Quarantined in Paradise

This could be really nice.

If most of us didn't have to think about the bills coming due in two weeks,

We could have been ordered to self-quarantine in the bleak of winter

or suffocating summer

or during hurricane season.

But instead it's glorious spring. I mean, sun-is-perfect, temperature-mild, and breezes-caressing, gorgeous spring!

Don't get me wrong, I am working. I blog on my iPad at the breakfast table, then do an editing session on the laptop on the patio, give a remote piano lesson, and hand stitch medical masks on the lounge chair with this view

quarantined in Paradise.

I hear the weather’s not bad up in New York either. Days are warming and the lucky few with rooftop patios enjoy taking their shirt off while conducting important business calls.

Do I wish I had a job in the "essentials” sector? Yes, I think so. The dubious financial future would fly away. It's taken a long time to settle into this idea of not running out the door every morning, and stay home,  disciplining myself to be productive.

But, as a nurse or postal worker or Total Wine clerk, I'd be in constant fear that the next person I service could be sharing his life-threatening disease.

There's no comfortable place to be.

So, we work at home with rambunctious children underfoot, make them endless meals, educate and contain them.

We discover new annoying idiosyncrasies in our spouses and roommates with fresh arguments to wage.

We fumble through the limitations of FaceTime, Skype, Zoom and Google hangouts for whatever work or social activity we attempt. The online unemployment applications are crashing like bumper cars at a carnival as millions claim distributions.

And just as cases climb in NYC, the cyberspace will continue to get more crowded.

Who is holding up the World-Wide Web? Atlas? Because whoever he is, I hope he’s been pumping planets and running laps around Orion to prepare for this satellite overload.

Speaking of solar systems, if nothing else, at least the seasons seem intact.

For those of us who are not connected to a ventilator, waiting in line for Covid-19 testing or riding out a terrifying diagnosis, the sun still rises, the crescent moon still glows, our gardens grow tomatoes, the Florida Jays still twitter and we,

we will somehow find our way back to a normal spring

quarantined in this charlatan paradise.

Photo credit - thesportysommelier.com

The Last Margarita

     Friday, my job ended due to Coronavirus school closures and I just wanted to do something normal. So at dusk, hubby and I took our Starbucks gift card, mancala game board and marbles and went to get coffee. We thought sitting outside in the open air would be relatively safe.

     The young girl at the counter cheerily took our vanilla and green tea latte orders. Reflecting on my own job cut, I asked her if her work hours were affected by the epidemic's restrictions. She said not yet, but there was chatter about closing indoor seating and offering drive-through ordering only. Was she worried about pay loss? She said that Starbucks would give them catastrophic compensation. I thought, Wouldn't that be nice if the school district did that for their hourly employees?

    The sunset did not disappoint, nor did the board game and conversation in the balmy spring air.

It was the last coffee.

    Monday night. March 16th,  most Starbucks stores closed their indoor seating. We discovered that while in Orlando for our son's engagement dinner. Arriving hours early for the party, we went to two different Starbucks in search of an afternoon pick-me-up. The first store showed chairs stacked on tables through the windows. The second was open for grab-and-go only, the blue- haired millennial baristas not so cheery to see virus-susceptible baby boomers. After the 3 hour trip I needed to use the restroom. "Sorry, for employees only, but try the Target down the street," they said. Feeling the heavy pall in the room, hubby didn't even order.

     Barnes and Noble was open. There was this respectful camaraderie between the few there. Each knew the other needed to retreat to books during stressful times. Somewhere in the leafing through pages, and sampling the buffet of words there lay comfort and refuge during crisis. Silent book lovers sauntered slowly down aisles, reverent and reflective in this sanctuary of thought.

     Nestling down into overstuffed chairs, I sipped coffee and read The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning (döstädning), and Tim studied the Hebrew word for "wait" as in "wait on the Lord."  The diffused spring sunlight bathed us through the window. Naps quickly followed. A masked Asian girl sat nearby. At 6:45, the store announced its closing and we headed out to the restaurant.

The last Barnes and Noble hangout? 

     Fearing restaurants would heed President Trump's urging to close Monday at 5 pm, we made sure ahead of time that Don Julio's would stay open for the surprise engagement party. In twos and threes, friends of our son and future daughter-in-law filtered in. Balloons, menus and gifts adorned the three long tables. Our well-intentioned elbow and toe taps, air hugs and knuckle punches were quickly abandoned and replaced with bear hugs and handshakes. Hand sanitizer sat like another condiment alongside salsa bottles and salt and pepper shakers. I ordered the best frosty margarita - green for St Patrick's Day--and it worked its magic. When the newly engaged couple entered the restaurant, shouts and applause erupted, reverberating joy in every heart.

It was the last margarita. 

And perhaps the final fajita.  Restaurant workers joked they stayed open for us. It will be 8-10 weeks until the virus crests and subsides if it follows China and South Korea's pattern.

Until them we hunker, hole up, self-quarantine, miss work and social events.

I couldn't have imagined a more meaningful last supper to commence isolation.

Confessions of an Old-School Kindergarten Teacher - Number 4

Every teacher knows it to be true. But few discuss it at length.

They experience it every day:

Kindergartners are generous.

Photo Credit - www.sparklesontheweb.com

They give you more than you could ever ask for. While some say that youngsters have trouble sharing, not this bunch! They share all that they have. Even a brief kid encounter can forecast a fever or cold.

Yes,

their sneezes adhere to your sweater. A hug leaves a soggy snail trail. Their fingers are forever in their noses and mouths, then on to your pencils and keypads.

They are the gift that keeps on giving.

At Christmastime they gave her lice

 In January scabies

God knows if she had stayed til March

They would have passed on rabies. 

Several bottles of Rid later, she still found an awful black pest dangling from a blonde hair just last week. Three months and still battling the bugs.

Then there was scabies. Just the sound of the name is hair-raising. I thought scabies was something only pirates got while months at sea, or that was found with India's untouchables, or in Auschwitz prison camps.

I was wrong. In an upscale neighborhood, an unnamed teacher contracted such a bad case that the Urgent Care wouldn't approach her to examine her. The doctor excused herself to don blue latex gloves and watched across the room while the patient lifted her shirt to reveal a mass of red dots, rashes and scabs. After a prescription of a insecticidal body cream, the teacher was tortured with a month of endless itching during the aftermath.

Besides the cream, Prednisone was prescribed as an anti-inflammatory for skin issues. Prednisone has a nifty little side effect that lowers the immune system. "Do not take if around infectious environments."  This was kindergarten, folks. A hotbed of germs! An infection factory! So after two days, said teacher came down with a scratchy throat which quickly turned into to a nasty lung condition, fever and cough. She called back Urgent Care to send a Z-Pack script, quick! All during the early days of this new flu epidemic called Coronavirus!

Confession No. 4:

Teaching is hazardous to your health, and I'm not sure if I'm up for it.

Besides, menacing physical ailments, teachers must deal with extreme behavior cases. If she calls the office for behavior support too much, it will reflect on her classroom management skills. So she has to figure out how to tame the wild ones, keep the class safe and still make sure all her students achieve their basic standards, even the ill-motivated ones.  Yes, even the ones that throw chairs and hit the teacher. It's a long process of referral forms, administration observations and paperwork before the child will be moved to a behavior module. Not surprisingly, the wake of stress and missed learning takes its toll on both the teacher and the good kids along the way...

Photo Credit - www.proudtobeprimary.com

I would be remiss not to mention other half of juvenile generosity. Like the bag of coffee they bring on your birthday, the cute compliments, the little love notes left on your desk, the apple, the rose, the morning (dry) hug. Sometimes they present their ice cream money. "No, honey, keep that in your backpack till lunch."

They are funny and innocent and creative. They are curious and inventive and clever. These are the ultimate gifts that educators keep for life.

Confessions of an Old-School Kindergarten Teacher - Number 3

At first I was revolted. As an assistant, I'd watch a teacher dole out Skittles or Gummy Bears or Starburst to reward a small student for finishing an assignment. The delirious child would munch away on a sugar-high while the teacher slipped herself a sweet snack or two--all at 9:30 in the morning! In covert disgust, I'd wonder how an adult educator could sleep at night knowing she'd indulged in kid candy so early in the morning. Any self-respecting grown-up would choose chocolate covered espresso beans, Milano cookies or pita chips--and would do so with her afternoon coffee or La Croix.

Then I took my own kindergarten class. It was hard to instill the desire to finish their phonics page or focus on their computer program or take a simple test. They wrote sloppy and didn't care. They tore books, stuck pencils in perfectly good Pink Pearl erasers, peeled the paper off their crayons and snapped them in half, cut everything including hair with their blunt scissors. They scribbled daily on their desks, under their desks and on the wall by the 'safe spot' where they were often sentenced for misbehaving. They stole from the Friday Treasure Box when I wasn't looking.

It was a disaster. Where was Arnold Schwarzenegger (aka Kindergarten Cop) when I needed him? They ate breakfast over the floor, poured syrup on the table, forgot to wash their hands and didn't flush. (Was I their mother?)

All they cared about was recess, snack time and who was or wasn't their friend for the day. Or whose shoes sparkled most or flashed the brightest LED patterns.

My superiors said it was my job to figure out what would motivate my kids. I had to get them to achieve, come hurricanes or storm surge. My own evaluation and job security depended on it. "Bribe them," they said.

So I stocked up on Goldfish, Cheez-its, Blow Pops and every form of sticky substance that 7-11 sells.  I dangled the coveted treats in front of those wide-eyed 6-year-olds at math time, social studies, reading and rug-time.

For some of them the glucose enticements worked. For others it was sidewalk chalk at recess, a visited from Officer Timmy or Go-Noodle videos.

Teaching was a bit more successful. What I didn't expect was my diffused disdain toward the candy trove. On tired afternoons, I began to eye the bags of Starburst affectionately.

Then one day it happened. The Gummy Bears were talking to me. LOUD! I reached in, took a handful and popped them into my mouth.

How I hate to admit it, but

Confession #3:

I've come to like Gummy Bears  

Photo credit - Amazon.com

Confessions of an Old-School Kindergarten Teacher - Number 1 and 2

The last day before winter break, the school IT guy rolled in a spanking new smart-board.

They just don't understand. My whiteboard is cracking and mottled and almost useless. If anything, I need a new white board to teach math and phonics with my trusty dry-erase pens (which do just that-dry up in a week). Why was my white board the most decrepit in the whole school?

A veteran kindergarten teacher told me that she had my room when she first started. The front wall flaunted a meadow-green chalkboard. Since the school was about 30 years old, whiteboards had not become the teaching fashion.  But that year, she said the District updated the chalk boards and transformed them into whiteboards by applying a white plastic veneer.

After over a decade of use, the cracking veneer looked like the shell of an adventurous hard-boiled egg. Picture Humpty Dumpty after he fell. I checked the upper corners of the board and found that I could actually peel the darned stuff off. Being a picker by nature my semi-psychotic urge to remove the sheet of plastic was severely tested. I SO wanted to reveal the leprechaun green and get out my little cylindrical instruments to have at it!!

Notice the 7-year old writing in cursive - a foreign language to most 4th graders!
Photo credit - Pinterest

But I resisted, knowing it probably would not peel off uniformly and look worse than it already does. Picture Humpty Dumpty meets The Hulk.

Turns out...

I don't need to worry about removing the disintegrating gook any longer because they brought me a smart board. Something that will only distract and mesmerize the children. They will pay more attention to how my pen magically draws digital colors rather than the equations I am writing. The truth is,

Confession #1:

I want my chalk board back.

If it was good (and smart) enough for NASA, it's good enough for me!
Photo Credit- Rarehistoricalphotos.com

Then there's the joy of teasing the class with that grating screech made by holding the mineral utensil at just the right angle with the precise amount of pressure. You know you miss that, too.

 I want the classic board along with McGuffey's Readers that explain the diacritical marks so children can easily blend words, which, by the way,

Confession #2:

I consult McGuffey Readers on the down low every night to see how I can sneak in diacritical marks and the "Ann has a cat" lessons.

Enough of sight words and letting kids spell anyway they want!

I learned to read using the McGuffey Readers. (Along with "Dick and Jane"). My father bought the books at Knott's Berry Farm in the Motte's Miniatures store in the mid-60s and I still have the whole set, from Primer to Book 6.  It's a shame that book 6 is really our current college level. We have been dumbed down so.   I try to smart-up my kids using the books secretly--not 'smart' as in iphones, and security systems, but as in brain power.

Plans, Pots and Life-Pursuits

You can find them at Target (Thank you, Magnolia), Joann's, and Macy's. Pots are in. And in a big way. Rustic, country-fied, modern and suspended in 70s retro macrame pot hangers.

But where can you find something truly unique and customized? Is there a skilled ceramist anywhere around Wellington? Probably just a few in the alcoves of Loxahatchee turning their potter's wheels. That's not to say that a skilled potter couldn't find a start here in Wellington though.

Especially for one young man whose mother demanded that he do something more productive with his time besides staring at his computer screen.

Sometimes your own advice can come back to haunt you.

I told my teenage son (and the other three sons for that matter) that he needed to create something 3-dimensional in real time that we could see with our eyes and hold in our palms.

At the time, the choices in high school were to take wood shop, machine shop, some kind of visual art, or cooking. But he wasn't interested in those hobbies.

So he signed up for a pottery elective. And took to it like it was the latest version of Nintendo or X-Box or today's Fortnite.

At first, the only tangible thing my son brought home was a lot of red and grey dust on his pants.  But soon his classroom creations began to line up on every dresser. Then they were scattered all over the house on end tables and shelves like confetti. Set high on top of the kitchen cupboards. They were lumpy and misshapen, bearing oddly colored glazes. Pitchers had disproportionate handles. Dishes had uneven edges. But with each passing month, the pieces grew more attractive and artistic. More refined.

Graduation came and went and my son headed to NYC to major in business, not knowing what field to pursue. But with each semester, he enrolled in fewer classes. Until, much to my dismay, he discontinued school entirely.  And this is where my words of advice came back to haunt me.

That high school elective had sparked a career, albeit a tricky one to navigate. A season in upstate New York with a kiln and small shed resulted in a portfolio of pots and a possibility of apprenticeship. Eventually he finally found his way to a pottery studio membership in Queens. That is where his collection of functional pottery, like lamps, chess sets and vases blossomed so that he attracted a major boutique hotel. After his first big order he needed to find his own work space and collaborated with a well-followed sculptor to open their own studio in the old Brooklyn navy shipyard.

His company Episode has produced lamps and ice buckets for prestigious hotels in the Caymens and New Orleans. Not bad for a self-taught artist. Each family member this Christmas received a beautiful brown Petrie lamp with the most beautiful New York stamped hardware seen on any fixture. These are nothing like the China-made versions found in Marshall's or Home Goods.

The humble high school elective has come back to compensate and reward not only my son, but his family and more and more of the art-appreciative public. I've let go of the idea of college and stopped nagging my 26-year old son. It's about time I followed in his father's parental philosophy and, "Let the boy do what he loves and wants to do, for goodness sake!"

Good advice, indeed!