Confession

A confession:
I read the first Harry Potter book but never bothered with the rest. On a related note, I've only seen the first two movies in the series and doubt I'll see any others.

I'm sure this makes me some sort of weirdo, but I'm okay with that. I just don't "do" serial reading. That's not to say I don't enjoy reading books by the same author. I've read several books by John Steinbeck and Barbara Kingsolver. I love Roald Dahl and Kate DiCamillo. I spent two weeks at the beach one summer and finished five books by John Grisham--although after the fifth one I decided I didn't need to read anymore Grisham books.

No offense to J. K. Rowling--it's just that I found out all I cared to know about Harry and Co. in the first book.

New Shoes

I traded in my running shoes for a newer model on Tuesday night. The decision came after a run that had me focusing more on every twinge and ache I felt than the scenery that I was passing through. Years ago a friend told me that she buys a new pair of running shoes whenever she starts feeling pains that she hasn't felt before. I thought of that conversation as I ran earlier this week wondering what was going on with my shins.

I put in a mile and a half and headed home for my wallet and car keys.

New shoes always feel great, but new running shoes feel better than great. As soon as I slid my right foot into my new pair of Mizunos I felt comfort. The mesh outside hugged my foot like an old friend. A walk around the store introduced me to a bounce in the sole that I hadn't felt in quite awhile. I exhaled a sigh of relief.

My old shoes went in the box; I paid and glided out the door with a smile on my face.

Sneaky Turnips

I've never trusted turnips. They always had a sneaky way of ending up in my mashed potatoes when I was a kid. Obviously, they didn't get there by themselves...Mom did it. She likes turnips. Who else but a turnip-lover would dare mess with a perfect portion of mashed potatoes?

I watched carefully as my sister made the mashed potatoes last night. She added butter, milk and sour cream. There wasn't a turnip in sight.

My mother made turnips this afternoon-- she knew better than to mess with the already-perfect mashed spuds. The turnips sat in their own little bowl at the end of the buffet table. A few people ate them and enjoyed them. I stayed way, far away.

My brother-in-law's brother stopped by as we finished up our dinner and was offered a turnip. (By my mother, of course.)

"I don't like 'em." he said. "I never liked it when they ended up in the mashed potatoes."

Exactly.

Thankful

It was with absolute ease that I made my way north this morning. I hit...not a speck of traffic.
For that I am thankful.

Driving North

Hats off to the two-day workweek. It began today with a sleepy Monday and finishes up tomorrow at 2:50 pm with the rush to pack up and get out of town before everybody else.

Fortunately, I only need to drive about 90 miles north. Unfortunately, a good part of the trip is traveled along the dreaded I-95. I was born in Baltimore some years ago and have never lived more than about 100 miles from my birthplace. You could say I'm pretty familiar with the ins and outs of the Baltimore/DC area. Sometimes I like the traffic for the off-route exploration opportunities it provides. Meeting up with a mass of brake lights and stopped cars sends me into explorer mode. I look for the next exit and wind my way around whatever roads I find in a quest to continue in the northerly direction, on a route that is absent of as many other drivers as possible.

If I'm lucky I'll find a new shortcut and a few photo opportunities.

Survival

We decided to send home a letter to the parents of each of the kids who were having homework problems. The letter was a heads up to parents that the team was concerned about the poor work habits of their child. It also offered suggestions for improvement. There was a tear-off portion at the bottom that was to be returned to me with a parent signature.

Twenty-five letters went out on Wednesday. Only a handful came back with signatures on Thursday. I wasn't too surprised. Sixth graders don't always consider the consequences of their actions. They live in the moment, and for many of them those moments have not included doing homework. They may have been less than honest with their parents about how well they were keeping up with their schoolwork. Delivering the letter was bound to mean trouble for some.

Two students, maybe three, decided to forge their parent's signature. I'm sure they never considered how obvious the forgery was. They were in survival mode-if their parents never got the letter they could live another day without getting yelled at, punished or lectured. Whatever the reason, I'm sure that since parents have been informed of the homework problem and the forgery there are two students who are living different moments than planned this weekend.

Meeting Edward

I have just today met a wonderful little character by the name of Edward Tulane. Our meeting was brief, as I have only read the first chapter of the book that I believe narrates a miraculous journey of his. I hope it is a miraculous journey because from what I know so far he's in need of some sort of miracle.

You see...he's a small china rabbit. I smiled when I started reading his story. I was reminded of another rabbit tale that I've always enjoyed--the story of Elwood P. Dowd and his rabbit-friend, Harvey.

I finished the first chapter feeling sorry for Edward. The poor little rabbit has a wonderful young friend, Abilene, talking to him, tucking him into bed and saying goodnight, yet he can say nothing in return. "He said nothing because, of course, he could not speak." There are times in my life when I wish I couldn't speak, but there are far more times when I'm glad I have a voice.

Even worse are Edward's eyes. They are painted on and therefore always open. How dull it must be to lay awake all night. The ennui that he experiences must be more than most can bear.

I'm hopeful things will change very soon.