I read the email which just popped up on my screen. ‘I was still sick on April 19th. Here’s my request for an absence form. I’ve already entered my time in the data base. Thank you’. I sit back and think for a moment. Obviously, this email went to the wrong person. I’m sorry this person was ill. I don’t know who this person is. I have no authority to grant anyone their sick or personal days. I have no control over the data base. I consider whether or not I should respond to this. I take the cowardly way out and delete the email. Problem solved. The person will find the right authority. The data base will be satisfied. This not the hill on which I am willing to die.

Someone requests that I come downstairs to what I call ‘the holding bin’; the room where students who arrive late are confined until they are picked up for testing make-ups. I enter the room cautiously and call out three names. The room erupts into a cacophony of viciously nasty and threatening language. The one girl in my group stands up quietly and makes her way over to the door where she stands behind me. The two boys summoned rear up, jump and twist themselves, making threatening gestures, each trying to outdo the other with some of the most awful language, specifically directed against several of the girls. To the girl’s credit, they don’t back down and make equally threatening gestures, adding filthy language for good measure and tell the boys ‘we’ll see you in the parking lot’. The two boys burst out of the room and careen down the hallway. So we’re off to a good start.

This is a hill on which I am willing to die. I will not take these two cretins into my office space along with the gentle girl who waits patiently by the door. I shrug my shoulders as I explain to the rough and tumble guy monitoring this room. ‘I have no tolerance for this sort of language and behavior. I’m taking the girl. Someone else will have to test them’. He nods, looking severely disappointed that he is not able to shed these two like so much wounded flotsam. Unfortunately, this is the job he has chosen. I wonder how long he might stay.

She and I exit the room, enter the elevator and one of the boys, who has come running back, tries to jump on with me. I push him back and say, ‘No!’. The doors close. I turn to her and say, ‘Don’t you ever let anyone speak to you that way. Don’t ever let a boy or a man treat you that way’. She looks at me and nods. I want more than anything to transfer strength to her at this moment; to give her the ability in the most effective manner to handle people like this; personalities such as these two boys; types of persons I am sure she will meet again in high school and beyond in the larger world. She chuckles when I tell her what I think would happen if those boys spoke to my husband that way. She nods and smiles. She maintains her calm demeanor and her poise, but I worry.

‘Help me’…pause. The small child looks at me. ‘I don’t know letters’. I look at his test. I consider the insanity of all this testing. ‘It’s okay’ I respond casually. ‘Just draw pictures, okay? You’re a good artist’. He looks down. He picks up his number two pencil and with pudgy fingers, draws a circle around letter B of the multiple choice question. Then he draws ears and a face in the circle. ‘That’s a cat’ he states and looks up at me for approval. ‘Yup. I see that. Nice cat. I told you that you were a good artist’. I sit back and watch him do the rest of the test in this manner. There is a dinosaur and another cat and a few shapes I am not clear on. But every shape has eyes and ears and a genuinely charming face. ‘Best test ever’ I think. I’d like to know how many of these 4,000 plus tests end up in Albany with characters drawn all around the multiple choice letters. I hope most of them do…and on that hill, I will willingly place my flag.

Two older gentlemen met this past Thursday morning; the acclaimed author Alexander McCall Smith and my father. One stood ramrod straight, fresh from the cold winds of Firth; sporting a Scottish demeanor and speaking with a kindly, erudite tone. The other gentleman stood quietly by, bent over like a shepherd’s crook, waiting to greet the man. They shook hands, acknowledging each other and both thanked the other for coming. And then they chortled graciously.

Dad said to Alexander McCall Smith, ‘I enjoy it when as you are speaking you laugh at your own jokes!’ Immediately the other polished man laughed heartily and replied, ‘I really should not do that!’ They both chuckled, shook hands again and parted ways; the one wearing the jacket and tie, the other with the thick woolen sweater vest and the crooked back.

And that was all. For an elegant moment, two men from a lifetime ago, born under separate skies, both lovers of literature and art; upon meeting, conversed and shared time, laughter and the appreciation for what life can be…

April does her thing; a muddy patch here, a small pink hyacinth there. As I drive away from the house in the early morning hours, I notice a huge goose standing on my roof. I’m not sure why he is there. Perhaps he listens for the lilting sounds of Billie Holiday from the evening before; the strains claiming that time goes by, as indeed it does. Perhaps he smells the redolent fragrance of thick Polish sausages; their smell wafting up the stairs and out on to the roof, where he stands stopped and waiting; watching.

The time has come and gone. Another season moves from winter into spring and I fear this large goose on the roof is either lost or confused, because April does her thing. It is shockingly cold this morning and it will be significantly warmer in a few hours. The ground by the edge of the house is moist and beckoning, desiring that some work be done. Two flowering Purple Prince crab apple trees have been ordered and are waiting to be picked up, but this is not the week to plant. The ground is still cold.

In the late afternoon, upstairs in the rooms which lie underneath the rafters and the light footprints of the morning goose, I open two windows for the first time in months and hang up some freshly laundered clothing. Of course I have a dryer. On some days however, I prefer the motion of lifting and hanging and smoothing my hands over the cloth; making sure it is perfect. It takes time. Of course it takes time. But the joy is in the process and it settles my mind.

There awaits almond coffee with heavy cream and honey, along with cherry cordial cake for an afternoon snack. There might also be thick slices of potato cheddar chive toast with squares of real butter. This life is too short for bad coffee, plain oatmeal and rooms where the windows are never opened.

There will be days for plain things but not today; not while April does her thing and not for a home where a large goose takes a pause to stand on my roof to watch for songs, to smell sausage, to look toward Lake Ontario where the rest of the early spring geese have already gone…

10:23am…I hear a mad, rapid fluttering at the reading room window. I suspect the robins are back at it…again. Round three. I take a final swig of cooling coffee and venture onto the porch with broom in hand. Again. The porch is luminous with sunshine. I look around. The chimes are quietly churning in the wind and the large window ledge is strangely empty. Not a twig or piece of nesting detritus in sight. I look around, surprised.

Where are they? It appears they stopped by only to say hello, to flutter around the edge of the ledge and then…gone as quickly as they came. I look up and watch a steady stream of high flying birds, robins and maybe others…heading into the variable winds…in the direction of the tree line opposite the house.

They are off to mourn the cathedral…

Oh, Notre-Dame…my heart. Brick upon brick, life upon life, century upon century…and the spire, that spire. You are burning and with the conflagration goes the best, the absolute best of what humanity can be…

What she really wanted to do was sit silently and listen to the rain. The air was thick and grey with mist and wet earth and somewhere downstairs there lingered smells from last night…cooked herring and the lavender candle lit and smoldering as an offset to the curling ocean smell.

The edges of the school year were beginning to curl and dry out…but the roots were still slightly damp and clinging. She wanted to rip the whole thing out and throw it on the compost. It was early morning still; the solitary indication that anyone was still alive in the neighborhood was the sound of one car, rising like a weighted vessel at sea…slowly around the corner, the gentle rocking sound of brakes sighing in the rain…full stop at the corner…a slight merging left as the car righted itself…the soft engine surging as the hill rose…large splashing and then the wide puddle by the mailbox lay breeched and drained…the slight squish of crunching gravel and tar…and gone…deafening silence.

The lights across the street flickered off…there was a burst of rain…a soaking sheet at the edge of the porch. Even the birds were quiet. Lovely.

‘Miss! Miss! You’re muted. I can’t hear you!’ She sighed. What she really, really wanted to do was to sit, immobile…watching the rain…’Miss! Now your camera is off’…the mourning dove cooed, a faint and wistful cry outside the window…the rain fell more heavily…’

We are living in what I call ‘outrageous grey’. Countless days this winter and spring of grey and slate and charcoal and lead and concrete. I look at my potted dahlias sitting obediently in the window, doing what they have been instructed to do; reach for the sun! Higher! The package of seeds reads; ‘dahlias thrive in six to eight hours of direct sunlight’. Maybe I should pour vitamin D drops directly into their soil.

I look tentatively outside. I fear being dive bombed by angry robins. 8am. All is quiet on the porch front. I notice there is one weak strand of nesting material hanging over the lip of the window and white breakfast remains splattered all over one of the chairs. An intentional bird salvo if ever I saw one. They’re out there somewhere. Perhaps it’s just too grey and cold for them to build today.

I remove the nesting strand with a swipe from my broom and walk to the end of the porch where I grab hold of the wind chimes and rattle them as a call to arms. Round two…

The robins have waited until today to make their move. My porch is their Canaan, the promised land with a large lipped shelf…a comfortable flat window overhang with plenty of space to build. ‘No’ I say.

Their attack is orderly. Mid morning, there is nothing. By 2pm they have begun to build in two places. My husband goes out and removes everything. Within two hours, I look out and discover they are at it again. I venture out with a broom and a bottle of cleaner to clean off the windows. I wipe things down. I hang up chimes and sweep up the porch, lugging heavy Adirondack chairs around. It’s a lot of work trying to keep something so small away from us. I turn on the porch light and lock the door firmly and tightly. Round one…

It’s rich indeed…that moment when the person who has snubbed or ignored you for weeks in the hallway for reasons unknown, rounds the corner and greets you with a smile and a ‘Good morning’ while instantly realizing I wasn’t the person to whom that smile and greeting should have been directed. But my nuance radar is up and I’m quicker.

I look away before it can all be taken back. Or perhaps it was a dream. But either way, I settle in my chair and think…’I win’. Rich indeed…

‘So all else having failed, they naturally formed a committee’. She finished reading the page and thumped the book down on the table. She stretched her arms high over her head and announced to her husband, ‘And that my dear, is the problem with most situations in this old world’. She was just warming up, and he knew it.

He glanced up at her from over the rim of his glasses and nodded. She sighed and sat back against the cushions, dropping her arms into her lap. She yawned and then began to talk. ‘Do you remember that school librarian from a few years back? The one who was so incredibly cranky all the time?’ He watched her from the edge of his newspaper. ‘Yes, what about her?’ Leaning forward with a conspiratorial look, her eyes gleaming, she said, ‘Well, I always suspected that what she really wanted was a library full of books and empty of children’.

He put the paper down, took off his glasses and rubbed his forehead. ‘Well, who wouldn’t actually, truth be told? Some of your kids…?’ His voice trailed off, not wanting to dredge up ‘work talk’. She grinned. ‘No, no, you’re right in that case. Anyone would have been cranky. Permanently’. She looked at him and he smiled back, both of them quietly recalling older conversations with colleagues about failed urban education policies, the history of race in Rochester and the intractable Board of Education which drove everyone mad. But those were discussions for other times. Not today.

She continued, ‘But guess what I found out about her after she retired?’ He played along, listening in hope that the conversation would eventually land somewhere and preferably quickly. He stretched out one leg, then the other. ‘What did you find out about her?’ She propped up an errant cushion. She waved her right arm to add emphasis as she spoke. ‘She had a degree in school committee structure!’ He was silent. ‘Don’t you see?’ She surged on, making her point. ‘She went to school to learn how to organize and lead school committees and somehow ended up working in the library. Absurd! A library! An elementary library contains books AND children and to be honest she did not really want to work with children. She wanted perfect book shelving and the power to be able to give directions to her committees about running schools. The children were a sorry secondary afterthought, attached to the school. There were no committees for her, just real live children!’

‘Ah!’ he said. He shook his head and looked out the window. She ran her fingers through her hair, stood up and moved the ottoman away from the couch edge. She paused a brief moment before picking up the coffee mugs and empty pastry plates. The aroma of the orange chocolate brew lingered over the edges of the glassware, and she took a deep breath. ‘Lovely’ she exclaimed. The smell followed her as she headed into the kitchen. One pink linen napkin fell off the plate and onto the floor. She sighed, bending down to retrieve it and spoke again as she stood up. ‘I find it really funny’ she said.

‘What?’ he raised his voice because he had returned to his newspaper as she exited the room. ‘I said’ she began again… ‘It’s funny; not funny as in strange but funny as in humorous’. She turned toward the sink, shaking the napkin gently over the stainless steel. ‘I mean, the whole thing, the whole district…it’s what I just read about now. The response to deep abiding failure, is always the same. Form a committee. Imagine obtaining a degree in school committee structure? When did a committee ever accomplish anything?’ She snorted in derision.

Her husband came into the kitchen. ‘You know what I think is really true?’ He approached her and as he opened his arms to embrace her, he said simply, ‘I think you think it’s funny, not because it is funny but because at a deeper level, you yourself are very sad. That’s what I think’.

She stepped back slightly from him and looked at his face intently. ‘Yes’ she answered simply. She looked out the window. ‘I am sad. I feel the same way I do when it snows in the month of April. It’s a long term betrayal, something which can’t be shaken’. She sighed. ‘It’s the same way I felt when I saw a classmate’s recent obituary. He was only 54 years old. I remembered he would not share his Green Hornet coloring book with me in kindergarten. That’s all I remembered. His photo moved me. He looked so old, so completely unrecognizable to me in that picture and that made me sad. Someone who is only 54 years old should still be recognizable’.

‘Yes’ he responded gently. ‘It’s the sort of sad I feel when I awaken and know that I missed hearing the early morning rain. It’s a sad shame to miss the rain’. Then, to reassure her he said, ‘It’s as bad as forming a committee, actually..’

If a child has made it to 5th or 6th grade and cannot read, then EVERYTHING should stop. The mandates, the schedule, the district’s ever changing requirements and strategies, the protocol, the bureaucracy, the entire system from stem to stern should stop blathering and playing duck and cover.

All energies should be focused on finding a real life solution for the students. Unless the reading issue and positive cognitive and/or emotional issues are resolved, nothing moves forward.

‘A mile wide and an inch deep’ does not constitute an education. ‘Honest’ conversations don’t fix anything unless they are…well…honest.

But, now we are entering the silly season also known as TESTING. There are NYS alternate assessments and NYS ELA paper tests. There is NYSESLAT starting on April 17 and ending on May 26. In the middle of all that we squeeze the NYS math test, both paper based and computer based. There is AP testing. There is IREADY diagnostic testing. Then we jump into the Common Formative Assessments. NYS Science Performance Assessments follow. IStation rolls along…and on and on it goes. So…I guess we won’t worry too much about reading…