In two weeks, we’ll be in total darkness. For a little over three minutes, nine seconds, where we live. Partial begins at 12:18 p.m. Full eclipse starts at 1:36:21 and will end at 1:39:27. At 2:58, it ends.
Hubby couldn’t be more happy. He has been anticipating this event for years. He wasn’t able to snag a camping site at Enchanted Rock, to his dismay. Eclipse glasses have been acquired. Plans changed. He’s biking to a nearby park. E. already ordered neon colored plastic framed viewing glasses oozing with 80s vibes. They’re hanging out together that day.
Geekdom at its finest because nerds beget nerds.
Some school districts in the path have canceled school. Ours did not. I’ll be at work, participating from there. Most likely helping wrangle kids so they don’t wander off campus. Or actually look at it. Without their eclipse glasses. I’m sure many of our staff will call in sick, leaving the rest of us to deal with covering classes.
The Texas Department of Transportation estimates high traffic, suggesting against people parking on the sides of roads. Avoid scheduling appointments. Don’t use binoculars or telescopes even if you have eclipse watching glasses. Have a full tank of gas. Refrain from wearing eclipse glasses while driving. The weather, so far, should be clear.
Campus principals are responsible for making a plan. We got that plan today. I wonder how often it will change?
Until then, my husband and oldest will be hanging out, enjoying the show. I’ll be at work, S. will be at school, and we’ll be outside participating for about three minutes.
This song repeats in my head every time my husband mentions it. I’ll work on a playlist to gift him to mark the occasion.
Besides Rocket Man, Weird Science, and She Blinded Me With Science, share your favorite eclipse watching songs.
Prom season is my favorite. Not my favorite as a high schooler, but it’s my favorite now. When people I know post pictures of their kids in their prom dresses or tuxedos, I imagine I’m a Hollywood entertainment personality commenting (silently) on each outfit.
I even give imaginary awards. Best Overall. Classiest. Best Two-Piece. Best Tux. Most Unique. Favorite Dress/Tux Combo. Best Friend Group. Best Formal/Chuck Taylors combo. Dumb little awards I make up, but have such fun deciding on awards.
My niece, a high school senior, went prom dress shopping. Of her four choices, she chose one of my two favorites. One, a white form fitting, low-backed floor length dress with a sequined overlay was on of the lucky dresses chosen for the occasion. It’s gorgeous on her. The second was a royal blue floor length dress with criss-crossing back straps and glittery overlay. I’m partial to sparkles. Lucky kid, she gets to attend two proms this year. I’m sure she’ll have the time of her life.
I wonder if S. will go to prom? Will she want to attend? Will she go to one of those popular un-proms? What color dress will she choose? Will she go with a friend group or solo? Will she decide to go with her bff from kindergarten, who is like a brother, but better because they aren’t really siblings so it doesn’t count?
It’s coming too soon. A memory from Facebook popped up last week. She must have been in second or third grade, but there she was, pictured next to one of her favorite dresses in a department store. The same one where my niece found her dresses. That’s when she liked all things fluffy, princess-y, and of course, sparkly.
I’ll gladly wait for prom dress shopping day. Unless she dumps me like she did for homecoming dress shopping. I didn’t even get to take her shoe shopping for that either. I’ll lower my expectations and hopefully be pleasantly surprised. It sure would be fun going prom dress shopping again.
Until then, I’ll pour myself a bottle of bubbly rosé, kick back, and re-watch my favorite John Hughes film in honor of prom seasons past and present, Pretty in Pink.
I spent a lot of time with my grandparents when I was young. One year, a couple of months after my fourth birthday, they went to a church conference in Kansas. My parents allowed me to tag along. Two of my uncles, the ones who doted on me most, assured my parents I was in good hands.
We arrived and I don’t remember much about events other than attending church services and eating meals with people in attendance.
One day, we stopped at a grocery store to pick up a loaf of bread and cold cuts for sandwiches in the motel room. We passed a bakery case full of birthday cakes. Growing up in a small town, our grocery store didn’t have a bakery. I stopped in front of the case and wistfully looked at birthday cakes displayed for other people’s happiness.
I noticed a chocolate cake. Double layers, decorated with a bear riding a unicycle while juggling red, blue and yellow balls. “Happy Birthday!” declared the talented circus bear. My mind created a birthday party with all my friends singing the birthday song. Candles lit on a cake presented to me, the birthday girl. Gifts wrapped full of surprises surrounding me.
Uncle Oscar stood nearby, and I pulled away from the case, getting ready to leave. He began speaking with the baker. He asked me which one I liked. I wasn’t sure why he asked, but I pointed to the chocolate unicycle riding bear cake.
“It’s her birthday, and that’s the one she wants…”
It’snot my birthday, it already passed… I tried to explain. How could he not remember?
“It’s her birthday,” he insisted, “we’ll take the chocolate cake.”
The baker boxed it up, my uncle paid, and we left the grocery store.
At the motel, after a lunch of sandwiches, Uncle Oscar unboxed the cake. My grandparents, Uncle Oscar and Uncle Danny sang me the birthday song, Nana and Papá belting out “Happy birthday to ju…” I blew out candles and we sliced into the cake.
It was my first bakery cake, chocolatey and delicious. I did have a birthday, but it was in July.
I can’t remember the occasion. Were we nearing winter break? Or did I merely want to show her my appreciation? This was before teacher appreciation day became the norm, at least at my school. However, I desperately wanted to give Mrs. Nafzger a gift.
Shopping around the house, I found a cheap gold velvet ring box and a hefty service station pen my dad brought home. I loved that pen and it was the fanciest complimentary pen I ever saw. It was burgundy with a gold pocket clip, the brand lettered in calligraphy. It read Alexander with a large square-trimmed letter A at the bottom of the clip. Blue ink. Smooth.
Learning cursive, I practiced at home, feeling special. By the end of the year, we’d all reach a milestone: cursive handwriting, one of my favorite subjects. She had to have this pen. I imagined how she’d use it to write her perfectly looped and connected letters to write Nice Work! atop one of my spelling papers.
I had a pack of orange flavored Hubba-Bubba bubblegum, (when you blew bubbles with that gum, it didn’t stick to your face) and I stuffed two pieces into the box. Not a ring, but presentation is important.
I wrote her a note in my best cursive handwriting. The pen was Scotch-taped to the box. It didn’t stick well to the velvet box. She accepted it with a smile. Later, I felt embarrassed because it was a stupid gift. Who gives someone two pieces of bubble gum and a free pen from a gas station?
The next day, stopped at my desk and placed an envelope in front of me, my name was written in cursive on the front. I flipped it over and carefully tugged it open. On real stationery, I read a heartfelt handwritten note thanking me for the gift, telling me how orange was her favorite flavor and how she enjoyed using the pen. It was the first thank you note I ever received, penned in her own beautiful cursive handwriting. I kept that note and read it often.
Spring brings opportunities for growth and metaphorical lessons blossom this time of the year. As a kid, we drank down milk (chocolate for me) that accompanied our lunches and teachers reminded us to save our empty cartons. We must have forgotten frequently or the teacher stashed away said cartons, but the dreaded day came when it was time for sowing seeds.
I don’t remember much about the lessons, but I remember washing out and drying the cartons, opening the opposite end of the drinking side, and adding soil. Next came the seeds and a sprinkling of water. Lopsided red and white milk cartons lined classroom window sills with the occasional brown and white ones. A few of us didn’t like regular milk.
Sure enough, within days, someone announces the first sprout emerging from the carton-pot. We all gathered around, taking a look at the tiny green specimen boldly pushing its boundaries wondering whose would be next. Sprout they did. First one, and it seemed within minutes, another, another, and another. The race was on with observing leaves and measuring height. The first one to sprout raced to the top, leading the class in all of its spring time glory, a mini-beanstalk, not nearly as big as Jack’s. Would there be a mini-giant running after him?
I read too many books of imaginary little people and giants and magic beans.
Looking in my milk carton, the same soil sat there. Day after day, I willed something to grow. I followed the directions. I added the soil and pushed down the seeds, lightly topping them off with soil. I watered it like we were instructed. I placed it on the window sill with the others. Excited with all of the new shoots, classmates hurriedly crowded around the window sill to see whose plant led the class in height, or number of leaves, or even a second shoot.
Lucky.
There mine sat, a little carton of soil with nothing growing. I don’t remember any teacher giving me advice, allowing me to plant another seed, or encouraging me to pair up with someone else. No lessons on why some seeds germinate and others don’t. I quickly observed my dirt, went back to my seat and drew a little box, covered with brown crayon. My green crayon was much taller, the brown one getting worn down each day. Why couldn’t I use both like everyone else?
The special day arrived when we took them home as gifts. Mother’s Day gifts. This is for my mother? A lopsided repurposed chocolate milk carton full of barren dirt? My mother deserves so much more. Kids proudly walked out of school lugging book bags and lunch boxes, their plants proudly waving goodby to the rest of us as they were escorted home.
We did this for a few years. Each year, whatever I planted either barely sprouted or didn’t bother to grow. Later, I learned to stop at the trash can, making my annual deposit and walking home empty handed while everyone else took plants home. Did they re-pot them when they arrived? How long did they last?
I never knew and I never asked, but I did try my best.
Teacher me would have started the container gardening lesson with The Empty Pot, by Demi. Of course, I’m older than the book, but no matter. I used it with a class today and reminded everyone that sometimes, not all seeds will sprout. If that’s the case, they can try again. I just want them to do their best.
A few years ago, we watched a video during a staff development meeting. It was about not knowing what people are thinking and making assumptions about why they respond or behave in a certain way. What would pop over people’s heads if we could see their thoughts?
These are some of today’s bubbles hovering over my head.
Mom had two jewelry boxes. One held jewelry she wore frequently. The other was a larger cedar box with a hook closure. I liked organizing what she had in the first box, but everything was usually off limits. On special occasions, she’d let me wear a gold chain or her favorite pair of hoop earrings.
The cedar jewelry box held the exotic stuff. In a white cardboard box in one corner, there lived three thin glass bangles, two bright orange and one purple, both with a white stripe in the center. I can see why she never wore them. Carefully, I tried them on, making sure they didn’t hit one another too hard. “A friend from India gave me those.” From India? With a limited worldview and vacations consisting of family road trips to south Texas, I wistfully imagined having a friend from India.
Replacing the bangles before I had a chance to break them, I went on to a necklace. She had several silver with turquoise and coral pieces. One necklace held a Buffalo nickel. My dad, an avid coin collector, bought it for her long before we were born. She wore it occasionally, but it usually remained well protected in the cedar box. There were several rings with large stones. “They’re not worth much,” she’d say. To me, they were treasures.
One of my favorite pieces was a sterling silver charm bracelet. Popular in the sixties, she saved money to buy one. The story it held was that of my parents when they started dating. My dad was stationed at Ft. Hood in Killeen, Tx, just north of Austin. Against my grandma’s wishes, as typical love-struck teen girls do, she hopped on a bus to visit him. My dad took her sightseeing and they stopped at the capitol. He bought her a silver mini-capitol charm. I was fascinated with it. The other charms were silver disks, one with a Capricorn etched onto it. “It’s my birthday sign,” she’d remind me. One had her birthdate engraved on it. Another was a little boy’s head silhouette, maybe for my little brother? I’d try that one on too, little shiny disks dangling, with the capitol in the center.
When I graduated from college, I was at home chatting with Mom. I took out her jewelry boxes again, organizing everything in the first jewelry box, scoping out new additions. Saving the cedar box for last, I went through the same pieces. Not wanting to break the glass bangles, I didn’t try to slip them over my hand. I mentioned that charm bracelets were making a come-back as I shook my wrist, her silver charm bracelet tinkling in response. “You can have it if you want it. I never wear it. Take the charms off if you don’t like them.”
“What? Mom, I can’t…”
“Just take it. I haven’t worn it. I’d rather you get some use out of it.”
“Well, okay, but I can pay you…”
“No, it’s yours. You’ve always liked it.”
I took the charm bracelet, jumping a little inside. I liked the capitol charm even more since I attended The University of Texas. The capitol was a familiar view from the main mall on campus as I went to class every day, just down the hill. At night, I’d see it from the fifth floor window of the Perry Castañeda library, white against the dark sky. I’m really here!
I removed the charms except for the capitol. The first one to accompany it was an interlocking UT logo. Then it was a longhorn. I collected charms along the way, purchasing some, but many were gifts.
I was rarely without my bracelet. By now, it had become a conversation piece. Each charm told stories about me, but it always started with my parents’ story. My fourth grade students often checked it for new charms. Their favorites were the mini crayon and globe charms, symbols of the beginning of my teaching career. Because it’s bulky, I’d often take it off while I entered grades on my computer. I’d put it back on before leaving for the day.
One morning, I couldn’t find it. Before panicking, my husband asked where I had been the day before. School, pretty much. Where else do I go? I remembered entering grades before I left. Surely it’s still next to my computer. I got to school and immediately checked my desk.
It wasn’t there.
My heart pounded. Kids began entering the classroom. I’d check with the custodians. If they saw it on the floor, they would have saved it for me. Fortunately I worked at a small campus. However, they didn’t find it. I racked my brain retracing my steps.
Sonic! I had gone to an indoor Sonic after school yesterday, but before a meeting at church across the street. I would’ve known if it fell off though, it’s heavy. If I dropped it in the parking lot, it would either get run over or picked up. I might not see it again. My heart raced as I called the restaurant when it opened.
“Can you describe the bracelet?”
“It’s silver, there’s a capitol in the middle, a crayon, globe, angel, interlocking UT charm…”
“We have it. You’re lucky. Someone found it in the seat yesterday and turned it in. We’ll hold it until you get here.”
I drove there during my planning period with someone as back up to pick up my students from specials in case I didn’t make it back in time.
Sure enough, it was my bracelet. I put it on right away. When I returned to my classroom, I took it off to inspect it. The safety chain was broken. I never thought I’d see it again, but I’m ever grateful to the person who picked it up and knew it was more than a bunch of cute silver charms.
Where you look back look forward turn around or press on? 50/50 right in the middle
red cherry Popsicle split in half on a hot summer day
an age proudly proclaimed by a child inching closer to the next birthday I'm ten and a half!
two quarters, one for me, one for you, when one could get you a full sized candy bar
a marching band show sandwiched between two time clock quarters under Friday night lights of a high school football game, drum major on the fifty yard line telling the band what to do
a small town in Texas where Mom pulls over to let you drive the rest of the way home after running errands because you don't yet have a license
pit stops for stretching cramped legs letting the kids run around four more hours until we get to Grandma's roads don't seem to end in Texas
a mid-lifer assuming one lives to 100 contemplating what-iffing if-only-ing I should-ve... Stop! you're did what you knew best to do
Nerds Beget Nerds 