Timing is Everything
Last week was an extremely busy time for me. Not only was it the final week before report cards had to be done, but I was coordinating a Science Fair. This included having students present their projects during class time, marking them all, coordinating the set-up of the projects in the gym, finding volunteer judges, providing refreshments and instructions for the judges, announcing winners, awarding ribbons, taking pictures, organizing the Open House, greeting parents, fielding disagreements with parents over student marks and prizes awarded, cleaning up the displays and preparing an excerpt for the monthly newsletter.
Last week, I was bent as far as I could possibly bend without breaking. The ultimate moment of chaos occurred on Wednesday at noon. Judges had arrived and were expecting a greeting from me. Simultaneously, half the students had not yet set their projects up in the gym (some of whom hadn’t been assigned a location and I had to take care of that). I was trying to eat my lunch and juggle between instructing judges and corralling students out of the gym; my hair was frazzled and standing on end, my gaze was darting and my blood pressure was through the roof. I was trying to rummage through piles and piles of project manuals that were marked, half-marked and not-yet marked, marked but not recorded in my book, and all other variations, while offering donuts, water and juice to judges, handing out clipboards, trying to figure out who could judge french projects, offering pleasantries about my marriage to a former teacher, trying to remember this tall guy with curly hair’s name, seeking out a marker that wasn’t dried up for name tags, ascertaining the origin of the ungodly smell of rotting agar, deciding how to decrease the temperature of the gymnasium by about thirty degrees, and duct-taping an extension cord to the floor when a smiley (if somewhat oblivious) young-at-heart, somewhat antisocial grade 8 boy popped his head into my line of vision (actually just mere centimeters from my nose), displayed in his palm his nearly-solved Rubik’s cube and blurted out, “I’m stuck! Can you show me how to finish this?”
My jaw dropped. That’s what you do when there are so many wide and varied ways you want to say NO and all of them could get you fired or reprimanded for misconduct unbecoming a member.
“Not right now, kiddo”, I finally squeaked out, “I’m a wee bit busy.”
Monday, February 25, 2008
Monday, February 11, 2008
Little J joins the Band
Mr. Y decided this year to have a grade six band. Little J (chunky, red-head from the Communications class mentioned in an earlier blog) wanted very badly to be in the grade six band. And with his slobbery chin and pinchable cheeks, it’s impossible to say no to Little J. Mr. Y was torn between the progress of the entire group in their pursuit of musical maturity and Little J’s inability to keep tempo for more than a bar (Little J is a percussionist). So, despite the fact that percussionists usually change parts for different songs (one playing the tympani for one song but the snare drum for another), Mr. Y kept giving Little J the Wood Block part.
The wood block part is not very interesting. Sometimes, it requires a strike on the first beat of each bar, and even if there’s a small solo, even if Little J got extremely confused about when to hit his instrument, the wood block could be drowned out enough by the other instruments so that the band could keep their tempo with the rest of the percussion and the conductor, the talented Mr. Y.
After the third song had been introduced to the grade six band and Little J had been appointed to play the wood block part for the third time, finally, Little J approached his teacher. Mr. Y was caught off guard and his heart broke a little as Little J asked him why his parts all seemed to be the same. “I …. think….I’m….noticing…..a ….pattern…,” Little J remarked to Mr. Y. “Why …do….I ….always….play….the…wood….block?” Mr. Y sat Little J down and went over in his head how to break to the boy gently why he’d been assigned such a simple and potentially quiet instrument. “You see, Little J, how the clarinet players in class play different parts? But how in band, the same people always play first clarinet and the same people always play the second clarinet part? Well, the first clarinet players are already very good at the clarinet…” He paused and wrung his hands before going on tactfully, “but the second clarinet players are still just learning how to play the clarinet. That’s why they always play the same part.” Mr. Y drew in his breath as if to gather strength before making the final last link in his logic, but before he could, Little J interrupted him, “I think….I ….know….what….you’re…..saying….” Mr. Y looked at Little J, “You do?”
“Yes,” replied Little J, “You’re…saying…I’m…the…BEST…at…the…Wood Block!”
Mr. Y decided this year to have a grade six band. Little J (chunky, red-head from the Communications class mentioned in an earlier blog) wanted very badly to be in the grade six band. And with his slobbery chin and pinchable cheeks, it’s impossible to say no to Little J. Mr. Y was torn between the progress of the entire group in their pursuit of musical maturity and Little J’s inability to keep tempo for more than a bar (Little J is a percussionist). So, despite the fact that percussionists usually change parts for different songs (one playing the tympani for one song but the snare drum for another), Mr. Y kept giving Little J the Wood Block part.
The wood block part is not very interesting. Sometimes, it requires a strike on the first beat of each bar, and even if there’s a small solo, even if Little J got extremely confused about when to hit his instrument, the wood block could be drowned out enough by the other instruments so that the band could keep their tempo with the rest of the percussion and the conductor, the talented Mr. Y.
After the third song had been introduced to the grade six band and Little J had been appointed to play the wood block part for the third time, finally, Little J approached his teacher. Mr. Y was caught off guard and his heart broke a little as Little J asked him why his parts all seemed to be the same. “I …. think….I’m….noticing…..a ….pattern…,” Little J remarked to Mr. Y. “Why …do….I ….always….play….the…wood….block?” Mr. Y sat Little J down and went over in his head how to break to the boy gently why he’d been assigned such a simple and potentially quiet instrument. “You see, Little J, how the clarinet players in class play different parts? But how in band, the same people always play first clarinet and the same people always play the second clarinet part? Well, the first clarinet players are already very good at the clarinet…” He paused and wrung his hands before going on tactfully, “but the second clarinet players are still just learning how to play the clarinet. That’s why they always play the same part.” Mr. Y drew in his breath as if to gather strength before making the final last link in his logic, but before he could, Little J interrupted him, “I think….I ….know….what….you’re…..saying….” Mr. Y looked at Little J, “You do?”
“Yes,” replied Little J, “You’re…saying…I’m…the…BEST…at…the…Wood Block!”
Friday, February 01, 2008
This is an untitled poem by my brother, Jay.
I think we can all learn something by this poem.
If you like what you've tasted here, see the link to the Frantic Boy and Mediocre Man blog.
Thin in the armour,
Thick in the brain.
I've used up all my napkins,
I've lost all that I've gained.
Nature nurtures nothing,
Pink potatoe pie.
Laughter lurking later,
Scrapes the solemn sky.
by Jay
I think we can all learn something by this poem.
If you like what you've tasted here, see the link to the Frantic Boy and Mediocre Man blog.
Thin in the armour,
Thick in the brain.
I've used up all my napkins,
I've lost all that I've gained.
Nature nurtures nothing,
Pink potatoe pie.
Laughter lurking later,
Scrapes the solemn sky.
by Jay
Chickpeas
I love chickpea salad. When I make it, I think nothing of eating it for breakfast, lunch and supper. Mark didn’t mind it at first, but after so much exposure, he’s developed an aversion.
Feb 1st is a scheduled potluck lunch at my school. What else would I make but my beloved chickpea salad. So I walked to the Ultra Mart yesterday and bought four cans of chickpeas, two big green peppers, feta cheese and a red onion. And although I was tired, I set about chopping veggies. Mark lovingly asked if he could be of help. I asked him to open some cans of chickpeas. He opened a few and then went running out of the room from the (and I quote) “stinky, stinky chickpeas”.
As I began to strain them, I realized why they were “stinky”. One can was actually not chickpeas at all but canned lentils. I have no place in my kitchen for canned lentils! Trying to sneak into my salad! I was saddened by the lack of a fourth can of chickpeas, but I persisted and threw the salad together anyway. Luckily, the proportions of ingredients in chickpea salad are flexible.
This morning, Mark and I woke up to the glorious sound of a phone ringing far too early to even be my father. That is the sound of closed schools, ladies and gentleman. Teachers and principals set up a phone-chain and phone each other with the good news. I did a little happy dance all around the kitchen (it also involved some galloping) and then I caught a glimpse of five pounds of chickpea salad sitting expectantly on the kitchen table in the biggest glass bowl I own.
Now I am glad that I only had three cans of chickpeas.
I love chickpea salad. When I make it, I think nothing of eating it for breakfast, lunch and supper. Mark didn’t mind it at first, but after so much exposure, he’s developed an aversion.
Feb 1st is a scheduled potluck lunch at my school. What else would I make but my beloved chickpea salad. So I walked to the Ultra Mart yesterday and bought four cans of chickpeas, two big green peppers, feta cheese and a red onion. And although I was tired, I set about chopping veggies. Mark lovingly asked if he could be of help. I asked him to open some cans of chickpeas. He opened a few and then went running out of the room from the (and I quote) “stinky, stinky chickpeas”.
As I began to strain them, I realized why they were “stinky”. One can was actually not chickpeas at all but canned lentils. I have no place in my kitchen for canned lentils! Trying to sneak into my salad! I was saddened by the lack of a fourth can of chickpeas, but I persisted and threw the salad together anyway. Luckily, the proportions of ingredients in chickpea salad are flexible.
This morning, Mark and I woke up to the glorious sound of a phone ringing far too early to even be my father. That is the sound of closed schools, ladies and gentleman. Teachers and principals set up a phone-chain and phone each other with the good news. I did a little happy dance all around the kitchen (it also involved some galloping) and then I caught a glimpse of five pounds of chickpea salad sitting expectantly on the kitchen table in the biggest glass bowl I own.
Now I am glad that I only had three cans of chickpeas.
The Llama Song
R. Butler Yeats pointed me in the direction of this link and this masterpiece of a song. Enjoy.
(Also notice the writer's name).
http://www.albinoblacksheep.com/flash/llama
R. Butler Yeats pointed me in the direction of this link and this masterpiece of a song. Enjoy.
(Also notice the writer's name).
http://www.albinoblacksheep.com/flash/llama
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