Great Expectorations

Hello, Dear Imaginary Reader. I hope you are having a wonderful summer. Other than "open bar," there's nothing a high school teacher likes to hear more than that last bell of the last class on the last day of school. But alas, as an engineer may work from sun to sun, a teacher's work is never done. And thus begins my tale of the post-season play of school, the dreaded Year-End Conference.

The purpose of the year-end conference is to make sure everyone is on the same page, literally and metaphorically. For example, did you know that in one year, the Modern Language Association decided that apostrophes were not needed for the plural possessive form of "it?" This of course wreaked havoc on all English teachers: student's felt compelled to use apostrophe's because they were ju'st u'sed to throwing them around like so many punctuatory  bocce ball's.  Another year, the MLA changed how a works cited page should be formatted, which had a trickle-down effect on librarians. And you do not want to trickle down on librarians, trust me. Personally, I think those MLA people just get hammered at the conference and whomever arrives with the most obscure and annoying change to English wins a bottle of gin.

This, dear Imaginary Reader,  is why conferences are important to attend. You might win.

This year's conference was held in Buffalo, NY. I really hit the jackpot on this one. I could have gone to Fordham, or Vermont, or New Hampshire, or Philadelphia, but no. I tried to be fiscally conservative and not cost my district a lot of money. And no, I won't make that mistake twice.

The conference was held at a facility that seemed to be in a constant state of lockdown. You had to be buzzed in  to access the coffee and what passed for food in the conference room. By Day Two, the people at my table had figured out that the cafeteria had better coffee and also granola bars. This was key, because gas station donuts provided by the district do not a healthy breakfast make. And such small portions.

As the conference progressed, it was clear that the presenter was one of those persons who can only make connections through personal anecdotes. Thus we came to know the students, wife, dating history and families of many, many people we would never, never meet. Now, I have been known to use an anecdote or two in my day, but it's like dijon mustard- you don't want to use it on everything. Alas, Mr. Presenter had a special fondness for dijon mustard. On everything. Even gas station donuts.

I started keeping notes to myself so I wouldn't ask questions or otherwise comment. I didn't want to stir the pot any more than necessary. I am not used to sitting in a chair for 8 hours every day.

In my notes, I wrote: "This is the worst part of the class so far. Careful! You'll jinx yourself." I tried keeping track of the anecdotes. From 8:15 a.m. to 9a.m., there were three general anecdotes. But one was a grading anecdote, so that was ok. Except it was about Math! Flatlining. The rest of the morning marched onward, onward into the valley of dearth:

915- valedictorian anecdote!
918- graduation anecdote!
1015- A Tom Lehrer anecdote!
1020- Winston Churchill anecdote. (More of a story, really.)
1030- girlfriend-in-college anecdote
1038- student makes it big anecdote
1044- tax refund anecdote
1051- when-I-was-a-lad anecdote

After that I started getting the giggles, so I contained myself by drawing pictures of the Eiffel Tower, merry-go-rounds with Holden and Pheobe Caulfield, the Great Gatsby's yellow car, and then made a list of things that were absolutely key to a long grading session. And I made little illustrations, a la Maira Kalman:

venti
red vines
jar of bees ( I was trying to draw something else and it just happened.)
big ass boombox
clean underwear
answer sheet
pens & pencils
bunny slippers
cabana boy- this is key
fine french wine in a maple syrup bottle ( I couldn't draw a wine bottle PLUS it looks better if you don't have a wine bottle on the table in front of you while you are grading)
defibrillator
stern-visaged reading glasses

Realizing that if this was the worst thing that happened to me this week, I still led a charmed life, I was determined to enjoy myself regardless of anecdotes. Oh, and learn something. Yep. That too. I learned that one of my colleagues had Kanye West's "Goldigger" played at his wedding. I learned another colleague was married in a Wiccan ceremony when she was 19. Another colleague taught the daughters of some friends.

One night, I went out to dinner with Decker, a friend from another website. We had Jamaican food in Lackawanna, NY.  Another night, I went out to East Aurora, birthplace of both Millard Fillmore and Roycrofters. And the third night, I went to the nearby basilica and cemetery. When you are Irish and there's a church and a graveyard, there's always something to do.

After I arrived home, CSO and I departed for the Adirondacks for a four-day weekend. And since I've arrived home from the mountains, I am having a Huckleberry Finn kind of summer. I am spitting watermelon seeds. I'm staying up late and watching the fireflies.  I'm floating around the pool. I'm planting flowers. I'm freckling in the spf 70 sun. I'm sitting on my front porch, reading an old Jack Kerouac novel. And, I'm writing to you.

You?

Strange as it might seem, my sister in law's death last February has somehow left me feeling lighter, feeling the importance of each day, feeling... free. Free from convention. Free from what other people think. Free to do what I want, and what I want is usually the best thing, now.  Free from bad habits. Free from trying to micromanage things I have no control over. Free to love. Free to laugh.  It's common to dream of someone when they've died,  dream that you're talking to them. There have been some very vivid conversations in my sleep-time. One especially, where she laughed and said- how stupid was that?- Her head tilted up with the laugh, her gold hair waving down her back.  Her laugh like bells

Here's a poem for you, Imaginary Reader. There's a bluebird in your heart that wants to get out, you know. You should let it.

Lost

Lost, lost in gray hallways.
At night the lightbulbs hiss like signals of sinking ships.
We read books forgotten by their authors.
There is no truth, wise men repeat.
Summer evenings: festivals of swifts,
peonies erupting in the suburbs.
Streets seem abbreviated
by the heat, the ease of seeing.
Autumn creeps up surreptitiously.
Still sometimes we surface for a moment,
and the setting sun sometimes gleams
and a short-lived certainty appears,
nearly faith.

Adam Zagajewski
translated by Clare Cavanaugh