything over 15 is worth it and the whole broad spectrum issue to consider, but at least I could share a little bit of knowledge. I knew the product they were considering protected against both UVA and UVB rays, because I'd already checked. I gave an apologetic shrug and smile. "Sorry. I was passing, and I just overheard."
"Oh, no," they replied, "thank you. You look like you would know." We laughed. Yeah. I'm a fair skinned farming fool, and I do wear the SPF 100. And a hat. The sunglasses that protect my ultra sensitive blue eyes still work better than any sunscreen, turning me into an anti-raccoon.
Good mood restored by a very minor good deed, I continued shopping. I was almost done when I saw OFF! still on my list. I had brought my laptop out to the porch the evening before only to be chased back to my office by mosquitoes. I scanned the aisle signs and decided to check by insecticides. Bingo! There they were right by another perplexed shopper. I reached for my favorite compromise to 100% DEET (which melts nylon and may not be that great for your skin but is a camping must-have, especially in Canada where the mosquito is the national bird): Deep Woods Off! The lady asked me, "Is that good? Does it work? My dad was mowing the lawn last night, and he was eaten up by mosquitoes."
"It works well enough. It has more DEET than the regular one, and DEET is the active ingredient." When she thanked me, I laughed, and joked "Maybe I could have a new career helping people shop." I felt pretty good. I was interacting like I thought a normal person would; a person not crippled with fear and self-doubt. Huh. Come to think about it, I've been doing that a lot lately: actually interacting with strangers and smiling. I guess that's one of the benefits of not facing daily scorn and disdain.
PetSmart and TSC were also positive people experiences, even though picking up the trailer was not as quick as it should have been because the ball on my Jeep was too big for the hitch. An hour later, after much discussion and fumbling, (I said, "Is the ball too big?" He said, "No, the spare tire is in the way." Off came the spare--a real chore--to reveal that the ball was too big.), I was finally on my way home, reflecting on my morning.
They say that when one door closes, another opens. I tend to stay in that room until God gives me a good swift kick through the other door, like I stayed in my marriage because I made those vows and meant them. I am going through a divorce not of my choosing, so my days are filled with emotional triggers that can pull me back down. Even a simple task like washing the dishes or scooping a litterbox brings back his voice in my head, telling me that I don't do it right, that I'm not good enough. Sometimes I just need to tell that voice to "Shut the fuck up" and let me enjoy a bubble bath! I need those little emotional triggers that help to build me back up with bubbling, buoyant happiness, like a great song on the radio or a small act of kindness that remind me that life is wonderful and getting better every day. Emotional Tiggers.
First I would hit HEB Plus, the Disneyland of grocery stores, where I could leave the windows down; an empty Heap, oh, I mean Jeep, meant no temptation. From there, I would head over to PetSmart for a rapid dash to swoop up cat litter and food. Such a quick errand would allow me to leave the windows open, fragile groceries chilling in blue insulated grocery bags. Tractor Supply would be next. The trailer was already paid for, the title done, so it would be all ready for me to slap on the Jeep and head for home. I could be home by noon. It could happen.
Saturday is not my day of choice for running any errands, let alone wading through the crowds of a popular grocery store. My agoraphobia may be mild, but shopping is one of the main triggers. At least it's not a mall. At least I've been there before with my sister. I was bolstering my already mopey self with heavy walls of Zen denial and lists of "at leasts," when the first notes of Paul Simon's "Kodachrome" played on the stereo. With an eager grin, walls shed, I cranked it up and belted it out. Oh yeah. I do indeed "got a Nikon camera." Two in fact: one D-80 for the digital world and one N-90S for Kodachrome. That's right. I am a photographer, a poet, a mighty woman worthy of great things. Oh yeah. "Mama don't take my Kodachrome away!"
Still grinning, I parked my beloved at the back of the parking lot, grabbed my canvas bags, put them in a cart and trekked off to the store. I calmly navigated through oodles of produce picking humanity, intent on my list. Weaving through home goods to pick up the ever important toilet paper and baggies led me to the far side of the cavernous grocery park for some health and beauty. Dad needed bed pads. I needed body powder. Body powder. He didn't like my body powder. Bleak thoughts threatened to pull my mood back down.
I passed two women, mother and daughter, examining sun screens. "I don't know," the mother said, "I just don't believe it could be 100%." I caught myself mumbling, "That's not what it means." Shit howdy. What was I doing? I stopped my cart, backed up and said, "Excuse me, but it's doesn't mean 100%. The SPF number means you can stay out in the sun that much longer than without sunscreen." Of course, there is debate as to whether anything over 15 is worth it and the whole broad spectrum issue to consider, but at least I could share a little bit of knowledge. I knew the product they were considering protected against both UVA and UVB rays, because I'd already checked. I gave an apologetic shrug and smile. "Sorry. I was passing, and I just overheard."
"Oh, no," they replied, "thank you. You look like you would know." We laughed. Yeah. I'm a fair skinned farming fool, and I do wear the SPF 100. And a hat. The sunglasses that protect my ultra sensitive blue eyes still work better than any sunscreen, turning me into an anti-raccoon.
Good mood restored by a very minor good deed, I continued shopping. I was almost done when I saw OFF! still on my list. I had brought my laptop out to the porch the evening before only to be chased back to my office by mosquitoes. I scanned the aisle signs and decided to check by insecticides. Bingo! There they were right by another perplexed shopper. I reached for my favorite compromise to 100% DEET (which melts nylon and may not be that great for your skin but is a camping must-have, especially in Canada where the mosquito is the national bird): Deep Woods Off! The lady asked me, "Is that good? Does it work? My dad was mowing the lawn last night, and he was eaten up by mosquitoes."
"It works well enough. It has more DEET than the regular one, and DEET is the active ingredient." When she thanked me, I laughed, and joked "Maybe I could have a new career helping people shop." I felt pretty good. I was interacting like I thought a normal person would; a person not crippled with fear and self-doubt. Huh. Come to think about it, I've been doing that a lot lately: actually interacting with strangers and smiling. I guess that's one of the benefits of not facing daily scorn and disdain.
PetSmart and TSC were also positive people experiences, even though picking up the trailer was not as quick as it should have been because the ball on my Jeep was too big for the hitch. An hour later, after much discussion and fumbling, (I said, "Is the ball too big?" He said, "No, the spare tire is in the way." Off came the spare--a real chore--to reveal that the ball was too big.), I was finally on my way home, reflecting on my morning.
They say that when one door closes, another opens. I tend to stay in that room until God gives me a good swift kick through the other door, like I stayed in my marriage because I made those vows and meant them. I am going through a divorce not of my choosing, so my days are filled with emotional triggers that can pull me back down. Even a simple task like washing the dishes or scooping a litterbox brings back his voice in my head, telling me that I don't do it right, that I'm not good enough. Sometimes I just need to tell that voice to "Shut the fuck up" and let me enjoy a bubble bath! I need those little emotional triggers that help to build me back up with bubbling, buoyant happiness, like a great song on the radio or a small act of kindness that remind me that life is wonderful and getting better every day. Emotional Tiggers.
Friday, May 7, 2010
Ten Years in a Box
I have books! The majority of my books have spent the last ten years in boxes. They are now free, proudly displayed on my lovely mission style bookshelves. Unpacking the books was a process of rediscovery, each book a treasure and a clue to who I am. Step by step, I am reclaiming myself and building a new, unrepressed life.
Penny in Seguin
October 2005
It must be difficult to be the actual Center of the Universe and not make it to a single ring, not win a single rosette. For pictures of my "traumatized" kitten, we thank Julie Mosley, who got the shots of the nervous kitty on her cell-phone. (Yes, I left the Nikon at home--I figured that with showing 2 HHPK and Kuma by myself, I had enough to do. I am spoiled.)
Kuma got a rosette.
Kenny got 10 rosettes.
Pima la Femme Barbe'e got 11 rosettes (including the Becknell award).
Penny got...well, Penny got all the OTHER attention.
She served as a perfect example of a non-rufoused brown spotted tabby. Many people think rufoused means "red," and while it does indeed mean a reddening, it is not just red. As Libbie Kerr once explained, picture a bottle of yellow food coloring. In the bottle, in high concentration, it appears red. When diluted, it's yellow; rufousing is all those rich buttery colors and apricot and red. So Penny was more than able to hold her cool-colored self up to rufoused kitties for the comparison. She is truly one cool kitty. I mean, people asked me if she was a (tarnished) silver.
She's cool in other ways, too. We walked around the show hall and she took it all in. When I stopped talking to chat, she would get impatient with me. As I left a group to walk with her as she began to squirm, I confessed, "She's a bit spoiled."
Mark guffawed. "What? You?!? Spoil a cat? Noooo!"
Hmmm...maybe I need to try some tough love to get Kuma out of turtle mode. Maybe I do coddle them a bit. But Penny plays Airplane-Kitty, too. Zip, zip through the air, never knowing which way we'll twist her next.
Penny's a tiny bit famous now since her mom can't seem to stop writing about her, so many people were thrilled to meet the little princess they had read about. Since we'll be doing the photography for the TIFS Deer Park show (my first professional cat gig--all I've dealt with before are rock bands in California), I hired Jesse to agent our cats.
"Which cats?" he asked.
I pointed, "Kuma, Pima, and," I whipped her limp form out for dramatic effect, "Penny."
I can't even type the cacophony of disbelief that came from the circle of my dear friends at that announcement. I believe it was Mark, Jesse's dad, who quipped, "For that honor, YOU should pay HER."
I don't know. I'm thinking maybe showing the Center of the Universe will not be a walk in the park.
Penny in Seguin
October 2005
Kuma got a rosette.
Kenny got 10 rosettes.
Pima la Femme Barbe'e got 11 rosettes (including the Becknell award).
Penny got...well, Penny got all the OTHER attention.
She served as a perfect example of a non-rufoused brown spotted tabby. Many people think rufoused means "red," and while it does indeed mean a reddening, it is not just red. As Libbie Kerr once explained, picture a bottle of yellow food coloring. In the bottle, in high concentration, it appears red. When diluted, it's yellow; rufousing is all those rich buttery colors and apricot and red. So Penny was more than able to hold her cool-colored self up to rufoused kitties for the comparison. She is truly one cool kitty. I mean, people asked me if she was a (tarnished) silver.
She's cool in other ways, too. We walked around the show hall and she took it all in. When I stopped talking to chat, she would get impatient with me. As I left a group to walk with her as she began to squirm, I confessed, "She's a bit spoiled."
Mark guffawed. "What? You?!? Spoil a cat? Noooo!"
Hmmm...maybe I need to try some tough love to get Kuma out of turtle mode. Maybe I do coddle them a bit. But Penny plays Airplane-Kitty, too. Zip, zip through the air, never knowing which way we'll twist her next.
Penny's a tiny bit famous now since her mom can't seem to stop writing about her, so many people were thrilled to meet the little princess they had read about. Since we'll be doing the photography for the TIFS Deer Park show (my first professional cat gig--all I've dealt with before are rock bands in California), I hired Jesse to agent our cats.
"Which cats?" he asked.
I pointed, "Kuma, Pima, and," I whipped her limp form out for dramatic effect, "Penny."
I don't know. I'm thinking maybe showing the Center of the Universe will not be a walk in the park.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Hi Ho Hi Ho
My morning puttering is done, so it's time to commute to work. Let me define those terms. Commute: The tractor is parked at my house. I drive it to the field. After work, I drive it back to my house and park it. Work: In the field, I drive the tractor around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around . Don't interupt; I'm channeling my inner Gertrude Stein.
Surprizingly enough, this work is exhausting, so I will post a Penny story before going to work.
Penny and the Band
October 2005
Last weekend was another adventure filled weekend for us. As usual, we were supposed to be in two places at once: the hurricane relief show in Brenham and my mom and dad's vineyard to help clear out the lost cabernet crop. Guess who won? No question. Mom comes first. The Brenham show still gets our entry fee donation, but Mom won our actual presence.
Mom has hired the local high school band to come pick her grapes every year for the past three years. Personally, I think this qualifies Mom for Mensa and sainthood! It used to take our family two days to harvest the grapes, with the help of the local monks. The high school band has it done by noon. The band likes it, too. This is how the new kids who show up pay for their uniforms. Usually, this takes place in August. Unfortunately, after promising a five year contract, Mom's new winery rejected her grapes at 21 bricks (that's sugar content) at harvest time.
(Now, just so you know, Mom's old winery--Texas Hills--did an exclusive run on their vineyard's grapes at 21 bricks, aged the vintage in oak and came up with about the best red wine I have ever tasted. I wouldn't just say that because it's my mom. Heck, I wish I could find this wine somewhere else, because I adore a good red wine, and there are less than two cases left in the world.)
But the new winery wouldn't accept the harvest (it appears that the vineyard/winery world is kind of like the cat breeder/buyer world: When they're happy, they're ecstatic, and when they're pissed, it's someone else's fault. Unfortunately, Mom was in a pick or die situation because of a fungus. She knows better than to pick bad grapes...hmmm...must be in the genes. When the
winery rejected her crop, the fungus won. So the band had to wait until October1 to harvest the mummies. Mom will eradicate the fungus this winter.
Penny. Ah yes, Penny. This is about Penny. On Friday, she had finally fulfilled her duties as queen of the day. When the first graders left, she crashed. When we got home, and I started
packing, she crashed again. She crashed in the Jeep as well, and she slept all night at Grandma & Grandpa's after our 1:00 a.m. arrival. The next morning she was ready for the band.
The band arrived in a school bus at 8:00 a.m. I found this out afterward. Spencer woke me up at 8:30. There were scattered pick-ups in the front. The bus was gone. I heard voices. I got up, got dressed, and went out to find my mom. Shortly afterward, she said to me, "You and Susan are in charge. Make sure they're working."
I don't like to be in charge, but Mom had to take care of Daddy who had a stroke 3 years ago. I immediately yelled to my little sister, "Susan, you're in charge!" (My new principal has taught me all about delegation.)
Mom was worried that work wasn't getting done because she kept seeing band members walking around the vineyard and laughing, squirting each other with water from the water bucket, etc. I went in to find Penny, and slipped on her leash/harness.
(Have I mentioned her leash training? It goes like this: Thursday night I put it on; she was trained.)
We went out to the vineyard to supervise. I set her down, and she cavorted amongst the grass, chasing butterflies and other smaller insects. We were immediately mobbed by gushing high schoolers around the water trailer. She is a kitten, still, yes indeed, a mere 11 weeks old--so tiny to them, so growing up to me. They marveled at the kitten on the leash. They wanted to hold her. I figured, heck yes, the more strangers handling her, the better. :) I also hovered like a nervous mama, ready to snatch her back. When they identified her as looking "like a leopard," I beamed.
Finally, the mob subsided, and Penny and I were able to walk up and down the rows, inspecting. She's as happy in my arm stretched out with her hand on my palm as she is walking on her own. We marched up and down many completely grape mummy denuded rows before she insisted that she wanted to play in the grass again. When we were finished, I rushed from the vineyard into the backyard.
"Susan!" I hollered to my sister who was chatting with a band mom, "We need to start cooking! They're almost done!"
It was ten in the morning, and we needed to cook lunch for the high school band. Normally, this would simply involve barbequed hot dogs, buns, condiments and sodas. But since I had to boil chicken before Hurricane Rita, and Spencer had bought 80 non-perishable tortillas before Rita, the band got a treat. Chicken fajita tacos. My job. While I was frantically changing boiled chicken into tasty fajitas, several girls came in to use the restroom and to play with Penny. Some just wanted to play with Penny, but one poor red-faced youngster locked herself in the bathroom and had to be rescued. This is a common hazard with the oldsliding door, and I assured her upon her release that we had all been there.
Lunch (or in this case, brunch) is a picnic in Mom & Dad's backyard under theshade of the ancient bodark tree. Benches, chairs and steps are available. Blankets are spread for the lounging pleasure of high schoolers at a Romanesque feast. I brought Penny back out on her leash. She again leapt over the grass, chasing grasshoppers, butterflies, her leash and nothing.
"Aunt Bobbi Jean," a voice chimed, and I turned to realize in shock that my little niece, my baby girl, Victoria, was one of those high schoolers lounging on the blanket nearest me. "Bengals come from leopards, don't they?"
Ah, I could tell by her tone that I had been called in as an authority to settle a debate. I told them, "They originated as a cross between a domestic cat and an Asian leopard cat, which is a like a very small leopard. Penny is about six generations away from the ALC."
One of her companions, a lovely young blonde lady, asked to walk Penny, then inquired, "Where can I find that toy she likes?"
Ahh...one who came inside to play with her. I relinquished the leash and went to find the Princess Penny's scepter. I handed it over with all intention of hovering, but Mom called me away to be the Official Photographer to click the handing over of the check from River Ridge Vineyard to the Blanco High School Band. I left Victoria in charge of her cousin, Penny. (Victoria is thrilled to have two cousins now: Rubah and Penny.)
In all fairness, I must mention that Rubah, Penny's best friend, was there, too. It was a windy day, so he didn't want to be outside much, but I overheard my nephew, Robert, tell a sophomore, "I'm a dog person, but I love THAT cat." He was talking, of course, about Rubah.
"I want one," the sophomore replied.
"Oh, sure," a freshman girl snipped, "got $800? Those are expensive cats"
Despite my worries, Penny was fine. In fact, she ran that blonde around in circles so much, the
girl fell over. :)
Soon afterward, the school bus drove up my parents 1/4 mile driveway and the band departed.
Surprizingly enough, this work is exhausting, so I will post a Penny story before going to work.
Penny and the Band
October 2005
Last weekend was another adventure filled weekend for us. As usual, we were supposed to be in two places at once: the hurricane relief show in Brenham and my mom and dad's vineyard to help clear out the lost cabernet crop. Guess who won? No question. Mom comes first. The Brenham show still gets our entry fee donation, but Mom won our actual presence.
Mom has hired the local high school band to come pick her grapes every year for the past three years. Personally, I think this qualifies Mom for Mensa and sainthood! It used to take our family two days to harvest the grapes, with the help of the local monks. The high school band has it done by noon. The band likes it, too. This is how the new kids who show up pay for their uniforms. Usually, this takes place in August. Unfortunately, after promising a five year contract, Mom's new winery rejected her grapes at 21 bricks (that's sugar content) at harvest time.
(Now, just so you know, Mom's old winery--Texas Hills--did an exclusive run on their vineyard's grapes at 21 bricks, aged the vintage in oak and came up with about the best red wine I have ever tasted. I wouldn't just say that because it's my mom. Heck, I wish I could find this wine somewhere else, because I adore a good red wine, and there are less than two cases left in the world.)
But the new winery wouldn't accept the harvest (it appears that the vineyard/winery world is kind of like the cat breeder/buyer world: When they're happy, they're ecstatic, and when they're pissed, it's someone else's fault. Unfortunately, Mom was in a pick or die situation because of a fungus. She knows better than to pick bad grapes...hmmm...must be in the genes. When the
winery rejected her crop, the fungus won. So the band had to wait until October1 to harvest the mummies. Mom will eradicate the fungus this winter.
Penny. Ah yes, Penny. This is about Penny. On Friday, she had finally fulfilled her duties as queen of the day. When the first graders left, she crashed. When we got home, and I started
packing, she crashed again. She crashed in the Jeep as well, and she slept all night at Grandma & Grandpa's after our 1:00 a.m. arrival. The next morning she was ready for the band.
The band arrived in a school bus at 8:00 a.m. I found this out afterward. Spencer woke me up at 8:30. There were scattered pick-ups in the front. The bus was gone. I heard voices. I got up, got dressed, and went out to find my mom. Shortly afterward, she said to me, "You and Susan are in charge. Make sure they're working."
I don't like to be in charge, but Mom had to take care of Daddy who had a stroke 3 years ago. I immediately yelled to my little sister, "Susan, you're in charge!" (My new principal has taught me all about delegation.)
Mom was worried that work wasn't getting done because she kept seeing band members walking around the vineyard and laughing, squirting each other with water from the water bucket, etc. I went in to find Penny, and slipped on her leash/harness.
(Have I mentioned her leash training? It goes like this: Thursday night I put it on; she was trained.)
We went out to the vineyard to supervise. I set her down, and she cavorted amongst the grass, chasing butterflies and other smaller insects. We were immediately mobbed by gushing high schoolers around the water trailer. She is a kitten, still, yes indeed, a mere 11 weeks old--so tiny to them, so growing up to me. They marveled at the kitten on the leash. They wanted to hold her. I figured, heck yes, the more strangers handling her, the better. :) I also hovered like a nervous mama, ready to snatch her back. When they identified her as looking "like a leopard," I beamed.
Finally, the mob subsided, and Penny and I were able to walk up and down the rows, inspecting. She's as happy in my arm stretched out with her hand on my palm as she is walking on her own. We marched up and down many completely grape mummy denuded rows before she insisted that she wanted to play in the grass again. When we were finished, I rushed from the vineyard into the backyard.
"Susan!" I hollered to my sister who was chatting with a band mom, "We need to start cooking! They're almost done!"
It was ten in the morning, and we needed to cook lunch for the high school band. Normally, this would simply involve barbequed hot dogs, buns, condiments and sodas. But since I had to boil chicken before Hurricane Rita, and Spencer had bought 80 non-perishable tortillas before Rita, the band got a treat. Chicken fajita tacos. My job. While I was frantically changing boiled chicken into tasty fajitas, several girls came in to use the restroom and to play with Penny. Some just wanted to play with Penny, but one poor red-faced youngster locked herself in the bathroom and had to be rescued. This is a common hazard with the oldsliding door, and I assured her upon her release that we had all been there.
Lunch (or in this case, brunch) is a picnic in Mom & Dad's backyard under theshade of the ancient bodark tree. Benches, chairs and steps are available. Blankets are spread for the lounging pleasure of high schoolers at a Romanesque feast. I brought Penny back out on her leash. She again leapt over the grass, chasing grasshoppers, butterflies, her leash and nothing.
"Aunt Bobbi Jean," a voice chimed, and I turned to realize in shock that my little niece, my baby girl, Victoria, was one of those high schoolers lounging on the blanket nearest me. "Bengals come from leopards, don't they?"
Ah, I could tell by her tone that I had been called in as an authority to settle a debate. I told them, "They originated as a cross between a domestic cat and an Asian leopard cat, which is a like a very small leopard. Penny is about six generations away from the ALC."
One of her companions, a lovely young blonde lady, asked to walk Penny, then inquired, "Where can I find that toy she likes?"
Ahh...one who came inside to play with her. I relinquished the leash and went to find the Princess Penny's scepter. I handed it over with all intention of hovering, but Mom called me away to be the Official Photographer to click the handing over of the check from River Ridge Vineyard to the Blanco High School Band. I left Victoria in charge of her cousin, Penny. (Victoria is thrilled to have two cousins now: Rubah and Penny.)
In all fairness, I must mention that Rubah, Penny's best friend, was there, too. It was a windy day, so he didn't want to be outside much, but I overheard my nephew, Robert, tell a sophomore, "I'm a dog person, but I love THAT cat." He was talking, of course, about Rubah.
"I want one," the sophomore replied.
"Oh, sure," a freshman girl snipped, "got $800? Those are expensive cats"
Despite my worries, Penny was fine. In fact, she ran that blonde around in circles so much, the
girl fell over. :)
Soon afterward, the school bus drove up my parents 1/4 mile driveway and the band departed. Penny immediately collapsed, and I handed her off to her grandma so Spencer and I could trek off to Ace in the Hills hardware store for plumbing supplies to hook up the outdoor sink to actual water (Mom's birthday present).
I have never seen a happier nor more replete sleeper than little miss Penny,Queen of Zackaire, on completion of her royal tour of the River Ridge Vineyard.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Queen of the Day
Finally.
Penny was scheduled for her royal stint on Thursday, September 22. Remember that? That was the day after a level 5 hurricane was aimed at Houston and our schools in Conroe were closed. In fact, when I announced the school closure to my first graders, I said, "I have good news and bad news. Which do you want first?"
These kids may not be so much ready for school, but they're ready for life. They chorused: "Bad news!"
"Okay, the bad news is that Penny cannot be Queen of the Day tomorrow."
Moans, groans, whines and whimpers ensued. "But why not."
"Because of the good news: no school tomorrow or Friday." We returned to school in the face of rolling blackouts last Wednesday; should we lose power, we would be having school in a stifling hot, dark building. Five of my students were absent. I chose not to bring Penny into those potential circumstances.
Many students had bought coupons for "5 minutes with Penny" with their Zackbucks at the monthly Store. We started Centers early to accommodate everyone. Penny was gracious. She played with first graders one after another in the corner behind my desk. She quickly chose her favorite toy, a rattle ball with Mylar sparkles resembling a scepter. Some students were content to kneel and play with her. Da'Quan had to train her to jump up on my chair. She had a break
while we went to lunch and recess, during which I assumed she slept. When we returned, she was ready for more play. Towards the end of Center time, she finally got bored with that corner of the room and trotted off to inspect the Legos.
We came together for the "Queen of the Day" interview and shared writing as our last classroom activity. I reminded them that they might want to think of different questions than they ask each other.
"How will she answer us?" Dalynne inquired.
"She'll tell me, and I'll translate."
"Nooo, Ms. Pratt!" she protested. "Animals only talk in stories."
Silly me. "Okay, then, how about I just answer because I'm her mom, and I know her?"
That was okay. It turned out to be a good plan, too, because shortly after batting her crown to the floor, Penny jumped off of my lap and discovered the beanbags and critter pillows under the table by us. She kneaded away at the frog as if to nurse with aplomb, then curled up and instantly fell into a deep queenly sleep.
Some of the questions were too silly to answer: "What's her favorite color?"
"Next question, please."
"What's her favorite ice cream?" Jessica asked.
"She has never had ice cream."
"Did you bake her a cake for her birthday?" Joyce wanted to know.
"That birthday was the day she was born. She hasn't had another birthday yet."
"How many people are in her family?" Michael inquired.
"Lots."
Some of the other questions resulted in Penny's paragraph which is now posted outside my classroom with everyone else's along with their pictures.
"Penny's birthday is July 15th. She likes to go for a walk on her leash in the evenings. Penny likes to sleep in Mrs. Pratt's arms. Her favorite food is chicken."
Penny was pleased with her reign at school, and she looks forward to her return when EVERYONE in the class keeps their clips on green all day long for enough days to spell "P-E-N-N-Y." The first graders cheered madly when they heard about that!
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