Travels With Gogs: Florida

From her post in the kitchen at Command Central, my mother grabs the phone. The surface of her desk is strewn with items like the small pink shell dish containing her daily pill regimen of krill oil, vitamin D, Alkazone (an alkaline booster) and PS ("the ultimate brain food.") Her address books are fanned out before her, plaid strands of Christmas ribbon serving as page markers. Her Florida friends are highlighted in yellow. There is a list of impending social events, dinners and bridge games written in red marker, columns of things to do. She's got piles of carefully scissored-out articles from the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal. There's a flyer from EarthingSecrets.com.

"Hello?" she says. "Who? No, this is her mother. It's Helene! And how's himself?"

"Mom," I interrupt, "Is that for me?"

Without meeting my eyes, she gesticulates in such a way that means can't you see I'm on the phone?

We go to hear Alan Mulally, President and CEO of the Ford Motor Company tell us the Ford Story during The Five O'Clock Hour. As we inch toward the lecture room over the checkerboard marble floor, I wonder why there isn't an assemblage of wheelchairs to speed elderly people along. 

"Big steps," I urge Mom. "Big steps. Keep walking."

"I am walking!" she retorts, leaning on her leopard spotted cane.  I hold her left arm in a steady grip.

I maneuver her to the front row of a side room where there is a large TV screen so she can see Mulally,  who is in a larger room nearby.

"How did we ever get to sit in the front row?" she asks. Even though her vision is spotty, she spies a little clipboard fitted with an index card and pencil on the seat where I am to sit. She goes for it.

"Oh," she asks, "Did you get one of these too?"

Mulally is an animated speaker and Mom takes notes. Then I feel her head on my shoulder. I nudge her.

"What?" she whispers.

"You were asleep," I tell her softly.

"I was not."

I am reminded of a time when she and my father were at the opera and there was a sudden loud and insistent snore in my mother's vicinity. My father, lost in the music, became the innocent recipient of a vicious pinch.

I nudge her again. And again.

As we creep back over the marble checkerboard floor, my mother stops to tell a few dozen people that her grandfather was a friend of Henry Ford, and that her family had one of the first convertibles ever made, a dreamy shade of blue.

"Everyone wanted to go for a ride in it," she says. "I was very popular."

Over dinner at the Lemon Tree with its complimentary glass of wine and bland food, I remember the earlier phone call.

"Who was that on the phone before?" I enquire.

My mother gives me a blank look.

"When?"

"You know, someone called before the lecture and asked for me and you started talking..."

"I have no idea," she says. "What did I say?"

After dinner, as my mother slowly turns herself around so she can lower herself into the front seat of the car, she pauses and straightens up, cocking an ear.

There is a small group of people clustered on the sidewalk, chatting and moving their arms in animated conversation.

Mom waves in their direction.

"What?" she calls. "Did someone say Helene?"

It Doesn't Quite Add Up

It began with a stream of unexceptional thoughts: Katherine's birthday is tomorrow, oh, yeah, I want to mail that birthday card and I still have time to get a coffee before school starts and here's the place where I can turn around and BLAM! I ran my new blue Prius up and over a snow-covered curb with a wrist-wrenching thud, and jerked to a stop 100 yards from where I had intended to turn. DAMN! I yelled. HOW STUPID! Air hissed from my left front tire, and the plastic sheathing protecting the undercarriage was buckled and torn. Screws dangled. Pieces of mangled black plastic lay in the road.

Just yesterday I had been congratulating myself on how carefully I was driving these days, how long it had been since my last speeding ticket - except for the one in California two years ago -  how my insurance rates had dropped, how mature I was becoming in general...

BLAM!

I drove to school and parked, resigned to the fact that my tire would be flat by the end of the day. I would deal with it later.

"Good morning!" the school secretary greeted me.

"Hi," I said.

"Let's see, today you're in 7th grade math."

"Math?" I repeated. "Are you sure you don't mean language arts?"

"No, it's math."

"Not social studies?"

"Math."

I have taught some math, an extremely elementary form of it, possibly up to fourth grade level, but no further. If, in my role as assistant, it fell to me to teach a lesson in fourth grade, I could safely turn to the answers in the back of the teacher's manual. If a student asked me how I had arrived at an answer, I solicited aid from Hannah, aged 9.

The 7th grade teacher had thoughtfully left me a lesson plan. The math text book lay open to a page filled with what was quite possibly ancient Sumerian, although it was titled "Coordinate Graphing." I identified charts with intersecting and bisecting lines and arrows and points and letters. There were some algebraic terms: x-axis, polynomial, and linear equation. 

I remembered that when I had coached middle school students in remedial math, a fellow teacher had organized the lessons for me. We had shared space in the same classroom, so when situations arose - such as the rare student actually wanting to know the mechanics of something - I could summon my friend for help.

Once the school principal had pulled me aside after observing a literacy class, and after congratulating me on the efficacy of my teaching style, the engagement and liveliness of my students, he asked bluntly, "But, you don't really teach much math, do you?"

"Not much," I admitted.

After the 7th graders swarmed in, and we ran through the pledge and morning announcements, we played a few rounds of Mum Ball. Mum Ball is a game played silently in which a soft Nerf-ish ball is pitched around the classroom. If you drop it, you're out, if you throw it too hard, you're out. If it goes in the fish tank or out the window, game over. I figured if we played for 15 minutes, that would be nearly half the class.

"Are we gonna to do some math today?" Jimmy finally asked.

"Oh, we have time for one more game," I told him. "What's the rush?"

When the Mum Ball flew onto a shelf containing glass beakers, and a scuffle between 2 basketball players broke out, I grudgingly agreed it was time to stop.

I stood behind a wooden podium at the front of the classroom, math textbook open, and read the instructions aloud. Then I had Jimmy read them again. I pointed to the white board where there was something that looked like an example of the indecipherable Coordinate Graphing and said, "If you get confused, you can just um, look here."

"Any questions?" I asked.

Heads shook no. I breathed. I remained at the podium poring over the answer page, willing some sort of meaning to emerge.

Please I thought don't let anyone have a question.

"Mrs. Palmer?" 

"Yes?" I replied.

"I don't really get this," a girl with red hair muttered. 

"Hmm," I said, feigning thoughtfulness, "Well, what's your best guess?"

"Huh?"

"Okay," I said. "I'm going to level with all of you."

Heads looked up.

"I don't do math. I'm a writer. So if people are having trouble, perhaps one or two of you who actually understand this coordinate graphing stuff could help the others out. Practice some team teaching or something."

Hands went up. The class worked it out; so did the succeeding class. I remained behind my protective wooden podium, math text open. Nestled ever so discreetly between its pages was my Kindle. As the class worked, I finished The Art of Fielding. 

At the end of the day, having arranged for a mechanic to put on my spare "donut" tire and having limped to my automobile dealership, and having conversed with the insurance company, I actually practiced a little math myself. I was able to calculate that the repairs to my car, out-of-pocket, would roughly total a month's pay.

Substitute

They swarmed through the second grade classroom door, puffy snow-suited legions of them, dragging back packs, their snow-booted feet scuffing the floor.


"Good morning," I said in my teacher voice, my sub plans clutched in my hand. "I'm Mrs. Palmer." I pointed to the white board where, after five attempts, I had neatly printed my name in red marker.


"Where's Mrs. D?" 


"She's in a meeting today."


"Ooooohh."


"What meeting?"


"Will she be back tomorrow?"


"Yes," I said, "She will be back tomorrow."


Momentarily mollified, they milled about, shoving a bit, piling their clothes into cubbies, pulling out snacks, stacking colored homework folders in a basket by the door.


 I surveyed the classroom: books and print and letters and numbers and pictures and student art and projects filled the learning space. There was a milk carton village and a helper chart; tables everywhere held stacks of books and piles of mad minute math sheets and cursive practice sheets. More bookshelves lined the walls. A display in the front of the classroom contained books about Chinese New Year and groundhogs and science and re-cycling and thunderstorms. Color and space coalesced to form a riot of language and sensory stimuli.


A little girl with glasses and brown hair tugged on my arm.


"Did the groundhog see his shadow?" she whispered.


"We-ll..." I stalled. In my rush to pick up my courage inducing Dunkin' Donuts cappuccino, I had missed that vital bit of information. 


I needn't have worried.


"Yes, he did!"


"No, he didn't!"


"Actually, in Vermont they're called woodchucks," said a little boy whose blonde hair stuck up in electric hat hair tufts.


"It doesn't matter whether he did or not," said a little girl with a lime green barrette, arms akimbo, "because, it's always winter somewhere."


"No, it's not!"


"Yes, it is!"


"All right," I interrupted, "Let's go have circle time."


"Circle time, what's that?"


"You know, when you all sit together in a circle and talk a bit about the day," I stammered, glancing again at the day's typed schedule before remembering that circle time was a ritual in a previous grade.


"It's not called circle time, it's called morning meeting!"


"It's when we read the morning message!"


"Oh," I said. "Then let's all sit down over on the grey rug and get started."


What they heard was: Everyone twirl in dizzying concentric circles while flailing your arms and yelling at the top of your voice.


"First, you do the calendar," Fee explained, placing a comforting hand on my leg.


"I have to go the bathroom!" Jeremy announced.


"Okay," I said.


"Can you tie my shoe?" Tommy demanded, proffering a black sneaker at eye level.


"Sure," I said.


A little girl approached me solemnly and gently pried a yellow plastic star with the number 97 on it from my hand. 


"I'll put this up for you," she offered.


"Okay," I said. 


As she pulled a chair to the window, clambered up and stretched on one toenail to press the yellow plastic star with the number 97 to a number line after the number 96, someone shouted, "She can't climb on a chair!"


"She's getting down now," I said, hastening over and helping her down.


"I have to go to the bathroom!" Jeremy shouted again, pinching the front of his pants while hopping on one foot.


"Didn't you just get back?' I asked.


"I have to go again!"


"Okay," I said.


Eventually, everyone sat or, if they were boys, collapsed dramatically as if shot.


"Now, let's take turns and greet each other," I said. "Fee, will you please start?"


"Good morning, Charlie, how are you?" Fee chanted, turning to Charlie and grasping his hand.


"Good," said Charlie, who turned to Brian.


"No, you're supposed to ask Fee how she is!" Several voices shouted.


"Charlie, please ask your friend Fee how she is," I instructed.


"Friend? She's not my friend," Charlie stated. "She's just in my class."


"Sarah took Sam's pencil," a little boy said, tapping my shoulder, "And you're supposed to send the attendance down now."


"Leah has mints!" Conan said, and she's selling them to Tommy."


"Okay," I said, "I'll take care of it, but you need to keep the focus on yourself."


"Focus?" asked Conan. 


"Like a camera!" Several more voices shouted.


"What I mean is -  oh, look, let's just finish greeting each other," I sighed.


"Good morning, Mrs. Palmer, how are you?" Jeremy shouted close to my right ear.


"Frankly, not so well," I replied.


During the ensuing clamor that began as Literacy Block, I attempted to capture everyone's attention.


I turned the lights off.


I turned the lights back on.


I flicked them twice.


"One, two, three, look at me!" I tried loudly, turning two fingers toward my own eyes.


"It's not 'one, two, three, look at me,'" Shelby giggled. "It's one, two, three, eyes on me."


"Thanks, Shelby," I said. "ONE, TWO, THREE, EYES ON ME!" I more or less bellowed.


"You will now work on your literacy packet," I explained. "First, practice your spelling words; next, please do 2 handwriting sheets - "


"I have to go to the bathroom!" Jeremy shouted.


"You've gone twice," I said. "That's enough."


"But, I have to!" 


"Okay, but this is it," I warned. "Make the most of it."


"Where was I?" I asked.


"Over by the white board," Fee said.


"No, I mean... thanks Fee, never mind. All right, troops, you will be working on 2 handwriting sheets, then you will take turns reading with me."


"Can I go to the media center?" chirped Freddie.


"After you finish your work," I said firmly, feeling a modicum of control within reach.


"But, I don't have any books to read!" Freddie wailed.


"After...you...finish...your...work," I repeated.


"You're allowed to send four people down," Freddie explained.


"I'll go!" 12 voices shouted.


"No, no one leaves until his or her work is finished," I said. I circled the classroom slowly with one arm outstretched as if leveling a death ray.


"Can I read with you first?" Shelby asked.


"Sure," I answered. "It needs to quiet in here, so everyone can concentrate," I said, placing a finger over my lips.


"I can't concentrate," Tommy complained. "If my sneaker is untied."


"I don't want to do any work," Jeremy complained. "Can't I just go to the bathroom?"


"NO!" I said. "And no more talking!"


"Let's play the quiet game!" someone said.


"Yay, yay, the quiet game!"


As Shelby read to me, the quiet game was played eleven times. Jeremy demanded bathroom privileges four more times; two little boys hung by their chins over their chair backs; hundreds of pencils were sharpened; dozens of tiny water bottles were crinkled in small hands; packages of cold Eggo pancakes were consumed.


"You're a doof," Shelby read aloud from her read-aloud selection.


"A douche??" Tommy repeated.


"I don't want to do this work now," Madison complained.


"I'd rather be home in a quiet room drinking a nice cup of coffee, but I'm here," I said. "We all have to show up and do our work."


"I can't even have coffee," sniffed Madison.


"It is a half day today, right?" I asked a passing teacher in the hallway as my students skipped and leaped and jostled their way to music class.


"Subbing today?" she enquired.

*