I may or may not have just texted my father to let him know that I have his cell phone…
Monthly Archives: September 2012
When I was a kid, we didn’t have much fresh produce. We lived in far enough into Canada that it didn’t grow locally and it was expensive. Potatoes and carrots, yes. Tomatoes if you picked them green and layered them under newspaper to ripen. Peaches and pears, not so much.
I remember being riveted by the story, “James and the Giant Peach.” I figured I’d be willing to trade families with James, nasty aunts and all, if it meant I got just one chance to crawl through a giant peach, taking bites as I went, from the walls. Who needs heaven?
Today, I stood in my garden, holding a giant peach in my hand.
Off my very own tree. The past 4 or 5 years: nothing; this year: giant peaches.
It was the strangest moment. Because I haven’t thought about James for decades maybe, and then there I was, and it was his peach, right there in my hand. I even dusted off an old copy of the book and checked to be sure, and lo and behold: “The skin was very beautiful–a rich buttery yellow with patches of brilliant pink and red.”
Aunt Sponge wasn’t there to touch it reverently with the tip of her finger, but I did the honors myself, and reached the same conclusion: it was perfectly ripe.
In my garden.
I kind of want a new blog. You know, one of those psuedo-anonymous websites where you know who I am, because I invited you to read it, but I refrain from including any identifying information in my posts, so that one of my students or my superiors don’t stumble across it and, I don’t know, get me fired.
Not that I would ever want to say anything that would get me fired. Ever.
Because it’s basically been a really great week. The existing staff has been supportive and helpful, and the students are still in what teachers like to call the honeymoon phase. They don’t trust us enough to really misbehave yet.
The first day I threatened them with my rolling pin and generally made classroom expectations clear, and it would seem they’ve bought into my management style–at least enough to cooperate marvelously the rest of the week. We’ve gotten to know one another a bit, laughed together, and even enjoyed some of those sudden, wide-eyed silences that speak of startled and deepening adolescent thought. Here’s to many, many more.
And to essays like the following, which was handed to me on Friday (their assignment was to write a personal narrative; I’m tempted to give him an A):
My personal narrative.
My personal narrative, who?