An old friend — my next-door neighbor growing up — faced a daunting procedure today: due to various complications, doctors had to amputate his right leg above the knee. I can’t imagine what that must be like. But one thing is certain: he hasn’t lost his sense of humor.
In English 8, we’re off to our next set of required readings. I have very little say in what I teach English 8 this year, and a lot of the materials are too difficult for my students and too — quite frankly — boring to get their interest. Our piece is called “The Automation Paradox,” and so we did a little pre-teaching today so kids know what a paradox is. To that end, I introduced them to Zeno’s Paradox. We did some measuring, completed a little math, and I convinced them that the math was solid: the arrow should have never hit Zeno.
So then we tested the theory with a ball. Which students took turns throwing at me. I was fairly sure they would hit me quickly, but I failed to take into account the light weight of the ball and the tendency of smooth light balls not to travel in a straight line. So most of the throws missed.
But the point was made. And the kids had a blast throwing that silly ball at me.
This is what makes middle school so fun: they’re cognitively developed enough that we can get into some abstract thinking and still childlike enough to enjoy being silly.
We headed to Paris Mountain State Park today for a warm-up hike for the coming fall hiking season. E and I, we prefer mountain biking. K enjoys it as well, but she prefers hiking, and she’s got a goal for this season: the Dismal Loop. Today’s hike was much less daunting:
We tried to talk the Girl into going with us, but she was intent on studying at the library. Of all of us, she definitely has the most negative opinion of hiking.
We’ve been to this lake several times, and we’ve even got pictures of L tottering about the place as a toddler.
The Boy managed fine, but he’s insisting that he’s outgrown these hiking boots — which he wore daily just this summer at Scout Camp. Is it possibe? And they’re the Girl’s boots, not his own boots.
Two signs of how our kids are changing: our daughter elects to go study at the library (I’m sure there was a fair amount of socializing as well — that’s how I studied at the library in high school), and our son is approaching full size with alarming rapidity, with a full-size appetite developing and a full-size teenage attitude emerging.
We decided to come head back next Sunday, and the Boy and I will ride while K takes the dog for a walk. The Boy, by the way, now rides K’s mountain bike whenever he gets the chance.
So that means we’re also looking for yet another bike for him. He’s not quite outgrown his bike physically, but he’s already putting demands on it that the poor bike can’t handle. He’s broken a chain once and gotten more pinch-punctures than I care to recall.
Once we got back and had some dinner, K did what she always does: she found some chore or other she felt she should have accomplished ealier and gets to work.
I graded articles of the week for my honors kids and snapped a picture of K, noticing once I’d converted it to black and white how awful our front yard looks.
You know you’ve discovered a completely negected trail when you become a Strava Local Legend after only one ride on that trail:
There’s a caterwauling feline I’m tossing around above my head that seems determined not to be part of this juggling act, and I can’t really blame it: after all, I’m also juggling a set of kitchen knives and a chainsaw, along with some greasy ball bearings and a blob of slime one of my students made, and they’re all getting tangled up in the random arcs in which they sail over my head. Every time the cat comes into my grasp, I get a fresh set of deep gouges as the cat’s claws rip into my skin. At the same time, I have to worry about the slices the knife blades so desperately want to inflict on my arms, and the chainsaw seems determined to take off one appendage or another. The greasy bearings and slime are just the last lovely touch as they somehow make my hands simultaneously slippery and sticky, complicating the entire process. And so I’m bound to drop something.
I have two classes of eighth-grade on-level English. In one class, I have seven students of such low English ability that I’m supposed to make alternative versions of most things we do. In both classes, there are also students with special education requirements that are similar. Some of these kids need only a little help; others need a lot. So for multiple-choice tests, I make three versions: one with four possible answers per question, one with three possible answers per question, and a final one with two possible answers per question. Once I make these tests, I have to make sure that the right student gets the right test, which can be particularly challenging since most of them are supposed to be administered electronically so that we have “data” to assess. (I put that in quotes because a) it’s representative of the foundation, indeed, cornerstone of edu-speak these days as and a result, b) I absolutely loathe it.) So what happens if I give
The shells on the beach just at the edge of the surf were visible for only a few moments before the white bubbles and turbulence hid them again. In the brief time I could clearly see them in the shallow water, it was obvious most of the shells were only fragments, often smaller than the smallest coins, slivers well on their way to becoming grains of sand. Every now and then, a shard would catch my eye, and I would think, “I might try to grab that one” just before incoming wave hid them once again. By then it was too late: once the water cleared up, the tide would have tkane the shard so far away from its original position that finding it was all but impossible. Another might catch my eye, but then the process would simply repeat itself.
To get a shell required calm and patience followed by a paradoxical ability to move quickly when needed. Hesitation meant the loss of the moment. In some ways, that’s a metaphor for live in general for many people. Everything is about getting the right moment, and when that fails, increased stress is the outcome.
Yet the older I get, the more I realize the error in living like that, the unnecessary stress it causes. Yes, I might not get that exact shell that I wanted, but there were plenty of other shells that were just as lovely, often more so.
It was a tough loss: the girls were up 15-7 in the first set only to lose 22-25. It’s tough to lose after having such a lead, and it’s tough to go back out for a second set. But they did. And the struggles continued, and the frustrated girls took another one on the chin: 21-25.
Then came the third set. They jumped out to a quick lead just like the first set, but this time, instead of losing it, they increased it, taking the third set 25-14. “See? That’s what we’re capable of,” they seemed to be saying.
Then came the fourth set, which the lost 16-25. It’s these ups and downs, these moments of brilliance followed by moments of — what? — that are so frustrating for this year’s team. They know what they’re capable of: they’re just not managing to maintain it consistently.
Yet through it all, there’s our L, always the upbeat cheerleader of the team, always celebrating even the smallest victory, always cheering up the team when they’re down, always believing in her team.
I know today’s meeting with a counselor was very important for students so they would have an idea what to expect in the soon-coming high school registration process. I know they need to know this stuff. But do they have to learn it in my class? A class that is tested by the state? A high-stakes class?
While we were in Charleston this weekend, we saw a lot of houses that would come with seven- or eight-figure price tags were they to go on the market. It’s fairly common in the Battery area. In fact, I think you’d be hard-pressed to find something under $800,000.
And then we noticed this condemned building. Likely well over a hundred years old, it has certainly had better days.
The siding has completely deteriorated on one side of the structure.
to the point that the wall insulation and in-wall plumbing is visible.
Continuing around the back, I saw the back steps are completely wrecked,
and the entire back corner of the building is completely open to the elements, missing part of the roof and part of the wall.
Had the house been moderately maintained, it would be worth at least a six-figure sum even if it needed extensive renovation. Had it been meticulously maintained, it would likely fetch close to or even a little over a million dollars. But to do that requires resources, requires money — as the truism goes, one must have money to make money. One falls on had times but is still determined to keep a property in the family (only imagining a previous owner’s situation) until is no longer a possibility.
Whatever the story, all that’s left to do is demolish the building.
Labor Day weekend for many years meant one thing for our family: a weekend with dear friends at their lake house outside of Charlotte. This is the first time in probably six years that we haven’t gone.
Instead, we decided to spend the weekend in Charleston. It’s a favorite destination. There’s the beach at Isle of Palms.
It has lovely streets and historic buildings.
There’s Hyman’s Seafood, which has the most amazing deviled crab on the planet.
