At my old apartment, we had a roof deck. We lived on the top floor, and the deck was up a ladder and through a hatch. When we first got my cat Dixie, we decided to get her a leash and buy some clothesline to fix up a sort of cat run on the roof, so the little urban kitty could enjoy some outdoor time.
Dixie ended up hating the leash, but was actually quite well-behaved off the leash on the roof, so we ended up bringing her up with us and letting her hang out and enjoy her freedom. She loved it-- every time the door opened, she'd try to dash out, at times succeeding. She'd dash down the first set of stairs, then hang out abashedly, rubbing against the metal spindles of the stairway railing.
She loved being outside so much, in fact, that one day she decided to make her escape.
It was a lovely morning, mid-July, during the only month of summer weather in New York. I awoke happily, sunshine streaming in the window. Rolling over to my left side, I looked out the window, taking in the beautiful day.
Like most apartments in New York, the window looked out onto our fire escape. Metal safety bars outside the window had a pop-out for an air conditioner. We had put a flower box on top of the pop-out, and the morning glories had finally started to bloom.
My gaze drifted to the flower box to check the morning glories' progress. I saw something that didn't belong.
It took me a minute to determine what this figure was. It looked like... a cat. There was a cat sitting in the flower box. I looked more closely. It was a Dixie-shaped cat. In the flower box. OUTSIDE. Four stories up. What the...??!!
Sitting up suddenly, I yelled, "Dixie!"
And the Dixie-shaped cat jumped into the window and onto the bed, rubbing against me in greeting.
Our windows opened from the top. The damn cat, at some point during the night, had figured out how to open the screen, dragging it down with her claws and releasing herself into freedom. Who knows how long she'd been hanging out on the fire escape, four stories up.
Maybe she didn't use up one of her nine lives that day, but with the fright she gave me, I most certainly did.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Saturday, February 6, 2010
There's a good joke in here...
I grew up in a suburban neighborhood, like any other. Squared in by 2 commercial streets to the north and west and a park to the south and east, it was fully residential. Its grid of blocks was lined with duplexes, ranches, colonials.
On one block, Annie Street, stood a building that was somewhat, then, out of place-- the Polish Social Club. It was somewhat odd to randomly have, essentially, a bar situated smack dab in the middle of a bunch of single-family homes, but there you go.
Growing up, my dad would often go with his friends to "the club" to socialize. When I was a kid, I never really deduced the function of a social club. Which I suppose is a good thing, but it also meant that I came to the confident conclusion that my Dad must be going to the Polish Social Club for the single reason that made perfect sense to me.
I was in high school before I realized that I wasn't, actually, Polish.
On one block, Annie Street, stood a building that was somewhat, then, out of place-- the Polish Social Club. It was somewhat odd to randomly have, essentially, a bar situated smack dab in the middle of a bunch of single-family homes, but there you go.
Growing up, my dad would often go with his friends to "the club" to socialize. When I was a kid, I never really deduced the function of a social club. Which I suppose is a good thing, but it also meant that I came to the confident conclusion that my Dad must be going to the Polish Social Club for the single reason that made perfect sense to me.
I was in high school before I realized that I wasn't, actually, Polish.
Monday, February 1, 2010
The Hero
This one's a classic from the teaching days, and is dedicated to my Spanish 3H kids, and to Leigh in particular.
---
The foreign language department at B.F. was relegated to the far end of the hallway on the basement floor. The classrooms on the north side of the building were lucky, with full length windows looking out to the woods behind the building (well, with the faculty parking lot in front of said woods, but still...) Those of us on the south side were not as lucky. The ground outside came up to within 2 feet of the ceiling of the classrooms on the south side. We were left with a ribbon of glass that let in minimal sunshine. Pipes ran up the wall, preventing 3 of the 6 windows in most of the classrooms from even opening.
During the winter, it was hot and dry. In the summer months, it was hot and unbearably humid. At all times it was stuffy and stale. Still, there were a few precious weeks, in October and late April/ early May, when the light was perfect, and the breeze from the open window and an oscillating fan made everyone refreshed and, if not alert, then at least not asleep (usually).
Our story takes place on just such an afternoon, in early spring. The weather was perfect. It was the second-to-last class of the day, when freedom was within reach and the heavy sleepiness that proceeded lunch had worn off. The faces looking up at me were open, smiling. I was feeling creative, brisk, alive. The energy was perfect.
We were all ready, then, teacher and students, to explore the wonder that is the imperfect subjunctive.
Today, the particular subject was emotion. It was a perfect day for emotion, and happiness in particular. "Estaba contenta que...," I started to write on the board.
My body reacted before my brain did-- my reflexes like a cat. The blackboard-- the old, heavy blackboard that had been in place since the 50s and still the remnants of some random prayer etched at the top as it had when I was a student-- had started falling away from the wall.
The classroom was small. The first row of students was less than a foot away from where I stood. The kids! I had visions of concussions, bloody heads, cracked skulls.
I jumped, spreading my legs on the floor, reaching my arms out, fingers extended, to hold the heavy blackboard up. I was a hero! I saved not only the precious brains of my students, but also the school from the financial ruin of numerous lawsuits.
The beating of my heart as it tried to pounce out of my ribcage seemed deafening within the hush of the classroom. Time stood still.
And then, whispers. Scattered murmurs. Muffled laughter.
I looked up.
Have you ever been on a train, when the train next to you was moving, and it made you feel like you were moving?
See, I had this scarf hanging at the top of the blackboard. It was a Real Madrid scarf-- the football (soccer) team in Madrid. It was tacked to the strip of bulletin board that was above the black board. Also, it was waving in the breeze from the fan and the open window.
I had thought the blackboard was falling down. It was really just the scarf waving. It was a mistake in perception. You know, like when the train next to you is moving...?
I tried to explain this to my students. They had just witnessed their teacher go from droning on about some weird perfect subjective thing, whatever that is, to jumping out and pressing herself spread-eagle against the blackboard, and now she's rallying on about trains? Dude, give me some of whatever she's having.
My sanity may have lost some credibility that day, but at least I got my students' attention. Hey, as teachers, we do what we gotta do.
---
The foreign language department at B.F. was relegated to the far end of the hallway on the basement floor. The classrooms on the north side of the building were lucky, with full length windows looking out to the woods behind the building (well, with the faculty parking lot in front of said woods, but still...) Those of us on the south side were not as lucky. The ground outside came up to within 2 feet of the ceiling of the classrooms on the south side. We were left with a ribbon of glass that let in minimal sunshine. Pipes ran up the wall, preventing 3 of the 6 windows in most of the classrooms from even opening.
During the winter, it was hot and dry. In the summer months, it was hot and unbearably humid. At all times it was stuffy and stale. Still, there were a few precious weeks, in October and late April/ early May, when the light was perfect, and the breeze from the open window and an oscillating fan made everyone refreshed and, if not alert, then at least not asleep (usually).
Our story takes place on just such an afternoon, in early spring. The weather was perfect. It was the second-to-last class of the day, when freedom was within reach and the heavy sleepiness that proceeded lunch had worn off. The faces looking up at me were open, smiling. I was feeling creative, brisk, alive. The energy was perfect.
We were all ready, then, teacher and students, to explore the wonder that is the imperfect subjunctive.
Today, the particular subject was emotion. It was a perfect day for emotion, and happiness in particular. "Estaba contenta que...," I started to write on the board.
My body reacted before my brain did-- my reflexes like a cat. The blackboard-- the old, heavy blackboard that had been in place since the 50s and still the remnants of some random prayer etched at the top as it had when I was a student-- had started falling away from the wall.
The classroom was small. The first row of students was less than a foot away from where I stood. The kids! I had visions of concussions, bloody heads, cracked skulls.
I jumped, spreading my legs on the floor, reaching my arms out, fingers extended, to hold the heavy blackboard up. I was a hero! I saved not only the precious brains of my students, but also the school from the financial ruin of numerous lawsuits.
The beating of my heart as it tried to pounce out of my ribcage seemed deafening within the hush of the classroom. Time stood still.
And then, whispers. Scattered murmurs. Muffled laughter.
I looked up.
Have you ever been on a train, when the train next to you was moving, and it made you feel like you were moving?
See, I had this scarf hanging at the top of the blackboard. It was a Real Madrid scarf-- the football (soccer) team in Madrid. It was tacked to the strip of bulletin board that was above the black board. Also, it was waving in the breeze from the fan and the open window.
I had thought the blackboard was falling down. It was really just the scarf waving. It was a mistake in perception. You know, like when the train next to you is moving...?
I tried to explain this to my students. They had just witnessed their teacher go from droning on about some weird perfect subjective thing, whatever that is, to jumping out and pressing herself spread-eagle against the blackboard, and now she's rallying on about trains? Dude, give me some of whatever she's having.
My sanity may have lost some credibility that day, but at least I got my students' attention. Hey, as teachers, we do what we gotta do.
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