Finding our direction

A new school year started yesterday with some new administrators and new staff. There are a lot of memes and videos about cringy inservice week staff development, but the PD we engaged in yesterday was great.

In one of the activities we did, we were asked to assign ourself to one of four groups based on our style:

• North – concerned about the emotional needs of the group and making sure everyone feels seen
• South – like to jump right in
• East – big picture people
• West – like to know the details

I assigned myself to the West group, even though I could also have gone into the East group. Once we started talking, though, I knew I was in the right place.

Over the last several/many years, I feel like we’ve always received the schedule for inservice week by the Monday before teachers’ first day back. Although we’d received some general email reminders from our new principal, we did not get the schedule until Sunday night. He had told us he’d send weekly messages out Sunday evenings. I Googled “evening” and was informed it ran from approximately 6-9 pm. I started checking my email at 4. Once in my group, I learned that I was not the only one.

Once in our groups, we had to discuss a number of things

• the up and down sides of our style
• what we appreciate about the other style
• what people from the other styles should know about us

It was a nice way to get to move around, mingle with people we don’t normally get to see, and find some kindred spirits. It was a nice way to ease back into work.

The tradition continues

Way back in May, I knit pair of socks for my niece’s birthday. That’s not remarkable; I do it every birthday. Part of the fun is finding a special pattern or yarn that I think she will love. I imagine her at work, colleagues asking her about the socks. She extends one foot and pulls up the leg of her trousers to show off the sock.

When I knit this pair, though, I knew I was going to have to knit a pair to be my 2023 back-to-school socks. Like, birthday socks, back-to-school socks require a special pattern or yarn. That’s why these were perfect. I wear hand-knit socks almost everyday at school. They aren’t all fancy, but they all bring joy to my heart.

Teachers go back on Monday the 21st. Students return on August 28t. I will be sad to leave Richard home alone. The socks aren’t yet finished, but let me tell you, they will bring me joy:

Wild City Life

It was an early quiet Sunday morning, overcast, but humid. I’d put on a sweater, expecting it to be cool, but felt overdressed as I walked my dog, Richard to the park. We were earlier than usual and he streets were very quiet.

Pine Street slopes down towards 32nd, then flattens out on the way onto Laurelhurst Park. As we descended, Richard sniffing everything and me, grumbling about being just a little too warm, I noticed a flash of movement ahead. My attention piqued, I forgot my problem and focused on the route ahead. Suddenly, a loose dog ran across to my side of the street and jumped up onto the rock wall of the house across from the park, standing under the fruit trees that grew there. Richard and I crossed to the other side and waited on the corner.

Should we go ahead if there is a loose dog, I wondered. I paused, watching the dog. Slowly it dawned on me that this was no dog. It was a coyote.

I remained frozen. Richard was blissfully unaware. I was torn by what to do. Was it safe to keep going if the coyote was on the other side? It looked young. It, too was frozen, staring at us with a look of curiosity on its face. I decided to keep going forward. The dog stayed under the shelter of trees, following our progress. We walked the rest of the block and entered the park. I couldn’t help but wonder if the coyote had a den in the park or telling the few walkers I encountered that there was a coyote nearby.

There was no sign of it on the return trip, but I remained curious and did a little research when I got home. I knew coyotes lived on the outskirts of town, but not in town. According to the Portland Urban Coyote Project, coyotes appeared around Portland in the 1980s and are spotted regularly. The interactive map showed me that my sighting was not the first in my area. In fact, there have been many. They had a terrific tutorial and I learned what to do of I see a coyote again: make noise and scare it off.

I thought twice about going to the park the next morning, but there was no sign of my new neighbor. Even so, I had my keys ready to shake noisily.

Christmas in July

I like to take care of most of my Christmas knitting in the summer. Richard’s lymphoma diagnosis upended my hope of going to Canada this summer, so it seemed reasonable to start the Christmas knitting early.

Richard has weekly trips to the oncologist that I affectionately refer to as “Camp Chemo”. In between visits, there is a lot of worry. Is he eating OK? How is his energy level today? What should he be eating? Should I give supplements? The worrying takes its toll.

Fortunately, knitting is an excellent stress manager and last week I finished knitting the socks I’ll be giving. There is still a December birthday gift to knit for my twin sister, but the materials are simply waiting for me to pick them up.

Over the years, I have amassed a stash of leftover balls of yarn, some of which are dyed with Christmas colors. I don’t know how or why the idea popped into my head but out of nowhere I thought about using the Christmas stash to knit gift bags. I’d knit bags for my phone and my iPad, so I had a decent idea of what I should do. I figured I could try making one and if it was a dumb idea, I could use it to hold treasured Items.

I dug out all my leftovers and chose a particularly festive one. I had know idea how much yarn I’d need or how big to make it, but years of knitting gave me some sense of what was needed. I also looked for a free pattern on Ravelry to get an idea of how many stitches to cast on. I found a good one and got started.

Although this prototype looked super cute, it was too small for the socks. I doubled the number of stitches and increased the length and tried again. It was perfect, so I made another. I am now officially obsessed. I have so much leftover yarn, I may never have to buy gift wrap again.

Shoeboxes

The first shoebox I remember came to me the day we moved from Rockton to Abitibi Canyon. The moving truck had come and gone and we were getting ready for the 12-hour drive. It felt like we were moving to another country.

Rockton was a very small town – a village really – just a detour off a regional highway with two stores and a gas station. Every Saturday we would get a dime to spend on penny candy at the smallest shop. On the day we left Mrs. Tanner, the owner of the shop, gave my sister and I a shoebox. Not one to share, as often happened, but one each. The shoebox was full of Archie comics and candy to keep us busy on the long trip North. Mrs. Tanner has long since passed away and I wonder if she ever knew how much those boxes meant to my sister and I.

The second shoebox is the one that got me thinking about shoeboxes. One Christmas, my sister and I each received a shoebox full of Barbie clothes. And these weren’t any old clothes. They were handmade, not store-bought. And, we each got a different selection. Each box contained a wedding dress and a variety of other outfits. I suspect there were shoes, but my Barbie never wore them.

The media hype around the Barbie movie has me reflecting on my own Barbie experiences. When we got out Barbies, my blonde sister got a blonde Barbie and I got a brunette. The hair differences were enough to let us tell them apart, but my Barbie’s were always more recognizable for another reason: I chewed off her feet. My Barbie just had nubs where her rubbery feet should have been. It didn’t keep her from enjoying her life in the Barbie camper or the Barbie airplane I got years later, when I knew to be embarrassed about her missing feet.

The third shoebox was one of my own creation. In grades 7 & 8, we boarded a bus once a week to drive to Wilmot Centre where the girls took home economics and the boys did industrial arts.

It was the 70s, so the weirdness of the gender division was the norm. There were other weird things that happened. We had to ear a “sewing machine driver’s license” by following lines on paper, without thread, to show we could control the machine. The hardest one was the spiraling circles, but I got it eventually. In addition to passing the test, we had to make a sewing box. We had to bring in a shoebox to decorate then use to store the supplies we’d need for sewing. It was the only time we were provided materials. I chose aqua tissue paper that I pâpier-machéd on my box, adding string for texture. The string, and my fingertips, took on that same hue.

We were responsible for our own sewing supplies: pins, thread, patterns, fabric. In grade 8 I made an awesome blue pinstriped gaucho jumpsuit. I remember shopping for the fabric with my mom. Decades later, I wonder if buying fabric was ever a burden for any of my classmates.

I made the gauchos on the right. Picture how fantastic that looked in navy blue pinstripes!

I said yes

There’s no way that’s happening, I thought as I read the email from the school district coordinator in charge of student teacher placements. There’s no way in heck that I am having a student teacher this year.

I reached out to my twin sister, a former teacher-principal-assistant superintendent, and she asked, “Why not?”.

Although I had a lot of good reasons to say no, cracks appeared in my armor.

So, I emailed some questions to my principal, CCing the school district coordinator in charge of student teacher placements. I got good info back and set up an interview with the candidate. Apparently we interview now to make sure it’s a good fit.

What began as a Zoom interview, quickly evolved into a delightful conversation. My candidate, a little older than the average student teacher, is starting a second career. I knew a few minutes in what my answer was going to be.

There’s some HR paperwork to do and I need to take a Zoom training for cooperating teachers, but it looks like I’ll have a student teacher this year.

The Four-Hour Window

Way back near the beginning of the year, my dishwasher began to falter, then, it failed. For the next few months, I opted to wash the dishes by hands, finding the idea of shopping for a new dishwasher overwhelming. The thought of possibly having to find a sub quickly once the installation date was assigned paralyzed me. I decided the new dishwasher would be a summer project.

The week after school ended, I began the research, made some choices then went in to make the arrangements. A date was selected and I was told that I’d be given a four-hour window the night before the big day.

The message came Sunday evening:

I spent Monday morning in my usual way until the four-hour window began.

THE FIRST HOUR

Six stops before me.

I do some math in my head. If each stop takes about 30 minutes, that will put them here around 1:30. I take Richard for an extra walk. He usually sleeps very deeply after lunch, but I want to be sure it happens today. I have an early lunch, just in case my calculations are off.

THE SECOND HOUR

Four stops before me.

After lunch, I often nap alongside Richard. I ate lunch early, but feel ready for a nap at my “usual” time. I dare not fall asleep. Snuggled on the bed with Richard, I try to read, but feel distracted. I put on a new episode of one of my favorite YouTube knitting presenters and pull out my knitting. Two things to keep my mind focused.

Halfway through the hour, a message arrives: only two stops before me. I move Richard’s bed and water bowls to make it easy to move things in and out.

THE THIRD HOUR

Only one stop before me.

The phone rings. I anticipate it is the delivery team, but it is not. It is a reminder of Richard’s appointment with the allergist later this week.

1:25 – Team dishwasher arrives!

THE FOURTH HOUR

Removal and installation begin. A test run reveals no leaks and all is working as it should. The work is finished in just over 30 minutes. Now, I need to dirty some dishes so I can try it out myself

Here are the before and after shots:

The News

Two weeks ago, at a routine vet visit for vaccinations, I asked about the lumps on the back of each of Richard’s hind legs. My life changed forever. She said they were enlarged lymph nodes. Richard didn’t get the vaccinations. Instead, the vet did a needle aspiration of the nodes and I waited for word, fearing the worst.

Four days later, on my last day at school, I was sitting in my packed up classroom, killing time until my checkout appointment. My phone rang. The worst news came: lymphoma.

Even though I’d expected it, the news shattered me. The vet was great. She sent me the names of several oncologists, and told me which was her preference. I called them and had to leave a message with details of Richard’s diagnosis that they would check on then call me back to schedule an appointment.

The crazy thing was, I was leaving on a red eye the next morning to go to Chicago. Richard was going to stay at Sniff Dog Hotel. It seemed wrong to leave him, having received the news, but it was the end of my service on the Sibert Committee and we were going to celebrate our winners. With doubts in my heart, I went.

I was in a taxi on Michigan Avenue when the oncologist’s office called me back.

“We’ve had a cancellation and can get you in on Monday, if that works,” she offered kindly.

I told her I was in Chicago and wouldn’t be home until late Monday night. Fortunately, they had an opening on Wednesday.

I felt anxious Wednesday morning, puttering around the house to take my mind off the decisions I might have to make. But, when I got to the oncologist’s office a delightful surprise met my eyes: a photo of my dog Fiona, was hanging on the wall.

I’d taken her and Lucy to see a professional photographer years ago. In addition to our photos, the photographer was working on an “Old Dog Project” and took some extra photos which later ended up in a show at a downtown gallery. Apparently, the oncologist was at the show and made a connection with the photographer who regularly shows her work in this office. I took it as a good sign.

Richard got his first treatment. Almost a week later, his lymph nodes are a bit smaller and I have hope. He begins chemotherapy tomorrow and I can’t help but thinking that Fiona will be there to help both of us through it all.

Alarming News

By Saturday afternoon, the 10 inches of snow that took Portland by surprise had started to melt, despite temperatures below freezing at night.

On my walk home from the park, that melting sidewalk snow and ice had finally made possible, I got to thinking about the heaps of snow on my car. Some had melted and slid off, leaving a trail of moisture. There was still quite a deep pile on the roof and windshield. I figured I should help Nature along so getting to school Monday morning would be easier.

Once home, I grabbed my broom and went to town pushing and sweeping aside the accumulated snow. Once it was all gone, I realized that there was about two inches of ice around the wipers. Unable to break it with my tiny little fists, I decided to use the broom like an axe on the passenger side. It broke the ice, but set off my car alarm. I dashed into the house, grabbed the keys, ran back out and turned off the alarm. It’s nice to know the alarm works, I thought.

I left the ice that remained and went back in the house where a message on my phone let me know someone might have been trying to steal my car.

Sunday afternoon, I decided to tackle the driver’s side. I left the broom behind, hopeful that two days of melting with a freeze in the middle, might have loosened the residual ice. It had, but not quite enough. I set the alarm off again. Another dash back to the house for the keys and the alarm was off once more. I kept the keys with me and finished the job with the car unlocked. Maybe I was gentler, maybe the presence of the keys helped, but the alarm didn’t go off again and the car was finally ice free. As I re-entered the house, I wondered, since I hadn’t remembered the alarm issue from one day to the next, would I fall prey to the same issue the next time Portland experiences a snow and ice storm.

Food for thought

During my recent trip to New Orleans we chose the 2023 Sibert Award winners.

Travel can be tough – even on a trip you’ve been anticipating for a year. Your sleep and eating habits are radically disrupted. I’ve learned over time that it is important to find good places to eat. Carbs are easy to come by, vegetables more of a challenge.

On Friday night, before our decision making meeting, most committee members met at a restaurant named Shaya. It was the first time we’d met in person. We opted for a family style meal during which I had a life-changing pita experience.

After making our decision on Saturday, a committee member and I went to True Food Kitchen for dinner. I was excited to have so many veggie options. We shared a side of Brussels sprouts and I ordered an Ancient Grains Bowl. I was so enamored of this place and meal, that I ordered take-out the next evening for a picnic in the hotel room.

After returning home, I thought about those two meals. Last week, on Poetry Thursday, we learned about the poetic apostrophe and I was inspired to write this:

Dear pita baker at Shaya
You have changed my life
No more will I savor
The flavor
Of Store-bought pitas
Because yours were so light 
And fluffy
Arriving on the plate
Puffed up like a balloon,
Warm and tender.

Dipped into hummus
You brought joy to my heart
And tummy.

In a different twist on creativity, I endeavored to recreate the Ancient Grains Bowl at home. I was thrilled with my results.

Original Ancient Grains Bowl vs My homemade version: