Tornado Drill Limerick

There once was a school with no fear.

Helter-skelter their plan so I hear.

“Let’s not make a fuss.

Put your kids on the bus.”

“They’ll be fine in the hallway.” Oh Dear!

So, there was a huge mega storm predicted for our state. EVERY SINGLE OTHER COUNTY in the state preemptively called for an early dismal the night before. One even said if you keep your kids home, it will not be counted against them. NOT US. At 10:41 a message went out that said we are not going to dismiss early. Four minutes later, my phone began screaming to seek shelter. 

We sat on the floor in the hallway on our knees with our heads against the wall for forty minutes. Later we actually saw photos of a funnel cloud that was 8 miles from here. Currently, a teacher on planning is serving as bookie taking bets on when round two of the storms arrives. Others are betting on how long we’ll be stuck in the building until the storm passes. I saved some of my lunch in case of the latter.This is the true March Madness.  

Hopefully, though, it will miss us and stay away until after the bell, and we are all home safe and sound – even the teachers with one-hour long drives towards the impending band of angry clouds. 

Btw, the aforementioned poem was written in my head while on my knees during that tornado drill – wait, what do you call it when it's not a drill but not actually a tornado? 

A.I. AY AY!

 I kicked and I screamed as I taught,

But now I am feeling distraught.

They still used AI

I said as I cried, 

And now I’m just grading a bot.

Oh Deer

Ten, tall, regal, deer

in the early morning rise

Pulverize my yard 

Twenty

Twenty years ago a scream pierced the room. Blocked by a solid white shroud across my knees, paralyzed from the waist down, and surrounded by various bulky equipment, I could not see it but could hear that it was moving clockwise around the space. The banshee-like yell was incessant, and I feared for my future with this new thing. I could tell the bearer of the bundle was stopping at various stations and talking with other facilitators as hushed muffled conversations could be detected just beneath the reverberating assault on our ears.  Occasionally a word reached me: "Seven pounds eleven ounces." Occasionally the sound roared even louder as if in indignant anguish at whatever probing attacks it was under. Eventually the screaming neared me. I saw a nurse lean over me smiling into my face as she brought the still wailing tightly wrapped bundle "of joy?" up beside my head to enable me to see. 

My eyes fell onto the pale colorless emitter of all sounds inhuman with his eyes squeezed tight and mouth opened wide, wrapped like a burrito in a white blue and pink blanket... and my heart melted.

I smiled, and softly said, "Hi!" 

Immediately a hush fell across the room. Silence filled the void that once screamed bloody murder. It had stopped. Two goo filled eyes opened and stared at this creature (me) whose voice he seemed to recognize. He no longer cried. He knew I was there for him.

And twenty years later, he still knows. Happy 20th birthday to my heart.

"All Four Seasons in One Day"

Sting once wrote a song about “all four seasons in one day.” He was referring to a young lady who he deemed to be suffering from mood swings. It was a metaphor, or so I thought. I never dreamed his words could ever truly come to pass in a 24 hour period and actually relate to weather. 

After having risen 20 degrees or more to reach 85 degrees yesterday for the first time in five months, I awoke to Alexa’s proclamation that it was 6:30 A.M and 60 degrees. I went into my closet and pulled out a long thin flowy skirt, thin white blouse and a short waisted blazer and wondered how high it would get today. 

At 8:15 I headed out without a coat and found that the temperature had dropped to 41 degrees and had joined forces with a pounding pouring rain and heavy whipping wind. It was raining and blowing so hard that I was mentally writing a poem for today about the power of rain during my drive.

I parked in the “late again” section about two miles (felt like it) from the building and grabbed my umbrella, purse and lunch bag while hefting my heavy computer bag onto my back. I then began my long trek across the parking lot running like an American Gladiator between cars and across puddles while battling a sideways rain whose sole mission was to turn my curls into an Angela Davis afro. As I entered the building, I noted streams of distraught coatless children soaked in tee shirts and shorts who obviously didn’t check the forecast either. 

At 12:10, one of my “Weather Watchers,” (a child who deems it his job to only look out of the window and alert the class by shouting out in the middle of a lesson of the slightest bit of precipitation) shouted out, “It’s snowing!” The other children then looked up and ran to the window to see as if we did not have a snow week off just a month ago… and a day off for snow last week.  I assumed at first that he saw light flurries, but to my surprise, it was more like giant squalls. 

By 2:30 the grass and our cars were completely coated in about a half an inch of snow. By the time the bell rang at 3:40, the sun was out, and it had all but melted. By 5:00 P.M., it was sunny and 53 degrees. Currently it is 10:00 P.M. and is forecasted to drop to 29 degrees tonight.

In a moment, I am about to get my clothes ready for work tomorrow. I will lay out my blue cashmere sweater, white tank top, wool houndstooth blazer, blue jean booty shorts, sheer floral pink and green flowered skirt, suede thigh high boots, yellow bikini, flip flops, and my mink coat… just in case.

Audience Awe

Do you know who your audience is?

As a middle aged... or rather seasoned... or should I say I'm in my prime? then again, there's half past autumn?... Um, honestly, I'm not quite sure where the sixties fall when you still feel like you are 45... -ish, albeit an impatient, achy, sometimes creaky cranky 45. Anyway, as an older woman, I consider my posts to be for parents, moms, dads, grandparents, teachers, and anyone else who has experienced enough in life to now laugh at it.

Well, just the other day, I was looking at one of my posts from earlier this week called, "The Elusive Occasional Migratory Pattern of the College Student Man-child," when I realized there was a new comment that I had not seen.

He said he was a college student staying in a dorm like my son and that his mother is always calling him almost everyday. He went on to add that after reading my post, he “got it.” He said he had never before thought about how she was feeling, and now he sees things differently.

This really touched my heart because it was supposed to be a funny piece where I'm making fun of myself and my husband as worrywarts. However, this college student was able to read between the lines and take with him a deeper understanding of what his mom goes through with him so far away at college.

So regardless of who we believe our audience is, be aware, you never know who is watching.

Kitchen Crud Pharmaceuticals

Nooooo! I yelled, eyes closed, head tilted skywards to the god of Murphy Law as I stood there already late with my purse on one shoulder, lunch bag on the other and computer bag dangling from the forearm. Inches away, steaming the aroma of burnt Cafe Domingo Keurig Coffee into the air is my travel mug. Thankfully, it was not in my hand when it happened. 

You see, my six feet four husband (typically the focus of blame as I am his) likes to store pills on the top shelf. No matter how many times I tried to lower mine, in a few months he would deem the cupboards cluttered and rearrange them -- again, conveniently finding so much more space on the highest of high shelves. So I gave up and learned to deal. Thus, this morning as I stood on my tippy toes (ok, yes, I admit, I may have had too many bags in my hand) when I pulled down my bottle which may or may not have been screwed on lopsided,  when all hell broke loose. Pills flew everywhere. I surveyed the situation wherein a new prescription bottle of 90 tiny little white methimazole pills lay strewn across the counter, the stove, and yes, the floor. 

I do not know what is worse, being already late when it happened, the spill itself, or the fact that I have no recourse but to pick up these new now contaminated lifeline pills and still ingest them knowing that they are now fused with who knows what. Yes, my counter looks clean, and yes, I do wipe it down every night, but as I test it and rub my hands across the mottled granite design, I still feel the invisible crumbs of salt, spices, and bygone meals that are ever present no matter how hard I try. The pills are too little to pick up individually with my always tad bit swollen hands, so I must sweep them all together along with the invisible crumbs into a collection container. I must also pull out the oh-so-cute but dusty bric-a-brac and oily bottle of olive oil from against the wall to get to the ones that secreted themselves away behind them in the oily, cruddy mess . 

Next, I notice the Olympians, those that made the giant leap onto the stove navigating it like an obstacle course and now lay proudly surrounding the closest eyes clearly awaiting rewards for their herculean efforts. The pathetic less athletic ones that made it half-way, find themselves stuck -- wedged between the greasy grate and the stainless steel. Though wiped down nightly, I suddenly see the spots I missed as I pluck the pills from the tiny greasy glue spots. Hmm? Was that catfish grease and collard green juice from dinner two days ago?  

Lastly, I look to the floor and cringe. It's too many to ignore. My doctor surely will not give me a prescription that early to replace them. I must have heart, dig deep and suck it up. I begin gathering them one by one and mentally wiping each one on my dress, and kissing it before holding it to the sky while repeating the old childhood cleansing and sanitizing mantra for dropped candy, "God kiss it, devil miss it!" I silently begin to wonder when was the last time I actually mopped. I immediately make a mental note to add it to my to-do list, while privately thanking God that we do not have a dog to further muddy the waters. 

Once the last of my thyroid medicine is secure, cap tight, and placed back on the highest of high shelves, I take my daily dose, grab my too many bags and now cold coffee and head out to work late. Very late. Meanwhile I mentally hope that my failing menopause memory kicks into overdrive and forgets this ever happened to prevent me from gagging for the next thirty days when I must take my daily dose of kitchen crud pharmaceuticals.