How Old Am I? (Part II)

Once, a bazillion years ago, I was substituting for a primary grades music teacher. She knew I played guitar & loved singing with the kids from a vast repertoire, so rather gave me free rein in her class -- either than, or she was too lazy to make lesson plans.

Regardless, there I sat with my guitar and about 25 kindergartners sitting on the floor, facing me -- all except for one boy who had his arms folded and his back to me. When I called him on it, he told me he didn't like those songs. "Why not?" "They're baby songs." "Not so. I sing them all the time. Am I a baby?" "No, but Barney sings them." Ah-ha! The truth had come out. "Oh, not to worry. I taught Barney all the songs he sings," I told him. The kid spun around and stared at me wide-eyed. "You mean, you're older than dinosaurs?" "You bet ya." Although he still wouldn't sing the songs, he didn't take his eyes off of me for the rest of his music time.

How Old Am I? (Part I)

I love kids!

When I taught 2nd grade, after repeated questioning about my age, I finally broke down and told them I was 642. One girl obviously believed this was not the truth: "Un-uh!" she said. "If you was 642, you'd be dead."

Well, then I had to explain, "Oh, you were thinking years. No, no. I'm 642 yappas." For some reason that was a much more acceptable answer to them.

Not THAT Disease

Yeah. About 30 school buildings were closed last week around here as a result of H1N1 (of the swinish-type). There's nothing funny about that! (but read on)

Four years ago, I substitute taught in a 4th-6th grade school where nearly 30% of the kids were absent, along with 14 of the 17 teachers. During 6th grade geography time, we were reading about early American History, and how numerous Native Americans died of small pox. One kid raised his hand, and in all seriousness asked me, "Is that the disease our teachers have?"

(Okay. So I lied to the boy and told him "no." I mean, I didn't have any facts on the sick teachers, but was pretty certain they would be returning to school sometime soon, and did. I just made a point of opening the classroom windows for fresh air, and stayed out of the Teachers' Lounge.)

Hardhat Time

It's that time of year again -- hardhat time.

We live in an oak-forested neighborhood, with the trees several times taller than our short roofs. It's lovely in the summer for shade and for keeping us cool. In late October and November, however, I often wonder about the wisdom of living in an oak forest.

Our mailbox is 80 paces from our front door. It's not at the end of our drive, which doesn't lead onto the street of our address. We live on a corner lot. The mailbox is in the middle of our property line, on "our"street. Many times I can simply cut across the front yard to it. But on puddly, mushy-ground days, and then basically all winter long -- about 8 months of the year -- I must walk out the front door, down the long driveway to "the other street," then go around the corner (no sidewalks or curb and gutters in this city neighborhood), and half-way down our property to the box which is the daily depository for bills and junk mail. The good part: 160 paces a day is good exercise, right?

So where do hardhats come into the picture? Imagine pretty autumn. Imagine "ripe" brown acorns. Imagine getting bonked on the head and shoulders from nuts dropping from 70 feet above.

Yeah. Hardhat time.

My Clowning Days

For several years, I did some clowning with magic and songs and tossed in lots of jokes, of course. These were performed at schools, schurches, preschools, a Mexican orphanage, and home parties. The most fun was when I got to gransform from normal-looking me into Sunny the Singing Clown -- i.e., sit and talk about my make-up and outfit and the history of clowning as I changed in front of the audience. I found it amusing that in just 15 minutes, the kids treated me and talked to me like a clown, totally ignoring or forgetting how I started out in real-human capasity. I was no longer "that normal person," but someone else entirely.

I decided to move on from my clowning days mostly after doing a stint for a home birthday party for a four-year-old, and the plastered adults started to attack the clown.

It's called coulrophobia, BTW, the abnormal or exaggerated fear of clowns.

Yeesh!

Cell Phone Phun, Pt II

My poor hubby is sick. There's nothing funny about THAT. His throat is painfully sore, so he hasn't spoken in more than 24 hours. I told him I needed to get out of the house for a bit -- no, not because of him, because I like being outdoors and miss it when I'm not there. I assured him I had my cell phone with me, so if he needed me, he could call. About 10 minutes later, he did. I scrambled through the various pockets I wore -- Coat?... no; Vest... nope; jeans? yep, but couldn't get to it quickly because of the vest and coat. It was just a text msg, so I was okay. I opened my phone and saw it was from my DH. I didn't think anything could have gone wrong in that short of time. Maybe there was a caller who left a msg on the phone answer which I needed to respond to immediately. I looked at his short message. I held my arm out as far as I could. I placed the open phone on the ground for greater distance and squinted. I still coudn't read his msg without my reading glasses. I GUESSED what he'd written, and replied with one letter and one number. (Hey! I know how to text!) Then I turned around and hurried home.

He didn't greet me at the door, so maybe that was okay. He wasn't laying down in bed, nor on the couch with a quilt pulled over him. Ah-ha! The sickie was in the family room, playing Halo Wars! I grabbed my glasses and looked back at his msg: "Luv u!" My "U 2" reply had been appropriate, THIS time around.