Month: January 2026
When the wind chill was minus eight…
Summer memories…minus 4 degrees
The wash goes on…
The world will not stop yelling…
January 23, 2026
The frozen green orb swings heavily in the frigid pre-dawn air. With a creaking groan, the crunch of contracted tires packed thick with snow slush and yesterday’s mud, strain left into the iced over intersection; the steering wheel, sliding and spinning gently through the warmth of leather bound hands and fur cuffed wrists.
The automobile rights itself, pushing into the iced over intersection, shifting awkwardly until the wheels run parallel to the length of Mount Hope Cemetery.
Burial home of Frederick Douglas, the famed abolitionist and Susan B. Anthony, pivotal in the women’s suffrage movement, Mount Hope Cemetery stands enclosed in fencing, gorgeous and frighteningly sharp black wrought iron posts and finials with deadly spear points, gracefully crafted. These posts have stood guard since 1838; Victorian in form; standing the test of time, multitudinous seasonal changes, alterations and vagaries, politics and peoples.
Years ago on a morning, a large buck, antlered and graceful and very, very dead, rested tragically impaled on one of the weaponized finials. He had attempted to spring in the darkness into the park from the edge of the narrow sidewalk; cement lying squeezed between the more heavily trafficked road and the quiet solitude of the sloping hill. Perhaps he observed the shadows of headstones and monuments. Perhaps he noticed the lovely rise of the hills, the large trees, the imagined respite of quietude. He lept home where death lay in wait to meet him; the specter himself resting patiently, waiting and watching on the tip points of the deadly enclosure.
Today out of pitch coal black air, there appear three bobbing, dodging lights moving quickly along the length of the deadly spikes; headed west up Mount Hope, in the general direction of the car; jouncing awkwardly up and down. They appear as a phantasm, resurrected spirits from the older graves, disturbed and disgruntled memories; frozen lights bouncing along the horizon in the black air.
The car rolls slowly past these lithe joggers, the snow runners; perhaps medical professionals from the large hospital around the corner; those dedicated to getting in the exercise, hours before the normal work day begins for most travelers along this old street.
Runners in the cemetery. They traverse the fine line between the past, the present, the invisible spirit of the impaled buck; the sleeping Victorians and the demands of the abolitionist and the suffragette.
January 16, 2026
There was a plan. It worked; a decent sort of ‘end of the day’ dismissal plan for all the students in a sprawling urban school.
Students riding the bus, exited separately from those who walked home or were picked up by family members. The walkers went to the gymnasium where they sat patiently in a line on the floor with their teachers hovering nearby. The man responsible daily for opening the big metal school doors, turning on the microphone and conversing with parents, arrived by 2pm and got the whole process started.
There was a plan.
That was last year.
This year, an administrator decided things should change.
‘Some people were not doing their jobs’, was the rather ominous and vague explanation as to the necessary adjustment thrust upon staff and students.
No one was happy. The new dismissal plan launched.
Instead of lining up in the gymnasium, entire clusters of walkers and disgruntled staff tromped outside to wait in bunches, sandwiched haphazardly between the greenhouse and garden, the large parking lot and an even larger playground area, half of which belonged to the school district with the other half belonging to the city.
Hastily printed cardboard signs pointed to where classes should congregate and hold in place. Some children wandered off in the direction of the park. Others ran off to meet confused parents and caregivers who upon seeing that the children were outside, sat in the parking lot and honked their horns. A few students wandered into the greenhouse and had to be rescued. A couple miscreants threw dirt at each other from the garden. The autumn wind whipped the cardboard signs mercilessly so that it was hard to tell where one’s grade was standing.
It rained.
Then came the winter winds and the bitter windchill and after a few days of frozen misery, and more dirt throwing, the unwieldy circus moved back into the sanctuary of the gymnasium.
Blessedly and just in time, the Christmas holidays arrived.
In January, the heavy hand of change lifted a creative finger once again.
Paper rosters with student names were deemed no longer valid. A quickly generated google chart, supposedly accessible on everyone’s phone fanned out into cyber space with not all teachers managing to successfully locate the appropriate application. Some miniscule boxes were checked. Some lists were abandoned and paper rosters were temporarily reinstated.
The microphone did not work.
On Monday, it was determined that the doors where the man with the non-working microphone waited, were no longer valid. They were closed and locked.
We dismissed horizontally; every student exiting one at a time; off to the far left door at the front corner of the gym.
One at a time.
All of them.
Blessedly, the next day school was called off due to excessive cold and slippery roads.
It’s a work in progress…
January 14, 2026
He is elderly; significantly older than any of the other substitute teachers who enter our building.
He took the job to be a reading teacher for the day. He told me he had been looking forward to working on reading with the students.
We desperately need assistance for our students who read well below grade level; or not at all.
It is fifteen minutes into the day, and he shows up to my room, dragging his backpack and his winter jacket. ‘I’m supposed to be here now’ he says resignedly. ‘It’s the old ‘bait and switch’ in this school’. ‘Ah…I’m sorry’ I respond. ‘You know this is how you lose good substitute teachers in a building; in a district’. He is clearly frustrated.
‘Agreed’ I answer and I shake my head.
We get settled and then the phone rings. I answer. ‘They want to speak to you it seems’ I say. I know exactly what this means.
He takes the phone gingerly, placing it to his ear. I turn away because I already know. They are going to move him again.
He hands the phone back to me and says simply, ‘They want me to take over an entire first grade class’. He mentions a name of the missing teacher. ‘Oh’ I say quietly. ‘That’s a tough one’.
He picks up his backpack and his jacket and after a minute, looks at me and says, ‘I would never, ever sign up to substitute for a first grade class; not at my age’. I can only respond sympathetically, ‘I agree with you and I’m not sure why administration never learns’.
He moves out the door and as he leaves he says, ‘I think I’m going home. I don’t have to take the job’. ‘Nope’ I agree.
We won’t see him again; not when ‘bait and switch’ remains an option.
Within a few minutes, he is gone and I check the ever evolving substitute teacher list. Another teacher in the building has been pulled away from servicing her students for the day and has picked up the first grade class of miscreants; another group desperately in need of help.
January blues…
