Not Too Impressive

The High School Principal, who is also a nationally-renowned Math teacher, spent an hour a day last week with the 8th Graders, preparing them for their move to the high school. He taught them how to use their Texas Instrument Calculators as well as other things so they can hit the ground running in September.

We dearly love this man, Mr. Funsch, but he CAN be a little intimidating. First of all, he's a high school teacher. Second, he's the Principal. Third, he is tall, thin, and imposing. And fourth, he smiles sparingly and appears stern most of the time, despite his incredible sense of humor, which Deanna has yet to experience.

Deanna has been with me when I've joked and bantered with him and she's well aware of the esteem with which Don and I both hold him. She felt it was very important to also show respect and, more than anything, she wanted his first impression of her in school to be very positive. Truthfully, she wanted him to think she was smart, self-assured, and attentive.

She sat very straight while with him. She told me she hung on his every word, never taking her eyes off him, pen poised above paper to jot down any important tidbit he might bestow on them. She was focused, concentrating, and trying very hard to seem intelligent and thoughtful.

"So," Mr. Funsch said the first day, "let's count off by fours. Faith, you're #1."

When Faith stared blankly at him, he said, "Just say 'One', Faith," which she did. Then he pointed at Deanna.

She smiled triumphantly. "FIVE!"

When he didn't move on, her brow furrowed. Then she noticed he was holding up two fingers for her to see.

"Four?" she asked. When I talked with him about this incident later, he said she had also suggested seven as the answer to counting off by fours.

Gently, ever so patiently, he said, "Two."

Deanna hung her head in shame. So much for impressing the High School Principal. Now he thinks she can't count to two.

Obviously, Deanna thought counting off by fours, if Faith started with 1, meant 5, 9, 13 . . . Mr. Funsch, however, meant 1, 2, 3, 4, 1, 2, 3, 4 . . .

By the time Deanna got home from school, she could clearly see the humor in this whole situation and laughed hysterically when telling me the story. I couldn't pass up the opportunity to joke with Mr. Funsch about my first child to encounter him as a teacher, so I gave him a call.

"I heard you had a little problem with the eighth grade today," I said. He, obviously, was still wearing his teacher/principal hat, and didn't get that I was kidding.

"No," he countered. "What do you mean?"

"They had difficulty counting by fours," I explained further.

Finally, he realized what I was talking about.

I continued. "So, you thought you'd be teaching them about their T.I.'s, but I bet you never thought you'd have to teach them to count to 2 first."

"It's not going to be a problem," he said. "I'm not the slightest bit worried."

Then he paused.

"I have them divided into groups now. No need for them to count anymore!"

Train, Lifeguard, and Nose

I was enroute to baseball practice a couple weeks ago when I heard a funny whistling sound in the van.

"Do you hear that?" I asked the boys.

"Hear what?" they both asked.

"That whistling sound." I was sure they were feigning ignorance. It was a very noticeable, frustrating sound.

"Does it sound like 'this'," Daelyn asked, making a strange noise, " 'cause that's my throat."

"No, son, it's not a throat sound. It sounds like a whistle."

Dane piped up immediately. "It's the seal on this window, Mom. I've noticed it's been making noise lately when we're driving fast and the air whistles through the window."

I glanced over to the passenger door. The seal around the door/window was, indeed, drooping down. I gave Dane instructions to push it back into place to eliminate that irritating sound. He complied.

A few minutes later, the same sound. I looked at the passenger door again. No, the seal was still intact right where it should be.

"That wasn't it, Dane. I still hear it."

After a moment's pause, Dane said, "Does it sound like 'this'?" There it was - that annoying 'wind whistling through the window' sound.

"YES!! That's it!!" I gleefully responded.

When Dane didn't say anything, I tilted my head and looked sideways at him. He had a big grin on his face as his eyes met mine.

"That's my Nose Whistle, Mom,"

It's Finally the Yard's Turn

I had given up all hope of having a garden this year. Life on Coumadin meant giving up many things. I worked hard to convince myself that it didn't matter, one year without a garden would be just fine. I made a decision to hit Farmer's Markets hard, get great prices on excellent produce, and can, can, can. It just wouldn't be the fruit of MY hands and yard I would can.

Then, the amazing news came that I could discontinue Coumadin. It still took at least a week to work it all out of my system, but I turned a corner during Holy Week. I woke up one morning, wide awake, at 6:45 a.m., before my alarm clock began bellowing at me. This used to happen in my life, but was a very faded dream in recent history.

My father-in-law came for Easter and I called him in advance and asked for his help putting a box garden in a spot on the side of the house. I have one box garden, and I put another in about 3 years ago for Dane. But there was just enough space for a third, and I desperately wanted the extra garden. I have a huge garden against the back fence, but it hasn't been worked in two years and it's so overgrown, you can't even see the dog if he gets in there. Weeds are about thigh-high and I couldn't imagine ever finding the time to clean it up, till it, and plant it. The ONLY possibility was above-ground gardening, in rich, fertile soil that could be turned easily with a hand trowel and watered along with the other two box gardens.

Grandpa and Dane worked very hard and put in a beautiful box for me, lined with landscape fabric on the bottom and sides. I began filling it with topsoil, manure, compost, etc. immediately. Then, it happened. I went to Lowe's, bought some vegetable plants, and PUT IN MY GARDEN!!

I've been like a driven woman. Ever chance I get, I'm in the yard. I've been weeding, putting mulch around the trees and plants, pruning, neatening, sweeping . . . For years, my yard has looked like a cross between a jungle and a tenement. It could easily have been transplanted into the Slums. But slowly, EVER so slowly, it's improving. I'm getting more done each year to clean it up and beautify it. This year, I just can't stay out of the yard.

I'll decide I need to get laundry done or clean a particular room. Then the dog needs to tinkle, so I take him out. Before I even realize what I'm doing, I'm off on some outdoors project.

It feels amazing to be able to work outside, to have the energy to invest in the yard. Truth is, the weather is so hot in Georgia during most of the summer that the only yardwork I do has to be completed in the Spring, while it's still mild enough to be out of doors. I realize that whatever doesn't get done over the next few weeks likely won't get done until next year.

So, I work with a vengeance. And the yard is beginning to show evidence of care - yippee!!

There's always more to do, but, as I told Don last night, the inside of the house if falling down around our ears. If I don't hurry up and get the outside done, we won't have a house to come into. I've got more laundry than you can even imagine and cleaning chores that will take until Christmas to accomplish.

But I'm very happy as I survey the accomplishment of my hands. I don't know if anyone else will even notice, but I know what I've done, and am pleased.