Well, the hurricane-force winds knocked out the power at school all day today. Kids had to open their lockers by the light of their cell phones, yet final exams went on as planned. It was a timely reminder not to get too complacent in the illusion that we actually have some control over the events of the universe. We're all crossing our fingers and hoping that the power will be back on tomorrow so we can update grades and start processing final report cards.
I'm happy to report that my exams are now completely graded and we finished our hiring for two positions in the English department. That should be a huge load off my mind, but my body doesn't really believe it yet. In my experience, the only antidote is a road trip. In previous years, I've had the car packed on the morning of the last day of school, and I was on the road within a half hour of the last bell. Otherwise, my brain takes a while to get into vacation mode, and we don't have enough days off to waste any.
On the way home today, I stopped at the library and got several books on tape so that in the unlikely event there's a lull in our road trip conversation, we'll have some options. I'm also hoping that we'll come across some garage sales and thrift stores as we mosey south. I feel like I've been rather numb for months, and I'm hoping this trip will help me start to get the feeling back in my bones and my muscle.
I realized today that we will drive directly past Platte Canyon High School on our way out of Denver. I've driven by it so many times on other trips, and always thought about what a beautiful little school it is, and how nice it would be to work there. Then when the tragic school shooting happened last fall, it seemed too surreal to grasp, despite the fact that many of our students knew kids there. That was a horrible week to be a teacher. After something like that happens, everyone in schools goes into high alert, and the vigilance is mentally exhausting. I knew I needed a day off when I was at the CLAS fall writing workshop listening to former poet laureate Ted Kooser speak. A waiter in a white catering jacket came around the corner into the ballroom and I found myself looking for a gun in his hands. I called in sick shortly thereafter, stayed in my pajamas all day, and wrote this tiny poem:
Personal Day - October 2006
curled in the fetal position on the couch
feet pulled up and cupped together
like mollusks without shells
tears roll quietly over the bridge of my nose
too much grief wrapped in candy-striped flannel
hard week to be a teacher in the U. S. of A.
Maybe Letterlady wouldn't mind if we stop and leave some flowers...
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Is there one more bouquet at Platte Canyon High School?
...Little rituals help my big aches, too.
...We heard church bells ring today across the street from where we'd parked in Mendocino. They rang on and on. One clang following another. We lost count. We asked the ringers when they were done, why the bells? Why today?
...It's Friday, they said. We ring the bells each Friday. One for every person killed this week in Iraq. Today was four hunderd fifty, one said. Four fifty-four, corrected another.
...(Then began our foolish questions.) That many? We don't recall that high a number on the news?
...The observation was familiar. Expected, probably. They blinked. We ring for the dead Iraqis, too.
...It helps, doesn't it?
...We ring every week.
Flowers at Platte Canyon was a good idea.
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