- Greeted tearful ninth and tenth graders on their way into the classroom on the last day of school
- Bore witness to the results of kids tagging the walls-- both with chalk ("Thank you staff") and with spray paint ("Our school will never die!!!")
- Heard about a huge stand-off and apparent law-suit between the steel drum teacher and the principal, over who should get the steel drums; heard also that the steel drum teacher's wife had barricaded herself in the steel drum room, over the protest.
- Saw the police and media show up in response to aforementioned scuffle.
- Heard another teacher admit deviously that she had sneaked thousands of dollars worth of equipment out the back door while the aforementioned poobah ensued.
- Gave Mark his final back and watched him shout out loud, jump up and down, and hug several people, including me.
- Played songs on guitar for my kids while two girls sang along, knowing every word.
- Stopped mid-song to evacuate the building when a kid pulled the fire alarm.
- Watched a documentary crew, who has been following and documenting our school throughout the closure process, interview/film the evacuated students out on the field.
- Waved goodbye to all the buses as they slowly pulled away; realized our school's last day had finally ran out.
- Saw Joshua wearing his new fedora.
- Hugged students, said goodbye to students, and tried to hold back tears as I said MY last so-long to the students I've come to care so much about.
- Went home
- Packed
- Got dinner with my friend Kelsey; went to the airport.
- Got on a red-eye to New York.
- Listened to "Man Down Under" about 60 times on repeat at a cafe (WHY only the one song? WHY?) in JFK during a 2.5 hour layover.
- Got on another plane to Nashville
- Surprised ANNIE: happy Bluebird performance weekend!!! Did you ACTUALLY think I'd miss it??
- Hung out with best friend and her parents all day.
- Shopped at Anthropologie to pick Annie out a Bluebird outfit.
- Saw other fantastic Nashville friends
- Came back to Annie's house
- Blogged
- Went to bed
Showing posts with label endings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label endings. Show all posts
Jun 20, 2009
Dec 16, 2008
The Shape of an Ending
A two-hour late start for school today leaves me with nothing to do at 9am. The huge ghastly project that was so vehemently decried in the last post was finished last night; there's nothing to do to prepare for school today. There have been many thoughts swirling, battering, racing around in my head over the last several weeks, but for today, it's easier to let the past do the talking.
I wrote this on February 1st, of this last year. It speaks to much of what I'm feeling today.
----------------------------
Last night, I got home to find my Grandpa at his antique desk in our living room, with papers and calendars all around him. This is unusual: Grandpa is reliably watching the news or Jeopardy at 7:30pm. And if he's doing bill-paying or letter writing, he sits on the couch at the coffee table. The desk is more decorative than anything else. "Grandpa, what are you doing?" I asked him, amused. "What is all this?" He mumbled a few things, but didn't directly answer. I went into the kitchen to fix myself a late dinner. I called to him from the kitchen, a few things about the day, and my drive home.
He followed me into the kitchen with a calendar. It was a large Norwegian calendar, with foreign words and numerals, and brightly colored paintings. He and my Grandma always found these calendars on their trips overseas; it is one example of the classy antique European taste they cultivated for over 52 years.
Grandpa started murmering about dates on the calendar. "I found this old calendar sweetheart..." He showed me July 18th: an appointment to examine spots on my Grandma's lungs. We looked earlier; a check-in appointment to assess her knee-replacement surgery when my Grandma had mentioned her recent breathing troubles. In between the two: an appointment for a lung x-ray. We looked at later dates: an appointment with Dr. Henry Lee, the physician that would end up administering her chemotherapy and radiation. We didn't look ahead to the following year, but if we had, the month of October would have marked the date of her funeral.
It occurred to me in the kitchen, that my Grandpa was holding a type of graveyard, in the form of that bright Norwegian calendar. Date by date, there was chronologically depicted each step that would eventually lead to my Grandma's passing away. July 18th was the day I got the call, when working at my church kiosk, from Grandpa, telling me she had cancer. I vividly remember running into the sanctuary and sobbing; I remember trying to be quiet. I remember my dear co-worker Scott telling me to go home for the rest of the day. I remember the angry, fervent prayers later on, the capsizing hope. I remember hearing from my Dad when I was in Africa on a crackling intermittent cell phone call that she was terminal. These moments illustrate the tiny markers, the flagstones in my memory, that led to that ending.
It's odd to remember these unlikely markers. The most clear image of an ending I can remember from my last lengthy relationship was a silver tube of lavender lotion finally running out. Ted had given me that lotion when we were together, he'd sent it to me from California in a spontaneous act of affection, and I'd kept it for a long time, not wanting to use up the sweet present. After we broke up, I was even more reluctant to use it, even though it was such nice lotion, and smelled like soap and summer. What good thing would there be left of us when it was finally gone? But eventually it was. And by then, we had been over for some time.
I remember the marker for Africa ending. i was in the courtyard with Erica, and we were washing our clothes and hanging them on the line. I remember laughing at the surreal experience it still seemed to me: to be in AFRICA, and to be washing our clothes in big plastic tubs that always ended up with floating ants in the water. I said to Erica, "You know what's weird to think... that one day, all these little kiddos will just be pictures from far away. And this will just be 'that one summer I spent in Africa.'" I pictured myself in my 30's, meeting some Deputee that would be leaving for their big summer trip. I pictured myself commenting, "I did that once. I went to Malawi. I spent a summer there." In that Malawian courtyard, with my arms wet and my back warm, it was the most harrowing realization: to think that the children I had come to so enjoy, who I would give piggy-backs to that night, and who I would sing to in an hour or two, would someday only be shiny 3x5 pictures, and that my summer would only tug at my memory in passing.
I know beginnings have their own shapes too. I can recall many flagstones that would have marked the start of a path, of a journey, of a relationship. But today my thoughts are with the endings. Today, honestly: I wish for July 17th. I wish for something left of that lavender lotion. I wish for a hug from Tikambe, and for Clayton to be swinging from my back. I wish for floating ants in the laundry tub.
I wrote this on February 1st, of this last year. It speaks to much of what I'm feeling today.
----------------------------
Last night, I got home to find my Grandpa at his antique desk in our living room, with papers and calendars all around him. This is unusual: Grandpa is reliably watching the news or Jeopardy at 7:30pm. And if he's doing bill-paying or letter writing, he sits on the couch at the coffee table. The desk is more decorative than anything else. "Grandpa, what are you doing?" I asked him, amused. "What is all this?" He mumbled a few things, but didn't directly answer. I went into the kitchen to fix myself a late dinner. I called to him from the kitchen, a few things about the day, and my drive home.
He followed me into the kitchen with a calendar. It was a large Norwegian calendar, with foreign words and numerals, and brightly colored paintings. He and my Grandma always found these calendars on their trips overseas; it is one example of the classy antique European taste they cultivated for over 52 years.
Grandpa started murmering about dates on the calendar. "I found this old calendar sweetheart..." He showed me July 18th: an appointment to examine spots on my Grandma's lungs. We looked earlier; a check-in appointment to assess her knee-replacement surgery when my Grandma had mentioned her recent breathing troubles. In between the two: an appointment for a lung x-ray. We looked at later dates: an appointment with Dr. Henry Lee, the physician that would end up administering her chemotherapy and radiation. We didn't look ahead to the following year, but if we had, the month of October would have marked the date of her funeral.
It occurred to me in the kitchen, that my Grandpa was holding a type of graveyard, in the form of that bright Norwegian calendar. Date by date, there was chronologically depicted each step that would eventually lead to my Grandma's passing away. July 18th was the day I got the call, when working at my church kiosk, from Grandpa, telling me she had cancer. I vividly remember running into the sanctuary and sobbing; I remember trying to be quiet. I remember my dear co-worker Scott telling me to go home for the rest of the day. I remember the angry, fervent prayers later on, the capsizing hope. I remember hearing from my Dad when I was in Africa on a crackling intermittent cell phone call that she was terminal. These moments illustrate the tiny markers, the flagstones in my memory, that led to that ending.
It's odd to remember these unlikely markers. The most clear image of an ending I can remember from my last lengthy relationship was a silver tube of lavender lotion finally running out. Ted had given me that lotion when we were together, he'd sent it to me from California in a spontaneous act of affection, and I'd kept it for a long time, not wanting to use up the sweet present. After we broke up, I was even more reluctant to use it, even though it was such nice lotion, and smelled like soap and summer. What good thing would there be left of us when it was finally gone? But eventually it was. And by then, we had been over for some time.
I remember the marker for Africa ending. i was in the courtyard with Erica, and we were washing our clothes and hanging them on the line. I remember laughing at the surreal experience it still seemed to me: to be in AFRICA, and to be washing our clothes in big plastic tubs that always ended up with floating ants in the water. I said to Erica, "You know what's weird to think... that one day, all these little kiddos will just be pictures from far away. And this will just be 'that one summer I spent in Africa.'" I pictured myself in my 30's, meeting some Deputee that would be leaving for their big summer trip. I pictured myself commenting, "I did that once. I went to Malawi. I spent a summer there." In that Malawian courtyard, with my arms wet and my back warm, it was the most harrowing realization: to think that the children I had come to so enjoy, who I would give piggy-backs to that night, and who I would sing to in an hour or two, would someday only be shiny 3x5 pictures, and that my summer would only tug at my memory in passing.
I know beginnings have their own shapes too. I can recall many flagstones that would have marked the start of a path, of a journey, of a relationship. But today my thoughts are with the endings. Today, honestly: I wish for July 17th. I wish for something left of that lavender lotion. I wish for a hug from Tikambe, and for Clayton to be swinging from my back. I wish for floating ants in the laundry tub.
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