We haven’t been out for a hike in ages, so we thought we’d take the day to get some miles in. We really had no clear plan: we’d start at Caesar’s Head to see if there was still snow anywhere then perhaps Raven Cliff Falls and maybe some time in Dupont. In the end, we switched the order of the last two and had a nice 7+ mile day. Nothing crazy, but lovely nonetheless.
The Boy and I headed out for a walk after dinner. We took the dog, we chatted about school, keyboards (as in computer keyboards — a recent interest of the Boy’s), district band tryouts (tomorrow evening), and random topics (as if that list weren’t random enough). It was another of those “how many more times do we do this?” moments. The Girl didn’t go with us because she had gone to her boyfriend’s house to watch a movie with him.
Everyone’s role slowly shifts.
I’m currently reading Alan Rusbridger’s Play It Again : An Amateur Against the Impossible. It’s about his attempt as an amateur pianist to tackle Chopin’s Ballade No. 1 in G Minor — one of the most impressively challenging pieces in the canon.
I’ve been quasi-obsessed with Chopin’s Ballades for a long time, and while I’ll grudgingly admit that No. 4 is the superior of the four, No. 1 will always be my favorite. And I love it for the reason all who play it love at and fear it: the terrifying coda, marked Presto con fuoco. For non-Italian speakers or people who never to music lessons to learn all those Italian terms:
To say it’s impressive is an understatement.
Those leaps the left hand has to make; those whatever-the-hell-they-are right hand furies starting at bar 216 (Garrick Ohlsson calls them “wiggles” — if only); that double scale separated not by an octave but by a tenth at bar 255. How can anyone do that?
I took enough piano that I can follow the score and point to where the music is (in other words, I could turn the pages for someone playing this), and that means I know just enough about piano to realize how impossible this piece is. And yet people learn it all the time. “I played it when I was 17 and…” one person explained in a video. “It’s devilishly tricky,” a professional might say. No — it’s impossible. How anyone does it is beyond me.
Alan Rusbridger accomplished it (or least I’m assuming he did — he wrote the book about the attempt) while serving as the editor of the Guardian, which, according to Rusbridger, was publishing around 200,000 words a day when he was working on the Ballade. He was working 60-80 hours a week, coordinating the WikiLeaks articles, getting 60-80 emails an hour by his own estimation, staying up until the wee-hours several nights a week — and somehow he found the time to tackle this ridiculously challenging piece.
In short, Rusbridger’s accomplishment leads us to wonder what we do with our own little spare bits of time here and there. To be able even to stumble through the Ballade would require the average amateur hours upon hours of practice. Where do we get those hours?
I spent some of my free time tonight reading Rusbridger’s book, for example; I’m spending time now writing this. K has started tinkering on the piano, using L’s old books. The Boy — we have to pull him off Fortnight. The Girl — reading, phone, movies, chatting/texting with friends. But the amount of time most of us in the West waste is astonishing. The only thing we can’t get back, and we waste so much of it.
When I met K, I was 23. I barely spoke any Polish, had never tried kwaśnica, and had no idea she’d be by my side 29 years later when I turn 52. Twenty-nine more years and I’ll be 81. The Girl will be 37; the Boy will be nearly 32.
When L was born, I was just a few weeks away from 34. I had no idea how quickly time would pass, that within a blink L would be a legal adult (that doesn’t sound right, but shockingly, it is), and I would be in my fifties. Eighteen more years, and I’ll be 70. The Girl will be 36, the Boy nearly 31.
When the Boy came along, I was 39 and honestly not giving much thought to turning 40. Now that’s twelve years behind me. In twelve more years, I’ll be 64. Will they still need me? Will they still feed me? L will be 30 at that point; the Boy, nearing 25.
If tonight was anything to go by, by the time I’m celebrating these birthdays, my bedtime will be eight — it’s not even ten, and I’m exhausted.
Amounted to little more than a dusting.
In the South, we don’t know what to do with snow. When it falls, everything comes to a halt. There are long lists of closures and delays on every local website — first and foremost, schools. Our district posted this today ahead of snow that’s suppose to start around noon tomorrow:
Greenville County Schools will have an eLearning day Friday, January 10. Schools and office buildings will be closed. All activities, including athletic events and field trips, are canceled on Friday and Saturday. The District’s ICE (Inclement Conditions Evaluation) Team evaluated the forecasts, and the decision was made based on the predictions and timing for snow and/or ice accumulation, which may result in unsafe road conditions, downed power lines, and loss of electrical services.
Because we are an approved eLearning district, this day will not have to be made up and instruction will be provided through Google Classroom. Students will complete eLearning assignments later if they are unable to participate due to power outages, lack of internet service, or other barriers. Once operations resume, school personnel will begin rescheduling events as appropriate. Please check local media, the district website, and the district’s social media for the latest information on school closings or delays.
I have mixed feelings about this: elearning days are seldom very productive because so many students, for whatever reasons, fail to log in and do the work. Teachers almost always give light work during that period because they know so few people will show up. Knowing this, a few more students decide not to show up.
But at least we’ll be able to play in the snow. In theory.
So tired — this is the best I can do today.
First day back of the new semester. Being with the kids again reminds me of why I continue teaching: it’s an incredible feeling to realize my job is simply to help a bunch of really great kids. Did everything go perfectly? Of course not. Were there some magnificent moments? Of course there were.
Could I have used another few days of break? Of course I could — but not from the kids. Not from the kids. From the paperwork, meetings, and bureaucracy.
Today was our first day back in the building. It was, mercifully, a teacher workday. It’s a good way to begin the new semester: I had time to do some serious planning in the morning, and I worked with the Special Ed teacher who co-teaches one of my classes to figure out some effective ways of simplifying a terrorizing, difficult text that’s in our textbook. That’s how I spent my morning. I could have used the afternoon to prepare some of the materials we’d planned on using and to create some differentiated (i.e., simplified) versions for some of my students who are still learning English. (I’ve got seven students in one class alone who speak very limited English, including one who speaks almost no English. She needs a specialized English class for absolute beginners, not anything I can give her. But I’ll be damned if someone is going to be in my class and not learn something, so I make special mini-lessons for her that I squeeze in here and there. Otherwise, she works on Rosetta Stone.) Still, we didn’t have that time.
Instead, we had a Clifton Strengths Finder session. Earlier in the year, we were asked required to take a survey to help find our strengths. Each question had two activities and you were to pick which one you preferred and to which degree, and there was a neutral option in the middle. For example, it might be something like this:
Imagine it’s time for dinner. What are you more likely to do: pick the restaurant or decide to stay home? What an idiotic question! It depends. How tired is my wife? How tired am I? How much money do we have? What do we have in the refrigerator? What time is it? What plans do we have after dinner? I picked neutral.
Another one: Imagine you’re speaking to community leaders. Are you the “let’s get started now” type or the “No, I don’t eve want to do that” type? Again, that depends. What am I talking about? How long am I expected to speak? To what end am I giving this speech? Do I even support the cause? Is this something likely to affect change or am I just a figurehead speaker? I picked neutral.
A third example: Imagine your boss asks you to work on a big project. Are you a big picture person or do you need details? Once again, it depends. What is this project? Do I feel it’s in my scope of expertise? Will I be working on this alone or with a group? If it’s with a group, what role will I be playing? What is the timeframe for this project? What is the budget? I picked neutral.
A final example: Imagine you’re receiving an award. Would you want individual recognition or would you insist on recognition of the team effort. Bet you can guess where I’m going with this one: it depends, damnit.
Almost every one of the questions was like this. I picked “Neutral” over and over and over — for most of the 190 questions. (Yes, 190 questions. Are these people insane? Does district administration think I have nothing better to do with my time than read 190 poorly-conceptualized questions?)
Just before break, I got an email from the district office politely requesting me to take the survey. I did take the survey. We don’t have your data results. (New Year’s Resolution: I am so sick of hearing the word “data” that I have sworn I will not use it myself at all in 2025. I hate that word now, oh how I detest it.) Well, I know I took it. But we don’t have your results — the session won’t be as meaningful for you if you don’t take the survey.
When I logged back in, I saw a message: “We were unable to tabulate your survey because you selected ‘Neutral’ too frequently.” Well, that’s what I get for thinking. I explained this in yet another email. Can you please take the survey again? Fine, I’ll take the survey.
For probably 175 of the 190 questions, I randomly chose any of the options other than “Neutral.” In fact, if I’d thought about it, I would have had one of my students come in during planning and pick them randomly for me: it was such a hassle because the survey software was so poorly programmed. Sometimes the “Submit” button worked the first time, sometimes I had to click it twice. Still, for about 15 of the questions, something caught my eye in the wording or the responses, and I actually answered those questions truthfully.
Today, we got those results back. Strangely and somewhat unexpectedly, the test results put my four top strengths as just the ones I’d choose for myself. Two thoughts about this: first, how did it do that? It was literally 92% random selections. Second: why did I spend all that time taking a survey when I already knew what the results would be?! I could have looked at this chart and told you most of my strengths would lie in the “Strategic Thinking” block, and four of my five “strengths” were in that quadrant. The only outlier was one in executing: I have a “restorative” strength — I like to fix stuff and solve problems. No, I don’t. I don’t at all. I prefer to think things through carefully and avoid the damn problems in the first place. That’s my priority.
This is one of the biggest contemporary frustrations with teaching, and it seems to be nationwide: the powers that be require us to waste so much time on just such things as today’s nonsense.
K and I went for a quick walk this afternoon around 2:30. We had to be back by 4:00 — it was non-negotiable — so we rushed to our favorite park to do a quick loop.
Why the rush home?
We had pierogi to make for one thing. We’re still working on that. One hundred and sixty five today — most of them frozen for quick dinners throughout the next few months. They’re a good backup plan: when we are in a rush and just don’t have the time to cook, we have pierogi.
But that wasn’t the real reason for the rush home. The Boy had a friend coming to hangout, and she was scheduled to arrive at four.
Watching our children develop new interests has always been one of the most exciting — and sometimes stressful — elements of parenting.
Today was the day everything went back to normal. The Christmas lights came down (though the tree is still up — whatever K wants to do is fine with me in that regard). The Boy’s 5v5 soccer season resumed: E’s team won 4:3, with the Boy scoring the winning goal.
But some things were still holiday-esque: I made farsz for pierogi again. And this time, I remembered how much grease the sautéed mushrooms spit out as they go through the grinder.
“Do we a fartuszek of any kind I can use?” I asked K.
“But of course…”
We always like to begin the new year with something outside. Last year, we were at Hilton Head with Babcia; the year before, we were hiking somewhere — can’t remember the name. This year, with L still recovering (though she’s mostly fine now) and the Boy feeling a bit reluctant, K and I went for a short walk at our favorite park, just the two of us. And the dog.
And a lot more people than usual. But can you blame them? A beautiful New Year’s Day with temperatures in the mid fifties and a blue sky — of course, you’re going outside.
In the evening, we decided on a family movie — a classic. Well, not quite. But the kids had never seen Titanic, and it’s such a 90s film that both K and I have memories of and — well, okay. There’s no reason to watch that film except for the sinking scene.
The Boy watched about half an hour; we made it to the halfway mark. We’ll finish it Friday or Saturday — tomorrow is a sleepover for the Boy. We’ll have a house filled with kids.
Boys. Twelve-year-olds…
