Into the Harbor

I have been out to sea for a long time, the sea of teaching and being a captain of my classroom. Many  years ago I signed my first contract as a sixth grade teacher. I knew enough about teaching to fill a thimble but my enthusiasm and naivete helped me believe I could keep signing contracts for years ahead. And I did. Thirty-one times, to be exact.

My time at sea has been an adventure, for sure. There were days of beautiful calm and serenity. My lessons clicked with the students. Heads nodded in understanding. Laughter burst forth over a shared funny moment. Hands were raised in thoughtful response. And I believed we would arrive at our destination in a timely manner. And sometimes we did.

There were also days of rough waters, filled with crashing waves and uncertainty. Unruly students with miserable attitudes, demanding enormous amounts of attention. Lessons gone awry and not well received. Meetings with unhappy and irrational parents. Forms, forms and more forms. E-mails queued up to kingdom come. Days when I was googling, jobs-for-has-been-teachers.

Most days were somewhere in-between. Not exactly sunshine and still waters. But not frothing waters and scurvy, either. The days when the rhythm of a classroom chugs along. Warm-ups are completed. Lessons are introduced. Assignments are given. Diligent students do their work. Stubborn students test the limits of tolerance. Papers are graded and returned. To-do lists are completed and another one is written. Students are greeted for the day and given a farewell as they exit with the final bell.

And now it is time to pull the ship into harbor. I am closing this chapter of my life. I met amazing folks along the way. My colleagues and I weathered many storms. We laughed until we cried and we shared the language of educators, determined to do what is best for our students. I listened to countless in-service speakers, some memorable and others not so much. I taught many subjects at three different grade levels. I conducted hundreds of parent-teacher conferences. I learned the names of a new crop of students each year and I watched them navigate their own waters of life. I felt the tides of "best practices" ebb and flow. And I hunkered down for the next technological flavor of the month. Teaching is never dull. And I have no regrets for choosing this profession. Nary a one.

Now the new chapter begins. I do not have fancy plans for the next steps. No fabulous encore job awaits me. I won't be traveling to exotic lands abroad any time soon. I don't have a cabin by a lake or a second home in the mountains. I suspect my semi-agoraphobic nature will keep me tethered to home base, for a while at least. I will continue to try a new recipe or two and I will enjoy my local library even more.

When next fall rolls around and I watch most of my fellow teachers head out to sea for another year of active duty, I will raise my cup of coffee in salute to some of the strongest people I know. I will also lift up a prayer for safe voyages and the stamina it takes to educate precious cargo. Above all, my fellow teachers, keep your desk drawers stocked with chocolate and a box or two of golf pencils. It is always good to be prepared.

Enough

I do most of my non-virtual shopping within a 1/2-mile radius of my house, for two reasons. I dislike shopping and I am lazy. My two favorite haunts are a grocery store that is 5 blocks from my house and a locally-owned pharmacy-has-everything store that is 4 blocks from my house (less if I drive around the backside of it, hoping I don't clip a trash dumpster in the process).

A recent early morning visit to the pharmacy store found me searching for a checkout lane with the signal light on. I heard a muffled voice at the first checkout and upon further investigation saw a frazzled checker rummaging around on the floor under the register. There was another young man crawling around on the floor, as well. I asked if their lane was open for business, and the frazzled lady popped her head up and said, yes, she could check me out but only if I wasn't using their store app. because the little reader thingy wasn't working.

I said she could rest easy because I wasn't going to use the app. because I never remember to carry my phone with me. She was relieved to hear that and proceeded to check me out while the young lad continued to dink around on the floor, attempting to remedy the app. reader problem. A line was beginning to form behind me and I could see in the checker's eyes a look of muted terror as she wondered how she would continue without the magic reader thing.

Just as I finished my transaction, I saw the blue lights on the reader machine fire up and start flashing. The checker breathed a huge sigh of relief and asked the young man, "What did you do?" He looked at her with all the hubris of youth and replied, "I fixed it."

We looked at each other and quickly agreed that we need our young friends in our lives because we are suffering from TID, Tech Idiocy Disorder. I know the checker wanted to understand how the young man fixed the problem so she could be self-sufficient if the reader blitzed out on her again. I also know the young man saw no reason to share his super power with someone a couple decades older than himself.

I know of no antidote for TID and I am not sure I am searching for one. Sometimes, I think it is technology that keeps the older generation humble. No doubt, there were a few harrumphs when the first horseless carriage putt-putted by an older person, followed by a discussion or two on the value of horses.

My 91-year-old mother tells many tales of changing technology over the decades. She experienced the beginnings of car travel, party-line telephones, rural electricity and indoor toilets. She dabbled in computers for a few years before her mind started weakening. Now, she looks at me and says, "I don't even know what a smartphone is and I don't want one. I have everything I need and that's enough."

Amen.

Lake Shore

Crashing waves. Spraying mists. Lapping water. Floating driftwood. Sparkling droplets. Memories of time spent by Lake Superior. A decade or two ago, my husband and I took yearly vacations "up north." We stayed in cabins along the large lake and enjoyed the cool breezes of water as far as the eye could see. The large lake provided the perfect climate for this tundra girl. I am never ready for the onslaught of summer's heat and humidity so a respite from such oppression is always appreciated.

We usually begin our lake time with a stop in the harbor town of Duluth. The view from Enger Park, situated above the city, is worth the journey through winding, sometimes confusing, streets. The park is filled with manicured gardens and leisurely walking trails. It is a great way to observe the sights and sounds of the city and the lake from afar.

The best way to experience the lake, of course, is walking along its shoreline. Canal Park is a well developed area nestled against the lake, perfect for observing the comings and goings of the big ships taking care of business. The old aerial lift bridge slowly raises it hulking deck for ships as they glide through the harbor. The ships hail from around the world, thanks to the lock systems of the Great Lakes. It is mind boggling to watch a vessel from Italy or Hong Kong chug along in upper Minnesota. Everything from grain to beet pulp to iron ore pellets are loaded for delivery to far flung places.

One particular ship viewing session found my husband and I in a torrential downpour. We were determined to weather the storm and watch the ships but the rain got the best of us. A coffee shop nearby provided the shelter we needed. This was before there was a coffee shop or java kiosk every 50 feet so the experience was purely delightful. We queued up with other dripping wet beings and ordered a hot cup of black, brew-of-the-day, coffee. The windows in the shop gave us peek-a-boo views of the harbor through the pouring rain.

Coffee always tastes good to me but that Caribou cup transcended all other cups for a moment in time. The rich brew permeated our senses with warmth and well being. The disappointment of not being able to fully view the ships was completely negated by two cups of coffee, one cozy corner and unobstructed conversation. Many years later, I still smile when I remember that day.

We hope to return to the big lake some time soon. Hopefully, we can even make the circle tour around the lake, venturing into the foreign land of Canada. Until then, I can enjoy a cup of Caribou coffee on occasion so I am able to experience a lake picture in my head and almost hear the bugle call of the gulls overhead.

Coffee. More than just caffeine.

Signs

The signs of spring present themselves a little differently in the upper plains than locales to our south. Temperature is not an indicator for us. One day we are bathed in sunshine and balminess and the following day our senses are shocked by a frosty nippiness. April showers can be a precursor to sleety, snowy slush. Trees hold back their buds a bit longer as they await a hopeful all-clear in May. And garden planting is risky at best.

There are a few sure fire signs for us and one is road construction. Our season for infrastructure enhancement is short so the orange cones are called into action as soon as possible. My commute has changed considerably as a massive restructuring of a popular roadway has begun. We queue up, bumper to bumper, and funnel our way through the latest passageway. I find myself gripping the steering wheel as I chug-a-chug-a-thunk my vehicle over rutted road shoulders. I feel tense when I am waiting on the bridge over a very swollen river or the bridge over a busy interstate. My game of "Which Bridge Would I Rather Have Plunge Downward" is probably not a good way to pass the time as I wait for a green light.

Our birds are also sending signals that springtime is arriving. The forceful call of a cardinal in the early morning hours is joined by the dee-dee-dee of the chickadees and the nasally yank-yank of nuthatches enjoying a suet snack. Fat-bellied robins are back in town, sharing space with the juncos who are ready to pack their bags for their northern breeding grounds. Bulky mourning doves are slowly arriving from their winter homes down south and red-winged blackbirds are establishing territory along the marshy sloughs. The chorus of morning symphonies is in full swing.

Despite the presence of ground frost, the lure of outdoor living is present. Greenhouses are being assembled in parking lots, nibbling away at precious parking spaces. Seed packets beckon our attention, forcing us to dream of fresh radishes, tomatoes and green beans. Lawnmowers remind us that our dormant turf will soon be demanding our attention. Bright, shiny grills and bags of charcoal are arranged in such a way that we can almost smell the burgers cooking away. Adirondack chairs in all colors conjure up thoughts of quiet evenings bathed in conversation and the glow of a sunset's waning light.

The number one sign of spring for us is rhubarb. Burly little sprouts are beginning their upward journey through the topsoil with little regard to the weather. Their hardy nature gives them bragging rights for being one of the earliest plants of the edible kind. It is a plant that elicits strong opinions from most folks. They either love rhubarb or hate it. Those of us in the love camp are salivating over the pies, cakes and desserts that will be coming our way. I'm not always sure if it is the rhubarb or the heavy doses of sugar added to the rhubarb that snaps us out of our winter coma. Rest assured, it is a pleasant way to greet spring.

Voices

I have the grand luxury of enjoying moments of self-imposed silence. Of course, silence is impossible in most settings, but being seated in a quiet home, without electronic devices blaring, is like drinking cool sips of water in a parched desert.  In the early morning hours, before most of the living roust from their nests, I am able to soak up the voices of natural causes. And things that go bump in the night.

My early morning greeting is often the gentle banging of doors in my basement. My husband says it is the change of pressure that causes such sounds, but I prefer to imagine a sweet little ghost taking care of business when no one is living in our lower level. The banging sounds always make me smile and sometimes I utter a cordial good morning greeting. I am alone at such times so no fear of mocking by others.

Our refrigerator whirs out the churn of making new ice cubes. Except, we have no ice making function on our refrigerator. I can hear the clunk, clunk of the pseudo ice cubes at the end of each cycle. Before you start using the crazy word, my husband recently startled to the same sound. He asked, "Did you hear that?" I responded, "It always does that. It's just the ice making dreams of our refrigerator." He had no reply. And no explanation. I continue to enjoy the process.

Occasionally, I hear the pop, pop, pop of something aching in the bones of the walls. I have long since stopped trying to analyze the source. Envisioning pipes ready to burst or studs in the throes of death does not provide calming thoughts for me. So, I assume little Casper from the basement is sending me Morse code messages. I just hope he isn't telling me that a pipe is ready to go.

The most mysterious sound also comes from my basement. It is a sharp ping that is identical to the sound of a freshly canned jar of peaches alerting the world that the seal is final. I have no idea what causes the sound as I haven't canned anything since my early years of marriage. I do enjoy it, however, as memories of the bounty of summer come flooding back. Jars of peaches, beans and cherries line up like jewels, ready for winter's dark days. A pleasant memory, for sure.

One of my favorite sounds is the rat-a-tat-tat from my deck. A downy woodpecker regularly visits the suet I have positioned on a deck post. She indulges her instincts by pecking away with rapid fire on the block of fat and seeds. I don't think she needs to push very hard to make dietary progress but she enjoys the motion of pecking away. Sometimes we all have to listen to our instincts.

We live in a culture of manufactured sound. TV, Netflix, podcasts, Spotify, books on tape and playlists all vie for our time. None of which are bad. But, sometimes it feels good to disconnect and release control of our surroundings. Listen for the voice of others, the hoot of an owl, the creaking of floor tiles or your favorite house ghost. You may not understand the conversation but you will understand the moment.

Pillow Talk

On the heels of the wretched event called Daylight Saving Time, I went on the hunt for new pillows. Mind you, this is becoming a frequent event and I wish it were not so. One would think that four decades of pillow acquisitions would make me an expert. I am not. In fact, my pillow shopping is now under the heading of "Fails."

I did not grow up with interesting pillows. We did not pluck the feathers of wild geese or use straw ticking to make our own pillows. In fact, I have little memory of our bed gear. I am quite sure that our family's frugality limited our pillow shopping to infrequent at best. It is possible that the pillow I started with in elementary school served me until I left the house. Which makes me wonder why I can no longer find a serviceable pillow. More likely, I was oblivious to such things at the time.

My challenge with pillows is their propensity to go flat. Or squishy. Or lumpy. Or sad. Oh, so sad. I do not buy the cheapest pillows I can find. In fact, I have upped my game recently. I look for pillows with a warranty and some reputation in the bedding world. I am discovering that the warranty is just a decoration on the packaging. I have yet to keep a pillow up to the 10-year warranty mark. And how does one go about cashing in on a failed pillow warranty? Does one stuff it into a big mailer and send it in? Is there a depreciation rate for said pillow? Is their a squish factor at play or is it simply customer satisfaction? I will never know as the hassle factor for such a process is far greater than sucking it up and moving on to the next pillow.

Thus the reason I found myself wandering around in a big box store, looking for more pillows, again. I have a Clem Kadiddlehopper complex when I go retail shopping. I feel totally out of place and my resolve to be a savvy, confident shopper dissolves within minutes. I start to sweat profusely and my ability to communicate with clerks becomes muddled and agitated. The store I was wandering around in relied heavily upon fragrances being pumped into the air that I am sure are the result of a marketer's desire to appeal to its target audience, young and hip moms. My days of young are long gone and hip will never be attached to my name.

A sweet little clerk tried to help me but I was too far gone by then. I carried on alone and dug around in the bins and shelves of bed chiclets. I ditched any pillow with a celebrity's name attached to it and did the same to the bargain pillows and the elite pillows. I settled on two mid-range pillows, one for a side sleeper and one for a stomach/back sleeper. Both felt firm enough, no lumps evident. And both came with a 15-year warranty.

I have a new pillow plan, now. Enjoy the pillow while it gives rest. Ditch it when it slumps into despair. And, don't try to overthink the process.

Duct Tape Man

Many of us enjoy goods and services on the backs and knees of hard working men and women toiling behind the scenes for us on a daily basis. One such individual is a man I do not know personally. I do not know his name, address or family details. He does not know me but we recognize each other because our paths cross almost weekly.  I know what his job is and the hours he works. And I know he wears duct tape.

DT Man works the overnight shift at my local grocery store as a shelf stocker. When I arrive at dawn on my Saturday morning foraging trips to the store, DT is usually finishing his shift. I hear him chatting with his fellow stockers about the usual components of life such as weather and store events. I often see him on his knees sliding cans of kidney beans and tomato soup into place with the well-ordered precision needed to showcase products for the upcoming day. I have never heard him complain, even when the aisles have been ravaged by frothing holiday shoppers. I am sure the weekend before Thanksgiving resulted in a few overtime hours as the cases of canned pumpkin and jellied cranberry sauces towered above the ends of the aisles. DT was on his knees again, replenishing the depleted shelves.

One would think DT would have no knees left, given the amount of time he spends using them. And I am sure an Advil or two is needed on occasion to alleviate discomfort. But DT also has a secret weapon. Duct tape. He has padding on his knees, secured in place by copious amounts of silvery duct tape. He is easily recognized with his gangly gait and shiny knee ornaments. He is clearly one who chooses to live with clever frugality.

Last Saturday, I met him in the aisle just as his shift was completed. His 5-buckle overshoes clanked a tune as he walked with a driven purpose. He was clutching two jars of salted roasted peanuts and he appeared to be on the hunt for something. I watched as he sprawled out on the floor and stuck his head in between two floor level shelves and moved items around. Clearly, salted peanuts were on sale and finding more of them was worth another bend of the knee.

Occasionally DT's shift is completed before I arrive and I see his lanky frame heading down the street, duct tape still intact. I don't know what his destination is but I presume he is headed to the bus stop or a place of abode, no car needed. He has the demeanor of someone who has finished a job and that is that.

I may not know much about DT but I know that I am grateful for his work. I depend on his knees to make sure I have the can of tomatoes I need for soup or the bag of brown sugar I am using to bake cookies. He makes my life easier.

Thank you, Duct Tape Man. You're better than the average Marvel hero to me.