House of Zathras

About a half-mile from our house is a huge watermelon field. Huge. I would guestimate they load up two or three school-buses’ worth of watermelon each day, and have been going at it for about a week or two. Those buses are odd… the window areas are cut out, but the roof is left. The workers fill the inside of the bus with watermelons. The buses leave to go elsewhere to sell the green orbs of deliciousness, but one lone pick-up truck stays to sell some fresh-picked goodness.

I’m sitting hear even as I type, interspersing my connection to the internet with bites of salted sweetness. Yes, I do salt my watermelon. It’s a southern thang, y’all. A scrumptious southern thang.

…way out here…

This song pretty much sums up my beliefs…

Magnolia Springs is just a hop, skip, and a jump away. BR and I have been kayaking on the Magnolia River that runs through this beautiful hamlet. The mail is even delivered by boat there. An absolutely gorgeous and peaceful place to live.

So when the oil spill threatened the beautiful but environmentally sensitive area, locals first tried to go through ‘official’ hoops to see about protecting this little corner of God’s paradise.

Yeah, we know now about waiting for the Feds or BP to help the ‘small’ people.

So the volunteer fire chief decided to risk jail than to risk doing nothing. Please take the time to read what Mr. Hinton did…it is the actions of people like him which will preserve what beauty can be preserved.

I also read about a Plaquemines Parish president in Louisiana who is using shop vacs to clean the marshes because the purchase of commercial vacs is being held up due to red tape. Again, an instance of not waiting for the powers that be to come and rescue you. Now, it’s not right that folks should have to do this when others are responsible…but they have no other choice.

Lately it seems like bailouts and stimulus money only reach those who don’t really need it. The rest of the ‘small’ people have to get out and do it themselves.

It’s the American way.

Saturday was rather eventful.

It started at the airport. And I have such fun at airports. (To recap if you wish, read here, here, and here.) Yesterday became one of those ‘eventful’ airport trips.

It’s been some time since I’ve been allowed back to the gate with the kids. I don’t even ask anymore. Just check the kids in, and sit outside the security entrance until the flight boards and then go home.

Yesterday, while we were checking in Princess No’s luggage (a first…ALL of it under the weight limit!!!), she urged me to see if I could go back with her. And wonder of wonders, they said no problem. It must have been a really boring day because two of the ticket agents literally jumped out from behind the counter to get my license. They quickly printed out a security pass for me, and Princess No and I got in line.

I made it through the metal detector. My shoes, cell phone, and magnetic glasses made it through the x-ray machine. My purse…didn’t.

They ran it through twice. And then I had to traipse over to the corner for them to search my purse. Thank goodness I had cleaned out my purse the day before! Even so, my purse is its own Tardis/portal to another universe/mini-black hole. You can find everything and nothing in it. The reason I had to clean it out was because I couldn’t find my keys in it, even after digging in it for a full five minutes.

So, the TSA agent starts pulling stuff out of my purse. And pulling stuff out of my purse. And pulling stuff out of my purse. Then she finds my tiny bottle of hand sanitizer. She snarls, “Don’t you know this has to go in a plastic baggie?” Princess No is rolling her eyes.

Then the agent pulls out a small tube of face lotion. “Don’t you know this is supposed to go in a plastic baggie?” This time, the snarl results in spray landing on my face. Princess No is starting to become very embarrassed. “Mom, you KNOW all liquids have to go in a baggie!!!”

I tell her I wasn’t planning to go through security. And plus, I didn’t know that lotion was a liquid! Princess No rolls her eyes again as the security agent pulls out my tube of foundation (which I rarely wear and forgot was in there). The agent snootily hands me a plastic baggie and tells me to start putting the assorted tubes/bottle into it. As I start to comply, she dives back into my purse. And finds the small velvet sheath that holds my pocketknife. Oh, hell.

She pulls it out, pinching it between her thumb and forefinger (it’s a really small pocketknife. She delicately separates the velcroed flap of the sheath and then pushes the knife up and out from the bottom (it looked like she was performing a magic trick!!).

Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap. That little knife has caused me so much trouble, but I don’t want to lose it. I forget it’s there until I need it. Princess No has backed away, saying, “I’m going to the gate by myself. I’ll call you when I land.”

I start asking if I could take it out to my car and come back in. Princess No is almost apoplectic, saying I should just go. Just go.

So I hug her and am escorted out by security. The agent holds my purse and knife and I walk the green (carpeted) mile to the land of freedom for pocketknives…otherwise known as the waiting area. She hands me my purse. I have to ask for my pocketknife, which she begrudgingly releases to me. (It really is a sweet little blade!)

I call Princess No to see if she is getting over her huff yet. She informs me she is in the middle of texting a friend. Mom has been written off!

Her highness takes off and I head to my school to get some work done. I have to wait for Buck to finish a Young Marine activity and have two or three hours to kill anyway. The caretaker lets me into my building and I get to work. I accomplished quite a bit, so I should be able to leave somewhat early on the teacher final work day on Tuesday.

A terrible electric storm rolls in as I’m starting to wrap up things. There is a humongous KA-POW…and the fire alarm goes off. A shrill, unending eardrum-piercing electronic wailing. And I don’t dare go out into the weather with the lightning.

So I sit. And wait. And wait. The alarm doesn’t go off. My head is starting to pound. I grab a pair of foam ear plugs and put them in. (They’re not for me to block out the students, however a good idea that may be. I actually bought them for a student who said that ‘noise’ bothered her. The noise only bothered her during test time…when the loudest sound is pencil scratching on paper! But that’s another story for another time).

The ear plugs help and I do a few more chores. The storm isn’t letting up much, and it’s really past time for me to leave to get Buck. I grab one of the plastic white tablecloths I use to cover bookshelves. No way I’m holding up a metal umbrella in the lightning storm.

I run through the rain into the parking lot…which is almost knee-deep in water. Great…I’m going to be electrocuted in the school parking lot. BUT…a big fire truck is there with hunky firemen! If I get struck by lightning whilst running splashing to my car, at least I’d get first aid immediately.

The fire department was waiting for someone with keys to show up and deactivate the alarm. Their captain was on the caretaker’s porch, watching the crazy Mrs. Who treading water. The firemen on the truck were watching the crazy Mrs. Who, looking like a little white-riding hood.

The crazy Mrs. Who finally made it to her car, only wet from the knees down (the tablecloth worked rather well!). Then she picked up Buck, went home, and had some monk-made bourbon butter-walnut fudge.

I deserved it after my day.

I had BR puzzled with the title on my bunny post, I knew I shoulda taken that left turn at Albuquerque!

Me: You know, Bugs Bunny?

BR: Blink. Blink.

Me: Bugs always said that whenever he popped out of his traveling tunnel.

BR: Blink. Blink. Blink.

I thought everyone of my generation had Bugs Bunny blazoned on his or her brain:

When BR quizzed my about the title, I showed him the above video. He still just blinked at me.

Until I clicked on this next video:

BR laughed his ass off. He claims it’s his new favorite clip, and keeps muttering, ‘Have to burn mah boots…they touched Yankee soil’…and then he laughs again.

At least he stopped the blinking.

…now the damn dogs.

I was trying to do some sewing when I heard a ruckus out on the back patio. Figured the stupid dogs were being…well, stupid. Then I heard the p.i.t.a. Dachshund emit a high-pitched yelp, and decided to investigate.

It was like some kind of horror movie. I opened the door to find the two dogs playing tug-o-war with a possum. They each had an end of the poor critter, yanking it back and forth. The cat was sitting on the low brick wall, eying the baby possum stumbling around trying to crawl back on its mama.

I got the damn animals into the house (every one of them fighting me in the process), and called BR to come get the baby, which had been crawling off along the back wall of our house.

The possum, of course, was playing possum. Pretending to be dead. Or maybe really dead. Half its tail was missing (that’s the end the damn doxie had…I hope the tail gives it serious indigestion!). BR found a work-glove, and picked up the baby and put it on the still ‘dead’ mama. While grown possums are some of the ugliest creatures around, the babies are cute.

Anyway, the baby crawled all over the mama, trying to get into her pouch. She finally opened her eyes and looked around. After awhile, she finally got up, the baby disappeared into the pouch (except for its tail), and she waddled off.

All the while the carnivorous critters in the house were trying their damnedest to get out. We made them stay in for an hour or so until we felt like the possum had left the yard.

Damn wild kingdom in our back yard.

I’ll be the first to admit I’m not the best cook. It’s a chore, a chore no one else is willing or able to do. So I do it.

I cook simply. Yes, I cook from packaged mixes frequently…like scalloped potatoes, or jambalaya mix, or Bisquick. I don’t have the time or energy to cook from scratch every night. I use frozen veggies most of the time, and steam them (better than canned, at least).

But I have learned one secret from my Southern heritage…bacon. And its drippings. (No, it’s not called grease down here except by health nuts. Who all wind up dying scrawny and shriveled, and just as dead as the fat, happy people.)

Anyway, I made chicken-fried steak last night. But instead of cooking it in oil (I do use vegetable oil, just so you know), I first fried up some bacon. THEN I cooked the steak in the drippings. I added some of the drippings to the green beans. And crumbled up some of the cooked bacon in the scalloped potatoes. O.M.G. …was it good! ALL of it. I know our arteries were hardening as we took each mouthful. But bacon is nature’s perfect food. I’ve been wanting to try bacon-wrapped, cheese-stuffed jalapenos, but need to find a raspberry sauce in which to dip them.

We don’t eat like that every night. But it just sounded right last evening. And it tasted good. As my grandmother would have said, we were all as full as a tick. Yum.

Now I’m off to make some banana nut bread. Sans bacon. But cornbread with bits of bacon in it…yeah, that’s a good bread. But right now, I think I am baconed out.

Until the past few years, my Dad hasn’t been much for phone conversations. He’s not quite a hermit, but has made sure to live hundreds of miles away from the nearest relative. He can be terse, and will not put up with bullshit from anyone.

When he was still a young officer in the Navy, I was playing with the Captain’s daughter. Apparently she was quite a brat, and my Dad told her that if she didn’t mind her manners, she wouldn’t be allowed to stay at our house. She responded that her daddy was the Captain and stuck her tongue out at him. Big. Mistake. He grabbed her tongue and held on to it, and told her in his house HE was in charge, not her Daddy. She promptly ran home and tattled. Captain-Daddy did come over to thank my Dad for disciplining her because his wife had made her a spoiled brat. Wouldn’t have mattered if the Captain threatened him with the brig, however. Dad wouldn’t have apologized for someone else’s problem.

Fast-forward to last night. My dad actually called me…itself a rare occurrence. We chatted about Eraserhead’s college (Dad manages his tuition program). Then Dad started to reminisce about his Navy flying days when he was a navigator. He told me a story that he has told me several times before. It’s always the same…he hasn’t embellished it over the years (remember, he has no tolerance for bullshit). But Dad is a very engaging story teller, so you don’t mind listening to it again. His favorite, however, is about the time his plane crashed into the ocean (he was flying off the Kennedy). I think it was right after take-off, and it was filmed because it was so close to the ship. The film showed him as the only one who looked around to make sure everyone made it out of the plane.

Rescue was shortly thereafter, and Dad and the rest of the crew found themselves in the sick bay. The doctor asked them if they wanted medicinal brandy, and my Dad said (and here was an embellishment I’d never heard before), ‘F**k, Yes!’. I nearly dropped the phone. In all the times my Dad has relayed his Navy day stories, he only occasionally says ‘shit’ or ‘damn’…and then only when I got into my mid to late 30s or so. My Dad has always been aware of proprieties, even complaining at my sister’s wedding that she dressed the groomsmen and him in TAILS for a mid-day wedding…tails weren’t supposed to be worn until late afternoon/evening. He has always had a very precise code of conduct. Until last night.

He’s 71 now…he’s entitled to let fly whatever he wants to, I guess. And if you’ve been any kind of long-time reader, you know that I let fly with the f-bomb from time to time.

But it’s my DAD, for goodness sake. My DAD said the f-word. It’s like finding out your parents actually have sex and enjoy it. Which kind of goes with the f-word, I guess.

Oh, and for the record, Dad said that the brandy tasted like shit. He accused the doctor of drinking the good stuff and substituting rot-gut instead, and would need to crash three more times before that stuff tasted good.

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My Dad said ‘F**k’. Does this mean he finally sees me as an adult? It makes me kind of sad…I still want to be his ‘little blue-eyed sweetheart’. *sigh*

It’s also the middle of Mardi Gras, the partyingest party known to mankind, and you want to show support for the Saints. How do you do it?

By having an RC Cola and a Moon Pie of course! Geaux Saints!!!

And since I do live in Alabama, here is a story from Lewis Grizzard:

One day a man walks into a place and orders an RC Cola and a Moon Pie. The guy behind the counter says, “You must be from Alabama.”

The customer replied angrily, “Just because I ordered an RC Cola and a Moon Pie, how come you think I must be from Alabama? If I ordered spaghetti, would you think I was from Italy? If I ordered sausage, would you say I was from Poland?”

The man at the counter says, “Well, I can’t say. It’s never happened.”

So the customer asks, “Then how come when I come in here and order an RC Cola and a Moon Pie, you just automatically assume I’m from Alabama?”

And the man calmly replies, “‘Cause this is a hardware store.”

They’re going to the Super Bowl, baby!!!

Static electricity.

Static electricity is something we rarely have to worry about down here. But these continuous low temps and driving winds have sapped most of our normal high humidity. The kids at school are, for the first time in their memories, experiencing shocks after they get out of their plastic chairs and touch the metal sides of their desks. (It’s kind of funny to watch, actually! Yeah, I get my thrills where I can.) But, we turned to our science books and looked up information about static electricity. Usually, you can’t even do the experiment with rubbing a balloon against your hair and sticking it to the wall…it’s too humid.

I washed some sheets today, and as I made the bed I heard the crackle of static electricity. And I used fabric softener! My fleece blanket is in the wash right now, and it definitely will get a dryer sheet.

Princess No managed to get a shock when she turned off her light last night, and managed to see a blue spark in her darkened room.

I don’t care about all this scientific study, however. I want my normal winter of highs in the high 50s and low 60s, and lows in the 40s.

I’m a winter wimp, and I admit it.

Although one day I would like to take a horse-drawn sleigh ride. And make a snowman. A life-sized snowman, not a foot-and a-half sized snowman we are occasionally able to make. And it takes every bit of snow that falls in the yard to make one even that size.

And I would really, really, like to be able to do something like this.

Well, tonight was a first EVER for me.

We went to a Japanese restaurant for Eraserhead’s last night here. I had some leftovers, so I brought it home to take to lunch tomorrow.

It’s so cold here that I’m leaving the food in the car. Leaving it the car overnight in hurricane country. Humid, hot, mosquito country.

It just ain’t right. Normally if you leave any food in the car here overnight, you risk ptomaine poisoning the next day.

But tomorrow, I’ll be lucky if my food is thawed by lunchtime.

I’m back at work now, and can’t jump on the internet any ol’ time I please. Which means fewer posts…less blog reading…not keeping up with my farm on Farmville.

Yes…I’m addicted to Farmville, so help me God.

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Today was the students’ first day back. Some of them aren’t quite ready. I told them at one point to get out their notebooks and open to a blank page. One girl called out ‘Why?’. But before I could say anything, a boy yelled back, “Because she said so!”

Heh. That kid got an extra stamp on his reward card.

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19 degrees tonight. 19!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I’m going to hate to see my electric bill and my water bill. We have to leave faucets dripping, because most homes down here just don’t have the covers/insulation/whatever that y’all more northerly denizens have.

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My son goes back to college tomorrow. I haven’t seen him since June, and it’s been so great having him here for a visit. Why is it that you can’t wait for kids to leave, and then you miss them so much when they’re gone?

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And finally, just because it made me LOL:

That’s all that separates the country’s best water from the country’s worse water.

Does that make sense?

I live in the area with the best water, and work in the area with the worst.

I don’t notice a bit of difference. And given a choice, I’d drink Pensacola water before I’d drink water from say…Midland, TX. OMG, that water there is the WORST! It smells like it’s wafting from hell as it comes out of the tap, and tastes as if brimstone had been stirred into it.

And then there was southern Illinois water. Not as bad as Midland water, but it was hard for me to get used to having to have a ‘softener’ for the water. And the residue it left on the glasses! Yuck.

Seriously, however…I’m glad I have bottled water at work. I did that before the study came out. And my folks still live there, but they do filter their water. But a mere 24 miles from great to unsafe…makes me glad to live in a rural part of the country. It’s an inconvenience sometimes…but more and more it’s proving to be worth it.

And I like the idea of living near farms when the economy seriously goes tits-up…instead of being in the city where mayhem could so seriously reign.

Okay, as long as where on the subject of water, here’s one of my favorite water videos:

We passed a funeral procession today coming home from Pensacola. Or rather, I should say, the funeral procession passed us. That’s because down here, when a funeral procession goes by, people driving in the opposite direction stop. Even when separated by a median that’s over 20 yards wide like the one that separated us from the long line of cars.

That’s right…we just all come to a stop. And wait respectfully until the line of headlights passes by, and the cop on end duty rushes up to the intersection. Then the cop in front hurries to the next intersection, to block it for the mourners. The procession rarely has to stop in its jaunt from where ever the funeral service was until it gets to the cemetery.

People who aren’t from this area are flabbergasted, and often impatient with this Southern practice. Especially since the stopped cars stop in their lanes (not pulled off as one would for an ambulance), and the disrespectful impatient ones can’t maneuver their way through. (See, that’s the Southern way…just by being respectful and polite you can piss off Yankees…no offense intended, of course!)

It’s a humbling reminder that we all wind up the same way. That the hurly-burly pace of life will eventually come to a complete and earthly halt. And it’s deeply appreciated by the mourners. I remember both my brother’s and my grandmother’s funerals…looking out the car window to see all the stopped cars. It was very moving…they don’t know us from Adam, yet they stopped and showed respect for our loss. And then at the cemetery the cops stood at the gate, hats over their hearts. It is heart-rending and appreciated all at the same time.

Sitting in my car today, watching the line of mourners pass, made me misty-eyed. I remembered my loved ones who are gone, but who still live in my heart. Life is so under-appreciated when you think about it. Today was a reminder for me to savor life, and value the traditions designed to make you do just that.

I just can’t pull it together. I don’t know if it’s the holiday stress, work stress, or family stress.

I just want to run away. But I can’t. I did skip a meeting after school today to try to straighten up my room. I have an evaluation on Monday, and I want things to look nice. But when I started sorting one pile, it led to moving it to yet another pile, which led to finding another pile, until I was really just walking circles around the room. I’ve resigned myself to having to go to school on Saturday to get things done.

And sometime in January, I’ll be forced out of my classroom for a few days while maintenance paints my room and puts in a drop ceiling. Which means everything has to be pulled off the walls, removed from my storage area, put in a pile in the middle of the room, and then my class goes to a portable with no computers or smart board or centers or classroom library for at least two days. AND I have a technology conference in Orlando the 12th – 15th of January. What do you bet the painting and conference occur in the same week?????

And I just had to pay $500 to get new tires and brake work done on my SUV. And the dog had to go to the vet…add $117 to unplanned expenses.

So with all that hanging over my head, I skipped the meeting. It was just my fellow grade level teachers, and thankfully they understand. They won’t ‘report’ me. But I couldn’t face one more requisite of my job or my life. I get up at 5:30 every day, bust my ass trying to meet all the increased requirements of education these days, take my daughter to and from school, run errands, cook dinner, try to get some computer time to unwind, do laundry, try to do some more school work, and wind up in bed around 11:00 PM. I’d like to go to bed earlier, but I’m just too ‘antsy’…so much crap is running through my mind I can’t relax. And if I manage to go to bed earlier, I tend to wake up after five hours of sleep and then can’t get back to sleep. But I’m too tired to get up and do anything.

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Let’s change the direction of this post…we were taking a Spelling Test today. I caught one of my students pulling a spelling list out of his desk and copying the words. He’s a good kid, and I was kind of surprised. In talking to him, I asked him why he was cheating. He said he didn’t know it was cheating…that he thought cheating was when you looked on someone else’s paper. *sigh* I explained that if it wasn’t coming out of his own brain, it’s cheating. So now, he gets to write the spelling words 10 times each for homework and dad has to sign a note about it.

Sometimes it’s easy to forget that kids do not have the same frame of reference and experience as adults with common-sense issues. Which is why it’s so important that the guiding figures in their lives BE guiding figures. Kid can’t raise themselves. Unfortunately, too many of them are doing just that. *sigh*

I think it’s time for some eggnog and Southern Comfort…a good nighttime toddy lately.

When I went to bed last night, it was raining hard. Steady, heavy downpour. Wonderful to go to sleep by. (Yes, I know better than to end a sentence with a preposition.** I’m still too tired to think straight.)

Just woke up a few minutes ago (6:45 AM). Nothing. No rain. Or wind.

Not that bad at all. I’m sure there’s some localized flooding, and maybe some erosion down at the beach. A few roads are temporarily closed. But overall, Ida was a wuss.

Sadly, there will some people here who’ve never been through a bad storm before who’ll think they can handle a ‘real’ storm. People who won’t leave when the next Ivan or Katrina hits. We could have been in school yesterday and today without any real threat. But you can’t judge that in advance. You have to err on the side of caution. You can’t f*** with Mother Nature because she will find that amusing and swipe you off the planet. That’s what happened in New Orleans during Katrina. Complacency of the dangers on the part of officials and residents killed so many people. Idiots blame President Bush, but he couldn’t do anything until the aftermath. Mayor Nagin and then-governor Blanco failed those people…killed those people. And many of those people could have left. They lived in a bowl below sea-level. Doesn’t take a rocket scientist.

Okay, okay, I’m getting wound up. The point is that ultimately, YOU are responsible for YOUR safety in the face of a hurricane. If you live in an area that is at risk from flooding or storm surge…GET OUT! The water kills far more people than the winds.

Thus ends my PSA for the day.
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**That made me think of this joke:

A Southern woman gets on a plane and winds up sitting next to a Northen woman. Being friendly, the Southern woman turns to the Northern woman and says, “So, where y’all from?”

The Northern woman stares down her nose and haughtily replies, “Where I’m from, we know better than to end a sentence with a preposition.”

The Southern woman is silent for a moment. Then she turns again to the Northern woman with a smile on her face and says, “So, where y’all from, bitch?”

You know you’re a Floridian if….

Socks are only for bowling.

You never use an umbrella because you know the rain will be over in five minutes.

A good parking place has nothing to do with distance from the store but everything to do with shade.

Your winter coat is made of denim.

You can tell the difference between fire ant bites and mosquito bites.

You’re younger than thirty but some of your friends are over 65.

Anything under 70 degrees is chilly.

You’ve driven through Yeehaw Junction.

You know that no other grocery store can compare to Publix.

Every other house in your neighborhood had blue roofs in 2004-2005.

You know that anything under a Category 3 just isn’t worth waking up for.

You dread love bug season.

You are on a first name basis with the Hurricane list. They aren’t Hurricane Charley or Hurricane Frances. You know them as Andrew, Charley, Frances, Ivan and Jeanne.

You know what a snowbird is and when they’ll leave.

You get annoyed at the tourists who feed seagulls.

A mountain is any hill 100 feet above sea level.

You know the four seasons really are: hurricane season, love bug season, tourist season and summer.

You’ve hosted a hurricane party.

You can pronounce Okeechobee and Kissimmee.

You understand why it’s better to have a friend with a boat than have a boat yourself.

You’ve worn shorts and used the A/C on Christmas and New Years.

You recognize Miami-Dade as ‘ Northern Cuba ‘.

You not only forward this but you understand it!

*Bring in anything in the yard that could be blown around.

*Laundry. Lots of Laundry. If we lose power, having clean clothes ready is a must. Actually, it’s the clean underwear that’s the most important.

*Go to the library. If we lose power, I’ll need books to read.

*Clean the house. I have three days off…an unexpected boon of which I must take advantage.

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On a side note, I can’t tell you how many calls I received and made last night after it was announced the schools were closing. We’ve been through many hurricanes down here (and didn’t cry like those New Orleans whiney-butts after Katrina…just helped each other pick up and move forward!). But never have I made and received so many calls from excited teachers that the school was closed Monday and Tuesday. What does that tell you about our work environment when we’d rejoice that a Hurricane was on its way when it meant we wouldn’t have to go to work for a few days? It’s pretty pitiful, actually.

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How much more precious can one get?

Seriously…I do not have time to show the speech this week. Seriously.

So…now that the contents have finally been published, I’ve decided what to do. (Sidenote: If this truly was Obama’s original speech, he should have released it long ago. However, given the so-called ‘lesson plans’ that originally came out, this speech is totally revised.)

Sidenote #2: But they won’t be able to talk about it in schools in the next county over. They’re in the midst of a lawsuit brought on by the ACLU regarding prayer in the school district there. Since Obama ends the speech with ‘God Bless You, and God Bless America’…technically, it can be shared, can it? It would be school-sponsored prayer. And one of the local radio stations isn’t letting the ACLU stop prayer at school events. Right before the local high school football games get started, they’re broadcasting a “Prayer on the Air”.)

Anyway…it’s a five-page speech, single-spaced. I’ll print it out, and ask kids if they want a copy of it to take home and talk with their parents about it. Then I’m done. But five pages of text? Aimed at Pre-K to 6th grade or whatever? The kids will tune out rather quickly, Mr. President. This section right here from your speech is all you need for the younger kids:

“At the end of the day, we can have the most dedicated teachers, the most supportive parents, and the best schools in the world. And none of it will matter unless all of you fulfill your responsibilities.”

That’s it, Mr. President. That’s the most important part, and short enough the kids will stay focused. And guess what…it’s something I’ve told my students time and time again. Thank you for reinforcing what teachers have voiced since education began. I’ll try to ignore the pundits who say that you want us teachers to reinforce the message simply because YOU said it. I just hope you realize that in four or eight years you’ll be gone…but many of today’s teachers will still be teaching, sending the same message even when you’re no longer President. I’ve already taught longer than you can hold the office of President. You do your job, Mr. President, and I’ll do mine. I’ll just be doing mine a lot longer than any job you have ever done or will ever do.

“A teacher affects eternity; he can never tell where his influence stops.”
– Henry Brooks Adams

“What we want is to see the child in pursuit of knowledge, and not knowledge in pursuit of the child.”
–George Bernard Shaw

“Education makes people easy to lead, but difficult to drive; easy to govern, but impossible to enslave.”
– Henry Peter Broughan

I was coming home today when I saw something very interesting. One of the things that I love about living in a rural area. In fact, I had to pull over and watch. I got a few pictures…not great, but enough to give you an idea of what I got to see:
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Nope…I don’t sweat. Southern ladies don’t sweat. Nope. We may ‘mist’ or ‘glisten’…but we wouldn’t be so vulgar as to ‘sweat’.

Yeah, right.

I just got off the treadmill. Sweating like nobody’s business. My 40-something body’s metabolism has put on the brakes or something. So…I’ve had to do something about it. Thus, the treadmill. I’m trying to be realistic. I know I won’t get back the body I had at 20. But I would like to firm up, lose some weight, and put my body in a healthier state.

I can put a book on the rack and read while I walk. I can handle that. Keep my mind occupied while my body works.

And I realized something else today. Exercise is good at sucking out anger and frustration. Today was the first day back at school. O.M.G.!!!! I’m still too bothered to talk about it rationally, but just let me say this. What they’re expecting of teachers is going to take away from the students. I’ll give you one example. We have a reading coach coming two days a week. Yay! Somebody to help the kids, right? No, wait! The reading coach has to meet with the teachers of three grade levels on one day, and teachers of the other three grade levels on the other day. Because either the state or county is mandating that someone come in and tell us stupid teachers what the hell we’re screwing up on instead of teaching.

Don’t get me wrong…I don’t mind being help accountable for what I’m doing. But I do get pissed off when we’re being told how to do it, when to do it, where to do it, don’t deviate from the acceptable path, and THEN being held accountable when we do it the way we’re told and the school doesn’t reach the goals it expects!!!!!

GAHH!!!!!

Bad first day back to school. Our first meeting lasted from 8:00 AM to 12:45 PM. We have meetings all day tomorrow, part of Wednesday, part of Thursday (with Meet and Greet on two separate hours. Oh, we can come in to work an hour late to make up for that, at 8:15. But that would mean leaving an hour later, at 3:45, right???? OH, wait, Meet and Greet is from 11:00 – 12:00 AND 5:00 – 6:00. Somehow, that means we still spend, oh, more than two extra hours at school????) And we have another meeting on Friday. When do we have time to get the class ready and get lesson plans ready PLUS implement the practices we learned at the week-long unpaid workshop we went to this summer that we were told we HAD to go to?

Shit. I need to get back on the treadmill and glisten some more.

With or without salt?

…is renewing your pistol permit. While wearing your Vacation Bible School t-shirt.

“…so we were out in the pasture shooting off the fireworks. And let me tell you, it’s a scary thing to hear panicked cows stampeding in the darkness and not knowing if they’re coming at you…”

Earlier today BR and I took Buck into Mobile for a Young Marines fishing trip. On the way back, we stopped at a little hole-in-the-wall called the ‘Tiny Diny’. Yes, really, that is the name. Miss Trudy, the owner, greeted us vociferously, her big hair, big cross necklace, and bright red lipstick calling for as much attention as her voice. The waitresses had shirts that said, “Get your hiney to the Tiny Diny”. My husband had steak and eggs…we’re guessing the ‘steak’ was maybe nutria. Or possum. Or possibly coon. He said it was good, however.

When I asked where the restrooms were, the waitress said that it was right under the deer’s head…she turned to point, and then wondered aloud, “Now where did they move that deer head to?” I laughed to myself…maybe the deer head had been sent out to be dry-cleaned.

My husband says that there are a lot of Mobile society folks who eat at the Tiny Diny and take care of business dealings there. The two overall-clad old men at the table behind us were talking some kind of money deal.

As we paid, Miss Trudy commented on my husband’s credit card, liking the Constitution which was displayed on it. Then she commented on the state of our country and how godless it’s getting and we just have to pray that it gets better! I’m pretty sure she’ll be voting for Judge Roy Moore for governor of Alabama next year (he is running again!). I almost expected her to break out in the ‘Battle Hymn of the Republic’. Her good-heartedness is based on love of God and love of country, you could just tell.

Upon leaving, we drove past a huge sign in the parking lot encouraging (in large letters, of course) “Attend the Church of Your Choice”. Underneath that phrase were the words ‘Sponsored by the Tiny Diny’. That phrase was faded, but the first command’s letters were still clear and bold.

It just made me giggle to be in such a part of a stereotypical Southern-Americana. Nothing but great hospitality and good Southern food. I wish it weren’t so far away so we could go back again…I didn’t get to try the biscuits.