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The Boys

Maybe it’s because I grew up in a gaggle of women–four sisters, all their girl friends, and a mother who led the neighborhood coffee klatch (and more often the “Sip and Snip,” where the wine flowed as freely as the boisterous conversation)–but with my decision to leave Smith College for West Point, I soon discovered that I was as comfortable spending time with the boys as I was with my “own kind.”

“Do you think you would have done anything differently if you had had daughters?” a friend recently asked. Our husbands were competing in a 12-hour mountain bike race and we were discussing some of our life decisions and laughing about the countless weekends we’ve both spent in support of our men’s athletic pursuits.

“No, I don’t think so,” was my honest reply.

The truth is that while I have gone out of my way over the years to force myself out of my own comfort zone–which is a dangerous place, I believe–I have had the pleasure of expanding both my horizons and my family. Beyond my own two sons (each as different in their definitions of “comfort zone” as my sisters and I are), I have willingly become the Mum/friend/sister of many others . . . and I love it.

I live in the best of both worlds. My sisters and I still share a lifetime of memories and laughter, the girl friends I have stayed in contact with from before, during and after our Army days are as precious to me as ever, and all the boys in my life–my stalwart father (and his bowling buddies who love it when I visit and bowl with their league), my husband and those who look to him for inspiration, my sons and their friends, my brother’s-in-law, my military friends, my teacher friends–provide a balance and a unique camaraderie that is somehow simply refreshing.

If I were the mother of daughters, I would want them to treasure the lifelong relationships they would have with those select women who would remain loyal till death, and to feel as comfortable, confident and happy as I have been hanging with the boys.

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Remember the Brave

It’s 5 p.m. on Friday and our friends finish talking about how their son Nickolas loved to fish before presenting their son’s trophy to the match winner. Nick was killed–only 19 years old–by a sniper in Iraq. Others talk of their sons dying far too young and I try not to cry. My sons are still alive.

Mike and I have been invited to participate in the “Remember the Brave” precision shooting match in honor and in memory of our recent fallen service members. Veterans, families, and active duty Marines have come from as far as New Hampshire and 29 Palms, California to compete and to remember.

After a communal chili dinner we are joined by the young Marines who huddle with us around a propane fire pit, but it’s so cold outside that only our common bond and Crown Royal keep us warm. I suddenly miss being part of a military organization–a family that accepts and cares for you wherever you are in the world. The feeling is nostalgic, of course, and as such, pulls at only the romanticized memories, but I enjoy it nonetheless.

Mike and I hop into our truck-camper bed after a day of travel, windy sunshine and dust, and I’m too tired even to brush my teeth or wash my face; we haven’t yet hooked up the water. Still, the camper is luxury when I look out at the wind whipping at the soldiers’ tents. Even off-duty, they sacrifice.

“You look cute with your bird hair,” Mike tells me in the morning when I peek my head out of the covers. He already has the coffee going and the heat on; it’s not quite 40 degrees in the camper. We hug in the close confines of our wheeled home and I make him a breakfast burrito. He’s not a 6:30 a.m. breakfast kind of guy, though, so as he preps to leave for his morning competition, I add some salty potato chips to the remaining eggs and chow down.

I could eat a rhino in the morning, but if I were to tell Mike that (as I have in the past), his response would be something very like, “I’ve got a rhino for you!” And after 30 years together, it’s still always funny, and we laugh together.

Before he leaves, we share a small bar of soap and dribble drinking water from bottles over one another’s hands. I feel like an altar girl before the consecration of the Eucharist, but we’ve already eaten.

“If more people would use water this way, we wouldn’t have to worry about conservation,” he says, and I suppose it’s true. In any case, the moment is special. When Mike leaves, I take my roll of toilet paper to the outhouse, cover the seat, and try not to think too much about the cold breeze–and other things–below. At times like this, I focus on our founding mothers and pioneer women, and I simply cannot complain.

Mike competes with Nick’s father the first day and by the time the mother and I arrive, I’m ready to keep score. We are introduced to a 91-year-old veteran who lost his wife of 68 years less than a year ago, and he show us the rifles he will use for the competition; he built them himself. People were worried about him after his wife died, but his love of the military and love of sport shooting brought him back to life.

Over dinner that evening–steaks on the grill for all, consumed in the relentlessly chilly wind–I’m asked to fill in for an absent 4-man-team member for the final three competitions the next day, and despite the fact that I haven’t yet fired Mike’s Accuracy International AE MK III .308 rifle, I say, “Sure!” I figure that firing a rifle must be like riding a bike, and I’m honored to be one of the guys again.

With finally brushed teeth and a melted ice-block-water face wash, we’re in bed by 8, and before we know it, the birds are singing us awake. Mike and I dance around one another on the camper floor, both of us now prepping to be out the door by 6:45. No time for a rhino breakfast, so we grab bars–Cliff for him, Kind for me–and head to the range.

We meet more family of more fallen soldiers, all who are honored that this weekend is all about those they have lost, and the day flies by. When it’s my turn to shoot, I try to focus not only on the target and my breathing, but also on why I am here.

On the way back home, Mike and I talk about how we would react if we lost one of our sons–for any reason–but realize that we cannot even come close to imagining it. We know that it would be something that we could never “get over,” though our friends were given that advice at one time.

I try to lighten the mood by telling Mike, “I acknowledge and appreciate the sacrifice you’re making to drive back!” and we both laugh. We had recently watched an episode of “The Office” in which the married protagonists had undergone couple’s therapy after falling away from one another. Throughout the episode, they formally acknowledged every act the other did as a way of focusing on learning how to appreciate one another again. Although the dialogue was stifled and scripted, the lesson was, and is, relevant.

“I appreciate the fact that you’re not a namby-pamby woman,” he says. I smile, knowing that he’ll brag to his friends later about how I tied his score in the first match and beat him in the following two.

We arrived home with the knowledge that we had participated in an event that meant the world to families less fortunate than our own. And while even I am guilty of looking at death statistics on the news and remaining emotionally detached–they’re not my family–events like “Remember the Brave” remind me of all that I have to be grateful for, if only for just this moment.

Rest in peace, Nickolas Palmer–and all those who have died to keep our country free. I acknowledge, appreciate, and honor the sacrifices you have made, and will do my best always to remember.

 

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May Day! May Day!

Yesterday I walked to the college in one of my brightest outfits. It was the last “official” class–final projects are due tomorrow–and the warmth of the sun had me removing my jacket within the first half-mile. Ah! The joys of summer vacation!

I might just remain in my fuzzy fuchsia jammies all day today, though. Klaus and I will probably even start a fire soon. Ah! The joys of living in little mountain town!

Happy May Day!

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Still Thinking

I remember the day Mrs. Puffer came into my 5th grade classroom looking for pieces of artwork to display at an end-of-year event. She was the director of the art programs in our large school district, and I was tickled beyond belief that she asked if  she could display my exquisite sculpture.

I had worked on my very first sculpture for days, doing my best to recall all the details of Rodin’s The Thinker which I had seen in one of my mother’s art books. Immediately enthralled by the power and beauty of his sculptures, I knew that I was destined to study the magical world of 3-D art.

My classmates were amazed by my finished product–as was I–and so it was with some trepidation that I let a relative stranger walk off with it, albeit to showcase it in a prestigious setting. My greatest fear, however, was realized when my beautiful replica was never returned to me.

“Lost,” I was told.

Many years passed.

“Hi Laurie,” my Aunt Phyllis called one day when I was home for a visit during college. “Do you remember making a statue of The Thinker in 5th grade?”

I had forgotten, but the question triggered in my memory a visual of the piece that could have launched my career as a renowned sculptor. Of course I remembered.

“Because Mrs. Puffer has retired,” my aunt continued, “and we found a bunch of artwork in one of her storage closets, and your name was on a piece.”

“Thief!” I thought. The director had stolen not only my precious artwork, but my opportunity for fame as well. She must have been jealous of my talent.

I could hardly wait until my aunt arrived with my lost treasure. We all shared quite the laugh, completely at my expense, when she finally handed it over.

 

 

So perhaps I didn’t remember ALL the details . . .

 

 

 

 

And maybe I hadn’t quite mastered the whole “proportions” lesson . . .

 

 

 

I was happy to bring my little thinker back to West Point with me as a reminder of what I could have been. It inspired me to play hookie from a football game one day to try my hand, once more, at what I had attempted so long ago. The results were a bit better this time, but I’m still pretty sure it was a good thing I ended up pursuing an alternate line of work!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Alt Ctrl

It dawned on me this morning as I was setting up my phone camera to capture the beautiful accumulation of snow–and it focused on my these two functions on my keyboard–that this is exactly what law makers are trying to do with the gay rights issue. I believe the time has come to Shift. It would be illegal to Delete, and it’s far too late to Esc.

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Avoidance

I’ve been looking at my piano in the small foyer of our 1890s Victorian home for almost six year now. I dust it before guests arrive, and adorn it with nic nacs for whichever holiday is closest.

My parents purchased the lovely little spinet from neighbors for $400, a huge expense back in 1968 for parents of five growing girls, but I really wanted to learn how to play the piano, and I think my parents were hoping for a prodigy. “The Bernier Five” hadn’t made it big yet (and I don’t believe there was ever actually a time we all sang together), and my Dad’s mother could play beautifully. I would be a natural.

I didn’t tell my parents that the reason I wanted to play the piano was because my best friend Marilyn (my exotic new dark-skinned neighbor who moved across the street in kindergarten) was learning how to play. I also wished for glasses that year after seeing her wear new tortoise shell cat-eye glasses to school for the first time. Sadly, I soon got my wish.

Marilyn and I took lessons together from the nuns of St. Francis of Assisi in Braintree, Massachusetts for two years. She would have a 20-minute session, then I, and then we would have 20 minutes together for duets. It was wonderful, and our secret competition kept us practicing between lessons. The nuns were strict, and we learned to memorize challenging pieces for nerve-wracking recitals.

When the nunnery closed (and I do not recall why that occurred), I continued with private lessons for another year from a man up the street. He was expensive, and I didn’t have my buddy with me anymore; by then I was beginning to lose interest. I did, however, learn how to wiggle my ears during one particularly intense lesson that year while concentrating with all my might on a difficult line of music. When I could not stop giggling…and would not tell my teacher why I was being so inappropriate…my lesson was cut short, and I walked home feeling both guilty and giddy.

When it became apparent that I was not going to be the next Liberace (though I would someday develop a flair of my own), I stopped taking lessons, though I still practiced my songs frequently. I continued to dread performing for guests (something I was expected to do, and looking back, it was probably really good for me), but as I matured, I’d vent my emotions on the ivories when I found myself home alone and feeling petulant (a frequent occurrence throughout my teen years).

Mom and Dad gave me the piano when I married and it has traveled with us for 20 year of Army relocations. I made both our boys take a year’s worth of lesson when they were young, and they were not prodigies, either.

It looks lovely in our foyer, and over the past 5+ years I have played it a handful of times, generally right before Christmas when I’ll pull out my ancient books to prove to myself that I can still play a thing or two. But generally I avoid sitting on the little piano bench (other than to pull off snowy boots), and with each passing avoidance I feel a twinge of guilt.

It feels like when someone has given you a gift and you’ve somehow let too much time pass before sending a “Thank you.” Before you know it, you’ve decided that it’s really too late, and you rationalize your failure to do the right thing. It’s not a good feeling.

And so today I pulled out the bench. I opened it and found the first recital piece I ever had to play in public: “From a Lighthouse Window” by Edna-Mae Burnam, and I played the heck out of it.

It felt wonderful. Thank you, old friend.

 

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Everyone’s a Winner. NOT!

After laughing uproariously while on the phone with a wonderful friend in Michigan, I just had to post some of our discussion. She’s a counselor at a community college, so the two of us took turns trading stories about what we’ve been seeing in our centers of education lately (and oh, yes, I just wrote a novel about that).

How did this nation arrive at the notion that everyone should go to college? I believe that belief is a bunch of hogwash.

One of the students at her school only lasted a semester. Why? Because he was blind, and he was in the culinary school, and aside from failing the throw-your-knife-in-the-air-and-then-catch-it-and-keep-on-chopping test, he was miffed that there were laws against having a hairy seeing-eye dog in the kitchen. Really???

Not only are we bending over backwards to accommodate every possible need our students claim to have (although I’m sure the blind student did, in fact, need that dog), holding their hands and walking them through the simplest requirements and giving them “every possible opportunity to succeed,” we’re–conversely–making things far more difficult for the people who are already trained to do their jobs: teachers (and I’m certainly not saying that all teachers are good, or well trained, which you will see later in this post).

I have a Master’s Degree in English. I earned my teaching certificate so that I could teach in public schools at the secondary school level. I have taught in those schools for five years and I’m currently completing my first year of teaching at our local college as an adjunct instructor. So what did I have to do this month as an administrative requirement to keep teaching at the college? Complete an on-line course on . . . EFFECTIVE TEACHING.

Here’s one of the questions I had to answer for this week’s assignment on “Universal Design”:                                                                                                                           “What steps can we take to ensure that content is directed not only at varied learning styles and learning disabilities, but also to make it appealing and relevant to diverse audience with varied interests and experiences? What do you see as the advantages and disadvantages of developing content with these concepts in mind?”

So after I screamed, “HOGWASH!” and calmed down a bit, I submitted the following:

I’ve got to say that my experience with “differentiation” in grade school classes has made me a bit gun-shy on the topic. As a teacher with over 100 students cycling through my classroom each day, and each class a heterogeneous mixture from the brightest GT student to the lowest on the special needs scale, I found it next to impossible (well, I’ll be honest and say it was impossible) to satisfy everyone’s need to have their own unique learning style addressed adequately. I could never admit this in my licensure classes because the faculty expected the new teachers to be able to accomplish this directive (address every learning style and every disability and make it appealing and relevant to a diverse audience with varied interest and experiences…ARGGGH!), and to embrace the idea zestfully.

That said, it is possible to design lessons that incorporate visual, auditory, and experiential elements, which, regardless of learning styles, would be more interesting/engaging than purely didactic instruction. The advantage, of course, is keeping the interest of your audience; and your students are your audience. Teachers need to be prepared to be “on stage” multiple times each day, and to bring the same energy and enthusiasm to each new class, regardless of how many students in previous classes remained uninterested.

The disadvantages, however, from my personal experience, are onerous. I long for the day when administrators will realize that teachers cannot do their best work when they are expected to cater to “the full range” in every class. Yes, I’m old, and I grew up a public school system that sorted classes (particularly core classes) by ability. My teachers could focus their instruction at a level which fit the needs of each class, and could take that class as far as it could go. I think if I had been in classrooms where my teacher needed to stop every 3 minutes to re-explain something I “got” immediately, I would have dropped out.

The biggest disadvantage I see, though, is that we are not preparing our students for the reality of the world beyond the classroom—a world in which we have employers who do not care what learning style works best for you, who will not bend over backwards to accommodate you needs, and who does not believe that everyone is a winner. I know that this is not a politically correct response, but it contains my honest opinions on these topics. [end]

And so I wonder what type of on-line discussion my post will elicit. My on-line teacher will probably give me a 50/50 and write, “Great job on your assignment!” which is what she posted as an answer to a question I sent her asking for clarification on one of the upcoming requirements. Perhaps she earned her teaching credential on-line . . . after multiple attempts to succeed.

Hogwash.

 

 

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Reading Books

I agree with Stephen King’s assertion that in order to write well, you’ve got to read lots!

I’ve posted my first book review on goodreads.com. I believe King’s book, On Writing, deserves the full five stars:

“Stephen King takes an age-old, and potentially boring topic–On Writing–and presents it in such a unique way that I found myself wanting more! Through his autobiographical experiences with writing, I learned some things that were “shocking” (which should not have surprised me because, after all, it is Stephen King). Beware! There’s “language,” and King does not pull any punches. This is not, however, a book for those who cannot write well already.”

Reading Eliazbeth Graver’s new novel The End of The Point right now. I’ll let you know when I’ve finished it, but so far I’m intrigued. I’ll post more reviews as I make time to write them! Read on, everyone!

***********************

Well, I never made it to The End of the Point…about 3/4s into it, I found myself not really caring about any of the characters. I sensed a pervasive lack of passion in any of them, and so I returned the book to the library unfinished. That doesn’t happen very often.

And so I am re-reading The Book on the Taboo Against Knowing Who You Are by Alan Watts, and am again enjoying the mind gymnastics his philosophy evokes.

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Melancholy Mondays…status update

Chapter 1 is posted for your perusal! I’ve decided to be greedy and hold onto the rest for later, but I’m hoping that many of you will be interested in my telltale story of what it’s like to teach in today’s public school system. It is not politically correct. It will probably make you angry. It will make you laugh, too. I’m hopeful that it will make you ask for more.

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Melancholy Mondays: Chapter 1.2

The rest of Chapter 1! Ella goes back to the school after discovering her dog’s limits:

The atmosphere in the main entrance was the same as when she had left the school, but walking down the hall to her classroom, she saw a couple of boys standing against the wall with Razz towering over them and addressing them sternly. She walked past the situation quickly, not wanting to interfere, but was surprised that although the boys were standing there quietly, their facial expressions appeared disinterested . . . even cynical. Noted.

She immediately felt better stepping into her classroom. The bright carpet, the half-moon desk arrangement, the smiley face, and the two beanbag chairs already presented an uplifting change. Ella decided to leave the beanbag chairs behind her desk; she would come up with a plan for who could use them and when. She liked the idea of having a special reading area, and students would have to earn the privilege of using that area. Yes, that would work, she thought.

She arranged the brightly colored plastic baskets—her “in” boxes—on the counter against the windows on the far side of the room, then sat down to arrange the contents of her desk before creating her first seating charts. The swivel office chair—probably as old as she was—creaked and nearly tossed her over when she leaned back. No, she would not be sitting much this year.

Not knowing any of the students yet, Ella decided on a boy/girl/boy/girl arrangement for each of her seven classes, and quickly filled in her charts. Each class went into a clear plastic sleeve on which she could take attendance with a dry erase marker. On a butcher paper tablet she replicated the arrangement for each class, and taped them to the front board. Kids would be directed to the charts to find their seats upon entering the classroom.

She covered the large cork board by the door with bright yellow paper and stapled a sparkly star boarder around the edges. This is where she would post student “exemplars”; those who did outstanding work would have their efforts rewarded for all to see. Stepping back to take in the whole scene, Ella was pleased with what she saw. A perfectionist by nature, she would apply everything she was learning in her licensure program to her new job, and then go one step further by adding her own unique flair. She was just about to close up and head to the hardware store when Kirby Cohen, the science teacher on her team, entered the room.

“Wow, nice rug,” she said without a bit of enthusiasm in her voice. Kirby was slightly older than Ella, 30ish, and was a commanding presence in the room. Physically she was the antithesis of Ella, and bore a striking resemblance to the poster of Einstein Ella had taped to the back wall. She had a mad professor look about her, kinky wild hair and all. Meeting her for the first time during in-processing the previous week, Ella sensed that this new peer—who now did not even attempt to hide her sarcastic wit—could become a friend. This was her ninth year teaching middle school science at North, and Ella could tell that there was wisdom behind the wisecracks.

“What?! You don’t like it? These rooms are so ugly . . . I thought it might make the kids smile when they walk in.” Ella was surprised by the immediate defensiveness of her response; after spending five successful years in military leadership positions, the latest being in high-risk environments, she was not used to having her decisions questioned. She suddenly recognized that she was now the low-man-on-the-totem-pole, and this was unknown turf.

“It’ll make ‘em smile all right,” Kirby shot back, this time with a hint of a smirk. “I see you’ve already made your seating charts—can I see them?” Ella handed her the spiral notebook with each chart in the proper order.

“You’ll want to move Kevin away from Brad, and Mateo away from . . . well, everyone. I wouldn’t put Trevor next to any of these girls. Lara is pretty smart, but she’d rather be a pain in your ass, so don’t expect much from her. Watch out for Bernicia, too. She and Shareena are trouble.” Kirby looked up from the notebook and saw the distress on Ella’s face. “Hey, listen, don’t worry about this. You’ll figure it out pretty fast, and maybe they’ll be better for you than they are for me. I probably shouldn’t be saying anything before you meet ‘em.”

“No . . . thanks . . . I probably should have talked with you before making my charts,” Ella said, suddenly realizing that she actually knew very little about pre-teen dynamics in this inner-city school.

“Just remember that you’re in charge, and you can make changes whenever you want. Let’s eat lunch together tomorrow and I’ll fill you in on a few more things before Wednesday,” Kirby offered as she left the room.

“Thanks, okay,” Ella answered, hoping that Harry’s offer to let Bones out at mid-day was still on the table once he learned of the pooch’s earlier shenanigans. On her way out of the building, she approached Razz, who maintained his cross-armed brick wall composure until she was within greeting range.

“Sorry about earlier . . . I’m Ella McCauley, the new English teacher,” she said, extending her hand. He took her hand, cocked an eyebrow as she matched his grip, and held on for what seemed to be a bit too long. “Ah, I had a dog crisis,” Ella stammered, anxious now to retrieve her hand.

“Ain’t nothin’ but a thang,” he replied in a smooth, deep voice, finally releasing her hand. “Roger Jones, head of security, but everybody call me Razz. You’ll be seein’ a lot of me this year.” Ella could tell that he was checking her out, and wasn’t sure how she felt about it. As a single woman in the Army, she always had to arm herself with a tough-girl façade, something Sam was able to break through within weeks of meeting her. It was hard for her to believe that she had been single for over a year since Sam’s death, and now that she was a civilian, she wasn’t quite sure how to act. Still, she sensed an immediate need to protect herself from this swarthy security guard. The irony was not lost on her.

“Why would that be?” she asked, taking a step back and re-arming herself.

“You’ll see . . .”

“Ms. McCauley!” the school’s principal broke in, approaching the two. “I was hoping to see you before you left. I see you’ve met Razz; he’ll take good care of you.” David Martin was cool and professional, mid-30s, slightly balding and in great shape. Ella had liked him from the minute she started her hiring interview. She knew that he was engaged to be married—not that she’d ever consider a relationship with her boss—but she allowed herself to admire what she knew to be a great command presence. She trusted him.

“Yes, sir,” she answered, not knowing how else to address him. “He was just telling me that.” Her boss did not correct her, and she took that as a good sign. She was comfortable with having a clear chain of command, and he conveyed an air of authority that she expected from the leader of a school that employed security guards.

“We’ll be having a staff and faculty lunch tomorrow to kick off the new school year, and I’m hoping you’ll spend a little time getting to know the other people in your 7th grade team. I know you’ve got a lot to prep for Wednesday, but remember: your peers are here to help you, and so am I.”

“Thank you, sir. I’m really excited about meeting all my students, and Kirby has already come by my room.”

“She’ll be one of your greatest assets. Don’t let her scare you.”

Ella suppressed her desire to say that there wasn’t much that scared her anymore, except, perhaps, the brick wall that she’d soon be “seein’ a lot of.” She smiled and said good-bye to the two men, left the building, and drove to the nearest hardware store.

*****

The old Colonel was sitting outside his front door when Ella pulled up to the curb. Raising himself gingerly from his folding chair, he awaited her report. Ella hurried up the sidewalk, gave him a quick “Hello” hug, then encouraged him to sit back down.

“Let me grab Bones and we’ll be right back,” she said over her shoulder as she made her way to her own front door.

Bones was happy to see her, and a quick look around told Ella that the place was no worse off than when she last left it. The dog followed her out to the jeep, curious to see what was in the packages, and then, noticing Harry, romped over to the seated man and threw his front legs onto his lap. Harry laughed, engaging the dog in a playful manner, and was rewarded with a wet tongue under his chin.

“Oh! Sorry Harry!” Ella shouted from the walkway, taking in the scene and not sure of her neighbor’s comfort level with dogs. “Bones, come!”

“It’s okay,” he replied as the dog obeyed and ran back to her.

“Be right back!” she called to Harry.

Ella and Bones disappeared into the apartment and returned ten minutes later with an extra folding chair and a clean, bright tennis ball. She set up her chair, joined her neighbor and tossed the ball over to her front yard; the dog amused himself with the new toy, occasionally bringing it back to Ella or Harry for another launch while they visited.

“Join me for a scotch?” Harry offered.

“Sure! Why not.” Ella was not much of a drinker, and had never actually had scotch before, but everything about her new life was different so far, and she loved the excitement of anything that removed her from what she considered to be her comfort zone. “Do you need any help?”

“No, you stay there. You can get the door for me in a moment.” He returned with two icy tumblers, and when they were seated again, he proposed a toast. “To your new life; may those kids at your school appreciate what you have to offer!” They clinked glasses, and Ella held the first sip in her mouth a bit before swallowing the smooth beverage. The reality that scotch was nothing like beer struck her immediately, and she knew she needed to make this one glass last.

“Thanks, Harry. I got a little indication today that middle school kids here might not be like the ones I went to school with 15 years ago back home. Did you know they have two security guards?”

“Well, I don’t want to diminish your enthusiasm, young lady, but I’ve lived here for almost 20 years now, and I’ve heard rumors. Some people are saying that North Middle might close. Bad test scores, lots of fights, can’t keep good teachers, stuff like that. Doesn’t surprise me. This area has been struggling for a long time now, and with things as they are, it doesn’t look like much is going to improve.”

“I was wondering why there seemed to be more tension than excitement in the building last week while I was in-processing. Oh well. I’ll do the best I can, and that’s about all I can do, right?” Ella suddenly felt very relaxed, her glass half empty, and the two new friends laughed together watching Bones charge around the front of the building as if he were on a racetrack. Which reminded her . . .

“So, your offer to let out my little rascal at lunchtime . . . is that still a possibility? Because I have a feeling I might not be able to come home too often, and I know that I can’t tomorrow. When I came home today—obviously too late—I felt terrible ‘cause he had an accident.” She left out the complete details.

“I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t mean it, now, would I?”

“I just really don’t want you to feel obligated or tied down, and there’s always the doggy-day-care center on Washington Ave. This would be such a relief to me, and I’ll be happy to pay you . . .”

“You’ll do no such thing, dear. This’ll give me a reason to get out of the house a bit. Is he leash trained? I could take him for a walk.”

“He’s great on a leash. I really have no idea how he ended up at the shelter, but someone trained him well before that. I think he’s only about a year old, but he’s a smart boy. I leave the leash on a hook by the front door. Just call his name and give him simple orders like ‘Bones, come,’ and then make him sit while you attach his leash. He’s used to the routine. Oh, and I made you a key.” Ella stood, dug the key from her pocket and handed it to Harry. “Want to call now to make sure he behaves for you?”

“Here boy!” Harry commanded in a firm, but pleasant voice. Bones stopped in his tracks, ball in mouth, and trotted over to Harry. “Sit!” Same tone. Bones sat. “Good little fella,” Harry praised the dog, patting him on the head. “I think we’ll be just fine,” Harry said to Ella, whose mouth was now slightly agape. “I used to have a mutt, years ago. He was a good dog. Here, let me take your glass; I know you’ve got lots to do tonight. If for some reason I can’t let him out some day, I’ll let you know in advance, deal?”

“Deal!” Ella answered, handing him her glass and starting to pick up her chair.

“Unless you need that in your apartment, you’re welcome to leave it here. I occasionally get a visitor, and it’s nice to have an extra seat to offer.”

“Of course! Thanks, Harry, I really do appreciate this. See you tomorrow.” She gave him a quick hug, then returned to her apartment with Bones on her heals.

Suddenly lightheaded when she entered her messy home, she realized that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and tossed a frozen dinner into the microwave. She set up and filled Bones’s new food station, a sturdy food/water combo, and resumed cleaning up the disaster. She ate the bland meal while catching up on the news, then prepared for the next day, setting out the peanut butter to remind herself to make a sandwich in the morning. Ella fell asleep on the couch halfway through an episode of Fringe, and woke to the wet kisses of a dog ready for his evening walk.

Dragging herself to her feet, she went through the motions of prepping for what would normally be a fast-paced pre-bed couple of miles in the slightly less sweltering night-time air, but found that the excitement and stress of the day—topped with the intoxicating new beverage—had sapped her of her usual energy. Fortunately, Bones was just as happy with the slower-paced stroll, and the two were in bed and asleep by ten.

For the first time in years, Ella enjoyed a dreamless, fidgetless sleep, and woke to the new day without an alarm.