That waitress! That waitress at the corner of Formica and stainless steel, the woman with the magnificent profile. She stepped right out of a painting, a castle, an orchard in France, a Spanish vineyard…she is as surprised at her beauty as I am.

Wrapped in a shocking green shirt and bedangled with golden hoops, she holds one hand at an angle on her right haunch as she smacks radish red lips with a disdainful pout. She pours coffee and blows her lips out…unsatisfied with her location; with her lot. There’s an eye rolling, a quick shoulder shrug, an impatient and exasperated exchange with the hostess. The afternoon air is slowed to sludge; frozen.

She glances out the far window, dark eyes searching up past the lake, over the New York vineyards, banking down the slope to the big city…tooling in at the edge of the ocean. She is long gone. A flash of mocha skin, ruby red glittery shine…she is anywhere but here; gone away from this corner of antipathy and cold coffee.

With a slight movement and a handshake…it finishes. Eight excellent years and in a single day, it winds down to empty…with a sigh and a jangling of old, worn keys. The grounded and settled feeling of never moving, of constantly shifting into permanence; this fades, just at the moment when nesting into the very cracks of the wall begins. The cornices and worn rugs belong to me. Then, just at the edge of indecision, the air suddenly shifts and it is once again time to move on. Always upward, always improving, always forward…always better. We take a quick walk through the painted halls, a hand clutches gently around the splintered edges of the attic doorway…old damp stairs and the sealed, dirty window looking out onto the gritty city; those impossibly high kitchen cupboard shelves. We have never used the top shelves.

There is a smudge of candle wax here, the framed outline of a favorite print staring out from an abandoned wall, a stenciled mantle over there and the white stove where so many happy meals bubbled and steamed. Everything stands empty, clean and bereft…alone and awaiting new tenants.

There they are. They wait shiftlessly in the driveway as silly details are discussed…the detritus of city living. Leaving the old and stepping up into the new residence; collecting enough stuff to be a complete nuisance, leaving enough behind to be painful; shedding just enough to be practical…and done. They do not know the life lived here. They have no understanding of the painted walls and the candle gloaming; the strange next door neighbor who waves only when first greeted. They do not know. I do not see them as I stride by. There is no connecting point between us. I do not like what I see and I do not like what I feel. It belongs to them now; whatever they are and will be.

My eight years belong to me. My heart butts up against their new adventure. They do not know and I shall not tell them. They hold the old jangling keys, but they own no entry to my heart…

I look over this new group of children planted in a neat and gentle circle around me. I glance down at my paper. There are nine names on a list. Five stare quietly at me. Four are missing. I don’t know any of them. They have no idea who I might be. We are nearing the end of September and it has taken this length of time to actually meet them.

‘Schedule folly’ is what it is. Their lunch schedule was set and then altered and then a newly innovative ‘one day a week additional school meeting’ was added and the schedule changed again just for that day…and this new additional burdensome change commenced; piled on because of logistics and support and crowding and the usual ‘what all’…that beleaguered phenomenon which leaves everyone exhausted and a number of innocent bystanders severely under educated. So here we are on a cold Friday afternoon at September’s end.

Earlier, upon initially collecting the children from their classroom, I wait at the edge of the door and hear the name ‘Maria’ called out and I immediately break out into song. I can’t help myself. ‘Maria, I just met a girl named Maria’…the classroom teacher, a pleasant newcomer from Brazil glances nervously over at me. I ask, ‘Do you know that song? From Westside Story? It’s famous’. He shakes his head quietly and continues to call the names of those condemned to follow the strange smiling teacher out into the hallway.

I smile and try again. ‘It’s one of many marvelous aspects of being over age fifty. I can break into song, anytime, anywhere and I don’t care what anyone thinks’. ‘Ah’ he responds simply. It’s too much; too many hurdles…Brazil, Manhattan, Broadway, Rochester…age, inhibition, confusion, language, hallway noise. I have taken a gamble and lost. A little one joins my growing line and says softly, ‘I’m Maria’.

Finally, settled around the circular table in my room, my eyes fall on two beautiful boys whose appearance is significantly different than the others. I prod carefully, stepping cautiously through and around the English language to figure out where they are from. ‘No Puerto Rico…Ecuador. We are from Ecuador’. They look so similar I inquire again. ‘Are you brothers?’ The one wearing the grey sweatshirt takes the lead in speaking for the duo. ‘No, we are friends’. ‘Friends’ answers the other. The thicker one points to his chest with his thumb. His eyes are onyx and his hair jet black. His buddy has a shockingly thick black curl in the middle of his forehead. The two boys share mountain blood; thickened with cold, pristine air, solitude, the energy from adventurous climbers…ancient Andean highlands…such a long way from home. Brothers indeed.

I’m searching madly for a point of connection. I look at Maria and burst out into song again. She grins shyly. ‘You sure you never heard it?’ She shakes her head. I shake my head. ‘Well, if you go to New York you can see it in a show. You’re famous you know!’

Bingo! I’ve found the connecting thread between all of us…all of a sudden. She looks up at me and responds, ‘Hey. All my family live in New York’. ‘They do?’ I inquire. ‘In Washington Heights? Brooklyn? Manhattan?’ Her eyes light up. ‘Yes, yes Manhattan’. The boy with the onyx eyes jumps in, ‘Brooklyn’. I look at him. ‘You came from Brooklyn?’ He places his chubby, strong thumb on the table. ‘Ecuador. Brooklyn. Ro CHESTER’. He looks much more secure and comfortable now that we have this geographic question cleared up. I look at the others and we go around the circle…’Puerto Rico, Puerto Rico, Brooklyn, Puerto Rico, Ecuador…’ The children have visibly relaxed and settled in their chairs.

We have everyone labeled now; the briefest glimpse into how they arrived here. In my circle. On a cold September Friday afternoon when the sun has turned into amber shades and the sweatshirts have come out of storage. ‘I used to live in Manhattan, too’. I smile. ‘So now, we are all friends…brothers and sisters’ and we begin the lesson.

I figured out one of my problems today.

When I get dressed and leave the house, I generally get nothing done; or less than I intended. When I stay home in my pajamas and direct everything from Command Central…my bed or my comfortable club chair by the window, I accomplish all kinds of stuff. All I need are pens, paper, books, a cell phone with a charger, a laptop with a charger, a flash drive, the remote for the television, financial files and something to drink; preferably in a beautiful mug. Aesthetics are essential.

I read somewhere that Sir Winston Churchill directed a large portion of World War II from his bed. This is a man I understand.

Eli’s morning quote: ‘You and I have to figure out how to handle Friday, Saturday and Sunday…the weekend…you know, we’re like horses let out of the corral’. I nod my head.

‘We need discipline and we don’t like discipline…you and me’. I nod my head.

‘We’re looking for the fifth leg of the cat, you know’. I nod, confused. I repeat, ‘The fifth leg of the cat?’

He responds impatiently, ‘You know…the impossible…we’re looking for the impossible’. I nod. ‘The discipline, the ‘impossible’ or the cat?’ I wonder out loud.

I’ve got horses, a cat with five legs…the concept of discipline…I’m not sure where I am in the conversation.

‘We need our ducks in a row’ he clarifies further. So, now we’re off the cat and horses and onto ducks. I reach into the bakery bag, the object which started this whole conversation and I grab a fresh, hot pretzel dog. I take a big bite.

‘Quack!’ I say.

Sunshine, glorious sun streams over the front yard. It’s only fifty-three degrees but it feels like a slice of Heaven. We curl up in jeans and hoodies on the porch…the wind chimes bang wildly, madly in the sunny wind; splintering chips of white paint.

He listens to Salsa Vieja…a song about having fun in New York City in the summer. I close my eyes in the sun and think about New York…those blistering sidewalks in August, the surging life steam rising off the walls, an early dinner at The Heights on Broadway or the screeching early 4am dream where workers hustle to load supplies into a diner. They disappear through a rectangular hole in the sidewalk…up and down stairs at a risky 90 degree angle. Moving, lifting, swinging, shouting, sweating heavily, so fast, so fast…slamming the heavy metal doors…boom. In a flash, they climb back in to the big rig which is double, triple parked and they pull out fast as fast…at an impossible angle. They’re gone. It’s 4:45am.

I wonder when I will go back.

I open my eyes. A few neighbors walk by, walking dogs, waving cautiously…people we don’t know, but we are all in this together. ‘The ghosts are coming out’ he states simply. ‘The ghosts?’ I ask. He stares down the street. ‘All the people we have never seen’.

The wind picks up again, slamming chimes against the post. It’s so fierce. Blowing ghosts and viruses all around…

I dreamt badly last night. I sat on a wobbly, wooden chair with old brown slats and splinters and my bare feet on cement floor. I looked around and recognized the old tabernacle, as it was called in my childhood; the place of summer worship where many of us came together in various states of willingness.

There, seated among us in the summer months, were those who were not ‘us’…people from the back hollers with homes on roads where dust gusted up in voluminous clouds when driven on; the clap trap shed and the occasional fencing…they were all there…some with missing teeth, women with long hair tightly wrapped up in buns on the back of their necks…different ways of talking. They were serious. They were dedicated and good. They were different from us in a thousand ways, but we made it work because theologically we were united. But then…when the family next to us started spitting tobacco…well, we were stunned into quiet and shocked acceptance.

I look up in my dream and realize I’m wearing a pink, frilly nightgown…good for July in New York, not mid October and two women in tweed, wool scarves, thick leggings…speak at me in that academic way, that I way I know. But I’m way underdressed and vulnerable and my feet are bare. The taller one adjusts her glasses and sighs, ‘You really must turn in that paper about teaching in a pandemic. We’ve explained technology sooooooo many times. Really…’. They look at each other.

The sound of an approaching truck rumbles and tumbles into the middle of their admonition and they say, ‘Oh, here he is’. They look at me. ‘It would be good to go greet him’. I am unwilling to go. I wrap my gown around me, pick up my books, a blanket and a drink…all having suddenly appeared at my feet and I look at them again. This is a staring contest, only I keep bending over to rub my feet. Suddenly it all comes to me, such relief…a wave of glorious relief. I stand up and calmly speak. ‘I’ve been doing this for almost twenty-six years. Twenty-six years. And despite all this technology, despite this pandemic…I had meaningful teaching experiences with my students this week’.

They stare at me. I take a deep breath. ‘So I guess I don’t really care about your paper anymore. I just don’t care’. I flap a cream colored sheet of heavy linen stationery at them. On this expensive piece of paper, there is a finely painted water color scene…the kind of work my grandmother used to paint. It is lovely. Elegant. Fragile. It will not last if I drop it on the damp cement.

The two women move away from me, heading toward the man in the rumbling truck. I am suddenly awake…thank goodness. It’s not real. Maybe it is. I explain the dream to my husband. He just shakes his head. ‘Remember, you don’t care about their paper, girl’.

How Central Office works; requests are sent via email…requests are acknowledged; but not always. Persons sending requests are applauded for being assertive, pro-active, committed to education and etcetera and so forth; or ignored. Sender is then subjected to random quotes about reaching for the sky or looking for the moon or seeing the light of knowledge in someone’s eyes; or not. Request is then deflected or ignored. Nothing is fixed. Drowning in the email lifecycle…

Let’s consider my choices…a dimly lit, poorly appointed, starkly chilled room in Central Office for a professional development about some topic over which I have ultimately no control; nuts to that. OR piles of warm flannel, freshly made French toast, scalding coffee…a PJ’s kind of day…sheltered from the mid winter snow…stacked books, writing materials, pillows, pens…February break dreams; yes please. I’m staring at the collection of Valentine candy purchased in the snowstorm…gold truffles, pink cinnamon chocolates, wintergreen mints and chocolate covered cherries…

In the end, we realized that the system was purely data hungry. Research had gone from being helpful, a tool…something to help our teaching…to an entity to be worshipped. More details, more schedules, more numbers, more charts…it was a sacrificial system…a blood lust with minimal return.

‘We can use the data to better inform our teaching practices’. Intoned. Gregorian mantra. Hypnotic.

Everyone scrambled to print, share, produce, file. Then the lull…then the stream of requests flowed again, bursting out from the gullet of downtown…ravenous…’new and improved’…’brand new’…all agog with novelty…as if somehow we had never traversed this path before. Then silence.

After awhile, after observing the continual data tsunami…we each grabbed a life raft and divided amongst ourselves. Those choosing to fight to change the system went one way. Those choosing to work outside and around the edges of the system…under the radar, through the side door, hand held heavy on the delete button; we scurried off in another direction.

But could those blasted test scores ever inch upward? Would the enraged data gods ever be satiated? This was and is the never ending hymn, sung out with gusto wherever we are forced to listen…