big transition

I am in my last days at camp, heading back to the Hudson Valley where I teach future elementary teachers. The rain has been constant this summer, along with the mosquitoes that come with the rain. I am excited to begin thinking about the ways in which my experiences with young people this summer can begin to inform my teaching. I plan to record some of my thinking here, as I continue to move through this pandemic, and explore what it means in my life and in the lives of my students and family. 

Twenty-two things I learned from my friend David Bosnick, who died yesterday.

1. Family comes first. Always.
2. Teaching is truly the best possible profession, and it’s dumb to lose sight of that for a day or even a minute.
3. It’s ok to say things are dumb.
4. Redi-whip is actually kind of delicious, and nothing bad happens when you eat it.
5. Stand up and speak up for what you believe.
6. Walk out of a bad meeting when necessary.
7. Hair can be surprising. David’s often was.
8. Long underwear can be dapper if it’s red, and red looks particularly snazzy under a blue oxford cloth shirt.
9. You can’t be any more sorry than you were the first time you said you were sorry. Apologize and move on.
10. Stay true to your original love story, especially if it's a good one.
11. It’s ok to be romantic.
12. Love your kids deeply and completely, but don’t take them too seriously.
13. Don’t listen to anyone who insists on talking about stuff they don’t know about.
14. Somebody’s got to be the bad guy.
15. Sometimes it’s you.
16. You need a really, really big van. I still don’t know why, but I trust that his was necessary. I can’t ask him now, so I trust.
17. It’s ok to be sarcastic.
18. It’s necessary to be sarcastic when you’re dealing with middle schoolers.
19. One of the most important things a teacher can do for a parent is to tell the truth.
20. Much of what seems ordinary is actually hilarious.
21. No warning. It’s what we knew about death all along, but David’s death has taught me that there truly is no warning, it will not come at a good time, and you will not get a chance to say good bye.
22. When you go, the story of who you were will be taken up by those left behind, so start a good story.

rock work

I've been noticing and thinking about rock walls lately. I found this lovely old stone fence at Bowman Lake State Park last week, along a hiking trail that I was fortunate enough to be hiking by myself. This was one of the best preserved sections of the fence, and many other sections were falling down. I like how it rewards closer inspection. 

I imagine that the work required to build this wall would have been both intellectual and physical. It would have been hard work to haul the rocks around and stack them up, but I don't think it could have been done quickly. It would have required time, observation, and reflection, a careful sussing out of the characteristics of individual rocks. 

Even though we don't typically build rock walls to keep our livestock in anymore, we still need rock structures, and I am seeing them everywhere. I also found this culvert on a different hike at Bowman Lake. This one wasn't constructed quite so carefully, and the rewards of closer inspection are those of introspection about technology and the state of craft and skill. 

I don't know anything about how a structure like this gets built. It looks like it requires machines, probably powered by fossil fuels, and the skills involved are those required to operate the machinery, rather than the careful consideration of a natural material. I also suspect that the wire frame is assembled elsewhere, possibly far enough away to require a very significant investment of more fossil fuels to transport. 


There is also this: a lovely stone wall and a set of steps in my neighborhood. The gentleman who lives here and maintains this wall is not young, but he is hale. I took several walks in the neighborhood and I watched his progress over a week or so. It looked like thoughtful work, and I think the result is lovely. After the wall was finished, I noticed him up on his roof, pointing his rock chimney.