Samsung Dead at Age Eleven

One of the oldest working cell phones in western New York has died. The small Samsung SCH-a670 flip phone was placed into service on June 4, 2005 and has been with the same family ever since. As the first cell phone of a fifteen-year-old boy, the Samsung's early life was active with calls, text messages, pix messages, and games. Two years later, when the college-bound boy upgraded to a larger, more modern LG enV, the Samsung took an early retirement and lived quietly in a secluded area of the home. After a period of rest and relaxation, the now mature Samsung was pressed back into service as the phone of the senior-most family member, who never asked more of the phone that it could offer. He didn't expect it to take great pictures or connect to the internet; he wasn't interested in tweeting or snapping, so the now-outdated flip phone suited him well. For its part, the Samsung eventually got used to being tucked into the pocket of the old schoolteacher's bag rather than being shoved into the pocket of an active teenager. It got used to the silence. It accepted the fact that it would be turned off much of the time. And when the owner needed to make an occasional phone call or receive an even-more-occasional text message, the trusty Samsung could be counted on to respond cheerfully and reliably. Alas, it was in the aforementioned schoolbag that the Samsung met its end. No one noticed the loose cap on the lemonade bottle in the teacher's lunch bag, and it was hours before the Samsung was discovered in a pool of sticky liquid. All efforts were made to save the life of this faithful device, but the damage was too great. Text messages of condolence may be sent to the owner via the Samsung's successor, a snazzy new LG  VX8360. (Just don't expect a reply, as the heartbroken owner has neither the will nor the know-how to text back.)

Papers, Papers, Papers

Many years ago, a long-time English professor and colleague of mine said something I've never forgotten. I was still teaching part time then but had three courses instead of my usual two, and they were all writing courses. I'd been uneasy about taking on the third course--my kids were still young--I feared the extra course would upset the delicate balance that existed between work life and home life. But there was also the delicate balance of bills and income to consider, and I didn't think I could turn down the extra money. We were about a month or so into the semester, and I was feeling optimistic about my ability to handle three courses and three kids. So when my more-experienced colleague asked how it was going, my answer must have reflected my naive optimism because he nodded and said, "Yeah, it's the best job in the world for about five weeks, then it turns on you." He was right. It happens every single semester, and I fall for it every time. In the beginning, your students are bright-eyed and eager; you're reading and teaching material you love; and you're full of energy and enthusiasm for this great career you've chosen (or stumbled into, in my case). You think to yourself, This isn't so bad, I can handle this. Then as the semester wears on, there are more and more papers to read and respond to, more and more department and committee meetings to attend, and more and more conferences to hold with students who are feeling just as anxious and overwhelmed as you are. Soon you're working all the time: early in the morning, late at night, and all weekend long. You never go anywhere without a set of papers: you grade in the car, in the bleachers, in the waiting room; if you're not working on papers, you're thinking about working on papers and calculating how many more you have to do. There's no let up--you feel like you're drowning. Then just in the nick of time, the semester ends, and you wash up on the shore, exhausted and gasping for breath. Slowly, you pick yourself up, submit your final grades, and start getting ready to do it all over again.

We are well past the five-week mark in the current semester, and I'm adrift in a sea of papers. So if you don't hear from me for a while, don't worry--I'm swimming hard for the shore!

Weekend Alone

What I Did On a Rare Weekend Home Alone:

1. Took care of Zeke while Ben was gone
2. Made food Steve and Ben don't like:
• Avocado Tuna Boats 
• Mediterranean Sweet Potatoes with Roasted Garbanzo Beans 
• Avocado Toast
3. Took Zeke to Lake Erie State Park to watch the sunset (me) and to sniff wildly (Zeke) 
4. Made a baby pumpkin pie and homemade whipped cream 
5. Kept checking the FHS Drama Club Broadway Trip itinerary to see what Ben and Steve (and the rest of the crew) were doing 
6. Read in bed late at night (with the light one - not on my Kindle)
7. Took Zeke to the farmers' market in the rain to get Macoun apples (because Macoun apples are worth walking in the rain with a rambunctious dog to get)
8. Made pumpkin spice French toast 
9. Sent a lot more snaps than usual
10. Made a homemade pumpkin spice latte with homemade pumpkin spice syrup (it's amazing how far one can of pumpkin goes!)
11. Watched Project Runway on DVR (and Pitch and Code Black and . . . )
12. Made a sample bat silhouette craft for my upcoming visit to Ben's class
13. Talked to Steve and Darton and texted with Em and Ben
14. Stayed up for ALL of Saturday Night Live (Thanks to host Lin-Manuel Miranda!)
15. Read in bed for an hour after I woke up this morning
16. Did schoolwork, schoolwork, schoolwork
17. Watched the Bills WIN - Go Bills!
18. Walked Zeke, walked Zeke, walked Zeke
19. Braced myself for the presidential debate
20. Joined Zeke in waiting and watching for our boys to come home

First Date

On October 3, 1980, a curly-haired college boy, dressed in Levis and a denim jacket, showed up at 135 E. Neshannock Street to take me on a first date. We went to see Somewhere in Time, starring Christopher Reeve. We were both poor college students, and I remember wondering if I should offer to pay for my own ticket, but he took care of it. I can't remember if we got anything to eat afterwards. But what I do remember is pulling into the graveled area at the back of my parents' deep backyard and sitting in his car, a blue and white Pontiac he'd inherited from his parents, and talking. We talked, and talked, and talked. About our families, our childhoods, our hopes and dreams. Although I didn't know that first night that he was the one, the boy I was going to marry; I did know that I felt safe and at home with him in a way an introvert like me rarely feels with people. We dated the rest of that school year, broke up in May, got back together the following October, and by November had decided to get married. So here we are thirty-six years later: he still buys my movie tickets, we still talk and talk and talk, and I still feel safe and at home when I'm with him. Here's to first dates, to October evenings, and most of all, to that boy!