The Red Balloon

            Student teaching has been heaven so far. It offers all the enjoyment, fostering and connection to the students without the responsibility of lesson planning, curriculum oversight and the very real burden of statewide testing and district paperwork. But that will change. As I am given more to do this semester, my blithe ride on my mentor or co-operating teacher’s coattails will evolve into the very real demands of being a teacher until, by then end of my final student teaching semester, the responsibility will be mine-all-mine. And the weight of twenty-six little worlds will be on my shoulders. But for now, I am still the student, and it’s pure delight.

            I was placed in a second grade classroom in a public school a few towns away but much like our own here. It’s an inclusion classroom as they will all be one day and the term will have faded away into oblivion.  We teach, accommodate and modify for all manner of learners, because it’s slowly dawning on us as a nation that we do not all learn the same way. Recently, after snack, the lights were dimmed and my ‘co-op’ put on a movie. It was “The Red Balloon”, the original version in muted, sepia-like tones, except for the bright red balloon. And the little girl’s blue balloon—remember her? I hadn’t recalled there being so little dialogue—I had the book as a child—but what dialogue there is, was in French.

            The children were transfixed. Even D, with his cognitive and impulse control challenges sat and watched, mesmerized by the rich images, lush music, and the boy’s adventures. Eventually, the students began to comment aloud and point and giggle at the balloon’s hijinx. Then they had questions. Why is the boy carrying a briefcase? I told them that children carried satchels before there were wheeled book bags and knapsacks. Why are the grownups so mean to the balloon? I sighed. I wanted to say, “Well, kids, this was Paris in the fifties—a time and place populated with adults not known for whimsy,” but I didn’t. They asked why the boy was allowed to walk to school by himself. I laughed out loud. “Children were more independent then,” I said, “they were encouraged to explore their neighborhoods after school as long as they were home for supper.” Then, instinctually, I stopped answering directly and only led them to the answers they were seeking. I coaxed them to imagine what the boy must be saying to the balloon, to imagine what words would have been spoken between them. I asked them the questions. Then I listened as the children created story dialogue for them selves. I led them inside the boy’s world then let go of their hands.

            My co-op was generous to let me have this back and forth with her students as the movie continued. She allowed me to guide them without stopping, editing or adding to what I was saying. I was grateful to her for giving me the opportunity to become a member of the democratic classroom community she’d spent all year carefully creating. I was excited for the chance to tie in what they were watching with the themes they would be exploring in language arts—themes that included narrative story telling, fairytale, fiction, characters, and a sense of place and drama. I encouraged them to notice how music can change the viewer’s mood.

            As the movie neared its heartbreaking conclusion I worried the students might feel the devastation I remembered feeling as a child. Those bullies had upset me so; even their eyes were cruel. I prepared myself for their tears, but the children were all just fine. They were content that the boy was ultimately happy as he reached for the strings of Paris’ myriad balloons and gathered them into a tangled jumble. Perhaps my presence had something to do with the safety they felt as he floated away unmoored. But it’s probably hubris on my part. Kids have seen it all by second grade.           

            The movie ended and my co-op told her students to sit on the rug and close their eyes. She stepped outside into the hall and brought in two large bags of inflated red balloons—twenty-six in all. She gestured for me to take a bag and release the red balloons so that they would cascade down over the children. They opened their eyes as the balloons bounced and filled the room; squeals filled the air. For the children who learn sensorially, emotionally or visually, here was a chance to claim this experience for them selves, to forge their own relationship with a red balloon, to own a story and make it personal. D hugged his to his chest while the boys with ADHD were given full license to bounced theirs atop their heads and slap them into the air. The group learners immediately discussed what to name their balloons, while the solitary learners felt comfortable moving away from the larger group and exploring the possibilities quietly and alone. Everyone was fully present. No one felt shamed, left out or behind.

            It was a moment of pure joy watching these learners internalize on their own terms, then create their own connections to the little French boy’s story the way they chose fit. It was fantastic to see them up out of their chairs and not simply drawing a picture of a red balloon or filling out some worksheet silently at their desks. It was a simple thing but so imaginative on the teacher’s part, to think of a way to imprint a story on a group of children, in a way that makes most sense to them. It was quite magical, I must say, watching the children so full of glee—almost as magical as the story itself.

Enigma

(Verse- Latin)

You veered my way leaned in close.  Our chit-chat touched on morose

Thought out of the box, for an orthodox.  Then you grinned-- Uh, huh

Described you mom’s roast chicken.  I noticed my pulse quicken

Walked me to my car, complained I parked too far.  Then made a joke-- Uh, huh

Are you facetious, or are you serious, or are you kidding or are you both?

(Chorus- Country)

You’re an enigma, wrapped in a Jew

I’m on the outside looking in-- I don’t know what to do

You’re always busy with your sisters, tethered to your mother

Cut the chord, or find another

You called me late, cooed my name.  Confiscated my game.

Said you come around, after sun down.  Then you grinned-- Uh, huh

Your texts today were cunning.  Our repartee’s no-less-than stunning

But you’re slip’ry, keep taunting me.  Can’t nail you down-- Nuh, uh

(Bridge – Country)

I’m totally wrong for you.  You’re apropos for me

Funny and kind.  In that keppie a sharp mind

Our morning was unusual.  But the day was sublime

I’m no baleboostah for you.  You’re apropos for me

But I can’t navigate, our differences of fate

We could start all over.  But I think it’s too late.

(Instrumental)

I’ve lost the shape of your face.  Your pale skin seems out of place

Your fading voice, was not my choice.  Your hard G’s gone-- Uh, huh

You said you liked my moxie.  But-your-commitment’s to-your orth-o-doxy.

I miss our long chats, your black winter hats.  Your dimpled smile-- Uh, huh

You’re so facetious, or are you serious, or were you kidding or are you both?

(repeat chorus – last line x 2)

The Saddest/Silliest Day of the Year

I heard on the radio yesterday that January 6^th was supposed to have been the saddest day of the year-- according to science. Not the science responsible for gravity and school projects on inertia using reclaimed hot wheels cars found under couch cushions, but the “science” with finger-style rabbit ears on either side, responsible for miracle neck creams and weight loss shakes-- especially the strawberry flavored ones that come with a “no exercise” regime. There should be a new branch of scientific research named for these kinds of claims: Goofball Theory, or perhaps, Science for the Heck of It. If I were a journalist or media outlet, I would definitely pick up on a story based on qualitative research data authored by a guy named Cliff. That name just screams no-need-to-fact-check.

As I listened to the broadcast, I discovered that the science was eventually debunked and that the “scientist” was-- get this—a part-time tutor. “Cliff Arnall” if that is his real name, came up with the supposed “research” in 2005-- in cahoots with a travel agency-- in order to motivate sad clowns everywhere to book flights to Palm Springs and cruises to Puerto Vallarta. I wonder what Cliff does with the rest of his time when he isn’t tutoring? Chiropractor/Poet. Or Life Coach/Playlist Advisor. I’d be shocked if he owns a car. I did a little goofball “research” myself—also known as Wikipedia—and discovered that this part-time hoodwinker even had a fake algorithm to go with his flimsy claim.

The algorithm is awesome in that it looks like something that would be on the chalkboard in the background of an episode of Community or South Park. Picture this: (W+D-d)T to the Q power over MN to the little a. It’s factors are weather (W) (Okay, I’ll bite); debt (small d) (I’m still here); time since Christmas (T) (Because “Blue Monday” only afflicts Christians?); and low motivational levels (M) (Of course. The math won’t work without depression factored in). My favorite capitol letter is the Q, which represents “time since failing our New Year’s resolutions” (Hahahahahaha).

That’s hilarious, Cliff. But, why stop there? Why not factor in the number of pine needles I probably missed vacuuming up after taking the tree down and getting it out of the house (P), and divide it by the number of ornaments broken (small o). How about we multiply that baby by the number of different styles, lengths and thicknesses of coats I’ve worn in rotation since the beginning of the Winter Solstice (147) then extrapolate from that the derivative of the number of gift returns I had to make to various shops and malls (R) by the routes I’ve logged the most hours on (22 and 10). How about we compute the absolute value of that, Cliff, by the determinant weight in kilos of guilt I still feel by not having sent out Christmas cards this year (KG), and then put the whole enchilada in parenthesis and multiply that by the number of hours I still spend every day thinking that if I order cards today I can still, maybe, get away with sending them out to my friends as belated Valentines (hV).

I don’t know, Cliff. For a guy who has cajones the size of Rhode Island, I can’t fathom why you stopped short at the saddest day of the year. Why not whip up one of your fancy-schmancy algorithms for the Kookiest Day of the Year? The Pointiest Day of the Year. Or, the infamous, Smelliest Day of the Year. Why don’t you get right on that, Cliff, between tutoring gigs. Deodorant companies are just a phone call away. Meantime I’m going to get on with my life in the world of real science and legit mathematics. I’m going to enjoy the crackle and hiss of wood burning in my fireplace. I’m going to revel in the warmth of my comforter when the air around my ears is still cool in the deep of night and marvel at the magical pixies that fill up my oil tank in the day. I’m going to delight in the reflected light that bounces off a fresh blanket of snow, in through my widows and brightens up the hidden corners of my house that floor lamps can’t reach. And I’m going to be practically giddy that I survived the manic holiday preparations, forced family dinners, and the first winter storm that was barely a smattering when you get right down to it. I’m going to be happy (H) today (T), Cliff (small c), not to spite you and your uptown math, but because I’ve no reason not to be. And this is my simple sciency equation to prove it: (T + J - c = H)

Moms On Strike

I recognize how hard moms work and how much goes into the weekly management and administration of raising multiple children, mostly because women can’t wait to tell me how busy they are and how hard they’re working— as if they’re the only ones.  Two friends of mine are unusual in that they don’t begin every conversation with a mandatory update on their childrens’ sports schedules and how much laundry and driving they’re doing.  In fact, you might not even know they had children unless you asked, which is why I appreciate them so.  They will happily answer any questions I might have about child rearing and if a particular child-centric topic comes up they will respond in kind and be more than willing to chat about it, but they have other stories to tell, too—other hobbies and proclivities.  They do not define their very existence solely through the contributions they are making to their childs’ rearing and for that I value them mightily.

I recently learned that these two friends of mine—independent of one another—had gone on mom strike.  These are women who recognize the importance of fostering independence in young children and how crucial it is for a child’s developmental growth to discover and learn to count on the bravery, gumption and creativity in one’s self to problem solve and soldier on.  They are independent women themselves and stay-at-home moms with no hired help.  I decided to interview these two girlfriends recently about their strikes and what precipitated them.

“I was fed up with my family more than usual,” said Liz, leaning into a plate of French fries.  “They just weren’t helping out—at all—and I had reached my limit.”  Liz has three kids ranging in ages from 5 – 11 and her husband is away for work a lot.  “Me, too,” said my other friend, Nancy, “end of my rope.  I’m a single mom and they were really pushing my buttons.  Something had to change.  I realized I was raising my children to be obnoxious and entitled.  I put a note on the fridge that said, ‘Notice: On Strike.  Signed, Mom’.”  Nancy has three teenagers between the ages of 14 and 17.  She said it was this or have herself committed.  We all chuckled.

I asked about their terms as I added more ketchup to what was left of the little mound on the rim of the fry plate.  Liz said, “I gathered the kids together at dinner one night and said that this would be their last supper cooked by Mom for a while.  I would no longer cook, clean, do laundry, help with homework, make their school lunches or remind them what they needed to take to school in the morning.  I was very calm.”  Nancy added, “Same here—very calm.  But I included that they would have to find their own rides to lessons and would have to speak to me using more appreciative language and a respectful tone.”  “Ooooh, I like that,” said Liz, and used a fry to punctuate the word, like.  I asked how long their strikes lasted.  “4 days,” said Liz.  “2 weeks,” said Nancy.  “And what was the upshot?” I asked.  Liz went first.

“Well, the house was disgusting.”  We all laughed and nodded.  “The house smelled, the kids smelled.  I pretty much kept to myself.”  I said, “Like an older European houseguest?”  “Exactly.  It was amazing how much time I had to get other things done.  On day 4 they banded together and started to clean.  They showered and started doing their chores.  They made their own dinners.” “And you just observed?” I asked, fascinated.  “Yup.  One night one of them had a sleeve of Ritz crackers for dinner.  None of them was starving.  There was plenty in the food pantry and the fridge.  They learned to defrost.  The microwave saw a lot of action.”  Nancy piped up, “My kids even went to the market.  They walked into town and carried their groceries back.  They’re older so they cooked their own dinners.  My middle daughter had to find her own rides back and forth to her lessons.  I think that made a big impression on her.”  “I bet,” said Liz, grinning.  We had almost finished the fries but ordered one more round of drinks.  

“And what was it like for you?” I asked.  Nancy said, “Well, the biggest thing for me was that I yelled a lot less.  And they yelled a lot less.  Even though the house was going to hell it was quieter and less stressful emotionally for me.”  “Smellier but lest stressful,” added Liz, smiling.  Nancy nodded as she wiped up the last of the ketchup with the second-to-last fry.  “And the kids started to speak to me in a more respectful tone when they realized that I wouldn’t acknowledge them unless they did.  I think they really got how much I do for them on a daily and weekly basis.  And how capable they are of stepping up and doing for themselves.” 

I asked them if they would recommend going on strike to their friends.  They both said, absolutely.  Nancy said, “It was an amazing week for me.  An incredible lesson in letting go.”  Liz said, “The no-yelling part was really good for me, too.  And I liked watching the kids work together as a team.”  I asked if it changed the family dynamic at all?  “For now,” they both said then laughed.  Nancy said, “Now the threat of a mom strike goes a long way.”  Liz said, “Yup,” and asked for the check.  The last fry remained untouched on the plate. 

The moms haven’t had to go on strike since.

Halloween Thanks

“Halloween decorations are not supposed to be cute, Mom.  They’re supposed to be scary.”  My son was right.  I’d gotten away with the bare minimum of cute for years—taping up his kindergarten paintings of pumpkins along side jolly glow-in-the-dark skeletons.  But now that he was ten, cute would no longer cut it.  “You’re right,” I said.  “I get it.  And we will make an effort to be scarier next year.”  “Next year?!” he said, already resigned, and padded away.  He knew that scary decorations would have to wait, along with pumpkin carving, apparently.  I bought a perfectly serviceable pumpkin but forgot to carve out the time to put down the newspaper and get out the sharp knives.  My costume was an afterthought, too, (a gorilla suit) also serviceable, but without the giddiness of a well thought out pun or creative tour de force like the family who went as the four seasons—spectacular!  Even my son reused an oldie-but-a-goodie costume from a few Halloweens ago.  I knew not to feel guilty about the last minute phoning in of a beloved childhood holiday—no sense in that.  Instead I invoked the Cub scout motto, “Do your best”, which I deploy liberally to myself on various occasions, then carried on with my workload. 

The village parade was lovely and relaxed, thanks in great part to the DJ, Jeremy Moss, who kept the volume at a reasonable bop-to-the-beat but can-still-talk-to-your-friends level as opposed to the ear-splitting, frenzy-inducing, up-to-eleven volume and stress level of years past.  The costumes were fantastic—loved the doll in the box, the fried egg and dominos, the ice cream truck and 50 shades of grey.  I especially love it when parents dress up, too, and that there were two adults dressed as whoopee cushions.  The business owners all seemed game and happy to see the hoards.

When the sun went down Thursday and we headed out into the dark night for trick-or-treating—the pinnacle of the day’s litany of holiday themed events—I felt a deep gratitude for those who had picked up my slack.  On nearly every street in town, at the end of practically every walkway, was a magical front stoop.  Folks had put out ghouls and witches, reapers and goblins.  They had strung spider webs across porches and hung ghosts in bushes and trees.  And yes, they had carved exquisitely beautiful pumpkins then lit candles inside them, giving off that irrefutable glow of eerie wonder. 

I was so very grateful for my fellow townspersons who, in creating a magical experience for their own families, had inadvertently given us ours.   I wanted to leave little thank-you notes under every front door mat saying, “Thank you for hauling the bins down from the attic, for setting out the newspaper and stringing up the spider.  Thank you for the orange twinkling lights and the bubbling cauldrons, and for putting speakers in the front windows, like my dad used to do when he played the “Chilling, Thrilling Sounds of the Haunted House”—a Disneyland record put out in 1964 meant to scary the pants off of trick-or-treaters, which never did.

The rain turned to drizzle before leaving us alone, and the temperature was unseasonably balmy.  Parents everywhere wandered from house to house with a bounce in their steps and a breezy air of gratitude for the docile weather and semblance of normalcy that had been absent on recent Halloween’s.  Children ran from porch to porch with blithe abandon, anxious to feel the weight of their loot pulling further down on their arms.  Some parents even offered wine in teeny plastic cups, and cheese and crackers to the grown-ups—brief and appreciated respites from the rush.

 After houses began to run out of candy—one woman finally did after handing out 760 pieces—we ended up with other families at the home of friends.  Six or seven kids spread out their candy on living room footstools and floor rugs and they traded with each other as if it were the NY Stock Exchange.  To them it was, in a way, their candy as precious as any dumb commodity.  Outside us parents sipped wine or beer, enjoyed chairs, and traded stories about the costumes that gave us the biggest chuckles found on the internet and spotted at the parade.

Exhausted, my son and I made our way back up the hill and dragged ourselves past our faceless pumpkin, our cute decorations and into pajamas to get ready for bed.  We brushed out teeth more thoroughly than usual, then spoke our thanks out loud.  We said thank you for the weather and for our awesome little town.  Thank you for trick-or-treating and for fabulously scary house decorations.  Thank you for the hundreds of dollars some folks must have spent on candy and the generosity extended from their hearts to our kids’ grubby little hands.  Then we said thanks for Halloween and our friends, and the folks that make it magic.  Next year we’ll step up, too.

Aftermath

I’ve spent all the summers of my life so far in a little town on the Jersey Shore on what I now know is a barrier island.  My mom’s house is situated half way between the ocean and the bay on a three block wide piece of land.  For forty-something years I’ve felt a seismic shift in my consciousness and physical being when I smell the salt air, and I roll down my windows when I get close to the beach, even in the rain. 

On this recent visit to my summer home town, I was stopped by a National Guardsman in grey fatigues standing next to a matching fatigue-painted Hummer.  He reminded me of Madeline Kahn in High Anxiety when her pantsuit matched her Lincoln Continental.  He asked to see my papers—a copy of a tax document and a letter from my mother saying I had her permission to visit the house.  He checked my ID and waved me on. 

As I drove down familiar streets, nearly every house or business on both sides of the road had an 8-12 foot mountain of refuse on the curb consisted of all the major appliances, couches and cabinetry, rugs and flooring, all the contents from the basement, the insulation, and all the walls from the first floor of the house.  Except for my mom’s house. 

Friends had texted me photos of my mom’s house after the storm—friends who’d siphoned gasoline from one car into the other and braved the ominous smell of broken gas lines to survey the town before the National Guard declared Marshall Law and instilled a curfew to deter looters-- who were stealing by truck in the day and by boat at night.  Before the cacophony of dump trucks and helicopters grew to drown out the gently lapping waves at the beach; before homeowners 10 blocks south of us returned to their houses to find them gone—vanished-- just an empty lot of sand-- my friends let me know that my mom’s house was okay.  A good 7 steps up to the first floor porch, we had cleared the 4-foot flood-line by about 15 inches.

But I still had to see for myself.  The basement and garage would be a shitshow.  So once the gas rationing calmed the frenzied masses, I filled my car with cleaning supplies-- and donations for relief workers-- and headed down.  Mom’s house was fine.  I was overwhelmed with a mixture of gratitude and survivor guilt.  Yes, she would need a new furnace, water heater, electric panel and air-conditioning unit, but we were lucky-- very lucky.  As the town whirled with the buzz of construction workers and generators, I worked all day by myself to empty the basement.  A construction worker named, Bob,-- wearing leather gloves and rubber boots-- swung by to pump out the last 8” of water from the basement.  Around me men were doing similar jobs.  Strong, virile men were hooking up dehumidifier ducts as big as hoola-hoops.  They lifted great gobs of sodden insulation with front loaders while other men hacked at walls and floors with crowbars.  This must have been what it was like when gold mining towns were being built, or Las Vegas.  There was a barn raising feeling to the town now, everyone working at a common goal to get the community back on its feet—and I could sense us sweating together as I peeled off layers of clothing.  But as dusk turned the blue sky pink, an odd thing happened. 

All around me people had lost so much.  Their hearts ached.  They were exhausted and worn.  And yet, as the generators switched off and construction workers removed their gloves, all I could think of was---who can I make out with? 

I was aware of how wrong this was, this feeling of surging desire, but I couldn’t contain it.  “Maybe Construction Bob will make out with me,” I thought, as I ambled over to my car to check my hair in the side view mirror.  I may have been wearing rain pants over my jeans, snow boots and 2fleece tops, but I rocked it.

When his truck pulled up, the sky had darkened to denim blue.  No street lights had power, no cars could be heard and the air was perfectly still.  Curfew was in an hour.  “There’s time,” I thought.  And yet, Construction Bob did not linger long enough to let the post-apocalyptic aphrodisiac grip him and propel him towards me.  He did not seem to share my yearning to connect with someone on a deep, primal level.  He loaded his pump and left.  And with him went the only chance I would have to feel the skin of someone who knows what it’s like-- to be alone together on the outskirts of surreality.  Remote, removed and alive.

After he left I stood there for a few minutes.  Now I would have no one to make out with.   Then I remembered, I would still have to pass through the National Guard’s checkpoint on my way out of town.  You know what they say-- any port in an aftermath.

No Drinking, Texting, Driving

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I’m grateful every time I see or hear a “No Texting While Driving” public awareness campaign on the radio or television.  I have a friend who puts hers in the glove compartment when she drives.  I usually have mine on the passenger seat-- face down or in my purse-- and make a point to set my GPS before I start driving, occasionally pulling over to the side of the road if I need to make a call or adjustment.  But it’s hard to resist.

The PSAs remind me of the no drinking-and-driving campaigns of my high school years and the no littering campaigns before that.  It’s one of the many subtle, or I should say not so subtle nods to a bygone era that Madmen pays homage to when, for instance, Don Draper shakes out his families’ picnic blanket scattering trash on the park’s lawn before walking away-- or pours his pal a scotch before sending him home in his car.  My parent’s generation used to call them ‘one more for the road’.  We called them ‘roadies’.  Thank goodness the majority of today’s younger generation doesn’t fathom getting behind the wheel intoxicated any more that we would think to toss a bag of litter out the car window.

I was talking to my mother about this the other day when she told me a story.  She was just out of college, in the early 1960s, when she and her merry band of friends decided to take a weekend road trip down south to visit some other friends—a young couple who had just married.  Five of them were going—cars were enormous in those days—and everyone had an assigned job.  A different passenger was in charge of snacks, maps, entertainment, and drinks, etc.  I interrupted Mom’s story, “Was there anything non-alcoholic to drink?”  “No,” she said, “We drank the whole way down.  And sang.  The entertainment person had a list of car games and songs for us to sing.” 

“And the driver drank?” 

“Of course,” she said matter-of-factly.  I cringed.  Mom continued, “but you didn’t ask me what my job was.” 

“What was your job, Mother?”

“Decorations,” she said.  I had to laugh.  We both did.

“I taped up crepe paper all along the top of the car and blew up little balloons…” 

“On the outside of the car?” 

“No,” she said, “the inside.”  I pictured my mom arriving an hour before departure time in order to secure a decorative trim of twisted crepe paper along the upper corners of the car ceiling, small balloons bobbing along, grazing their heads as they sang.

“Good work, Mom,” I said, “and did you sing?”

“Of course.  We all sang the whole way.  In fact, at one point I remember my friend telling the driver to pull over.”

“Because the singing was so bad?’

“No, he said he was too drunk to sing, so he had better drive.”

“Good Lord,” I said, “Did you let him drive?”

“Of course.”  I covered my mouth and shook my head.

“I know,” she said, “We were idiots.  We’re lucky to be alive.”

“I’ll say.  We were idiots, too.  We’re all lucky.”

There must be a million stories out there--serendipitous idiots doing ridiculous things.  Thankfully, designated drivers and community garbage cans are a permanent fixture of our landscape now.  But I think about what else we’re doing now, cluelessly, that will turn out to be completely idiotic.  Certainly, there’s plenty I’m aware of, but what will shock me?  What stories will I recount for my adult son that will leave him agape and shaking his head?  I’ll be glad when texting-while-driving becomes a thing of the past.  I hope they come up with a device that hobbles texting or turns your phone to dust while your car is moving.   Until then, keep your wits about you and be en garde.  There are idiots among us, still.