December 2011 & Aunt Lina’s Lessons

So school after report cards was dull, for the most part.  Teachers were either pushing to get work done “before holiday break,” or not starting anything that couldn’t be finished “before the holiday”.  It was like going from a sugar rush to a crash.  I hated it.

But there was something really neat about December, too.  It truly was magical for me.  In chorus one morning, we were singing a “winter” song that had been written by a pioneer in the late 1700’s.  It was a haunting song about a man hunting for skins that he would sell back East, and how he missed his family, and how lonely his life was.  It also was about the beauty of the land, the rivers and woods that were already falling to farmers moving westward.  As we sang about the beavers and doe, I closed my eyes and got so caught up in the song, then all of sudden, for brief moment, I felt a breeze on my face.  I opened my eyes and for just one split second, standing right behind Miss Beach, our teacher, I saw a deer-headed man.  It had to be a man, because there were antlers….he nodded at me and waved, then he was gone.  And I fell off the risers that Miss Beach has the chorus stand on when we sing.  I’m only on the first riser, at the very end, so I didn’t get hurt.  But I was embarrassed! 

I was in a daze for the rest of that day. Something about this apparition made me feel like jelly inside.  Sure he appeared like some well-built guy, maybe a little older than Jake, my companion on that Thanksgiving walk I posted about.  But no one had ever made my pulse race like this!

When I told Aunt Lina, after school, she was surprised that I’d had such a complete vision.  When she was my age, she recalled catching creatures out of the corner of her eye that would disappear when she looked at them straight on.  She asked lots of questions about my feelings for the antlered man, and then told me that I’d probably met a relative of the Stagman himself.  The Stagman was a spirit of spring and desire; the pulse racing was a natural reaction to being around one of the spirit’s clansmen.  If the Stagman himself had appeared, a lusty chaos would have ensued.

Aunt Lina began to tell me stories.  Some were about the spirits; some were about the Bear clan.  And some were about my particular clan-- Cougar clan. I’d heard some of the stories about the spirits before, but now they weren’t just tales.  They were history.  My history.

There were clans for the various animals.  Aunt Lina is a daughter of Mother Bear herself.  She said I’m the great-granddaughter of Grandfather Cougar.  As one of the last few children-of-the-spirits still living here, it was her duty to raise me after I was born. It’s her job to train me, to teach me whatever a child of the spiritblood needs to know.

Aunt Lina also began to tell me more about the Spiritworld and how things happen there.  It’s been rather interesting.  Since the otherworld might be fully open to me at some point as I get older, she felt I should learn about its dangers.  She told me how some spiritchildren, especially those who had tired of living here, would just disappear directly into that world, while others, especially the trickster-types strayed between both worlds. According to her, I am both a shifter and a spiritchild.  It is a tough but rich life to live.  Apparently Grandfather Cougar, also known as the Ghostcat, was never one to stick around after fathering a child, and thus cougar shifters are rogues.  It explains my situation somewhat. 

She told me that it’s common for shifters to slip in between the worlds; it’s one of the ways we are protected by our ancestral spirits.  It’s also these disappearances that have given rise to the exaggerated stories about werewolves, ghosts and vampires. That makes sense.  The first time I saw Aunt Lina go there, I thought it was supernatural.

When she was young, Aunt Lina could only travel in between worlds when she was near a sacred place (one of the areas where the divisions between here and there were thin), or during certain times (like the solstice, and other sacred days).  But as the balance of nature has shifted, so has things in the Spiritworld.  And this wasn’t just happening here in the Western Hemisphere, either.  In Europe, the spirits were less visible as Christianity became the dominant force.

  All cultures have tales of sacred spaces.  Standing stones and temples were built over some of the gates, in hope of neutralizing or utilizing pagan powers.  Sometimes temples, like the Parthenon were destroyed by conquering forces to show their might and power, yet somehow the spirits would intervene to save things.  Why did the early Greek Christians convert the virgin goddess Athena’s temple into a church dedicated to the Theotokos –aka the Virgin Mary, instead of just destroying it?  Why was Lord Elgin so adamant about salvaging as much as he could from the former Temple of Athena after the Turks blew it apart?   He was said to have been obsessed, using his own fortune to salvage the sculptures that are one of the highlights of a visit to the British Museum in London.

Why is Greece so adamant about getting those artifacts back, hundreds of years later?  Because the Parthenon hill was a place of great power, as was the temple.

In neighboring Turkey there is another place where the curtain between the worlds is thin – the Hagia Sophia.  This former-mosque-turned–museum began its existence as the “See” or seat of the Patriarch of Constantinople-- the Cathedral of the Holy Wisdom of God. After Constantinople was overrun by the Ottoman Turks, the Cathedral was desecrated, and became a mosque.  Although designed by Greeks as the ultimate cathedral, it’s become the typical blueprint for most mosques.  Not only was the place reused by the conquerors but so was the building model.

I’m learning more history from my aunt than I do at school.  These conversations started in early December and lasted past Christmas.  Trying to put everything into one post would be boring, so I’ll continue next time.

Until my next post….

Randi

More School Stories

I suffered through a week of school after Thanksgiving, and then it was time for report cards.  This was a totally new experience for me, but the group was fussing over the idea of getting grades.  I didn’t care one way or another, until they stared having doubts about themselves.  I mean, my friends are all pretty intelligent, and if they were worried, should I be?

I’d taken a number of tests since coming to DSW, as the kids called it.  The lowest grade I had received was a 91 in “Language Arts”, and that meant A’s, right?  Imagine my surprise when I opened my report card to find a C- and a D, the rest B’s and one A. The only A was in gym. How could a student with a 91 or better get grades that low?  C is “average” (I hate to seem egotistical, but that just does not compute!) and D is what they give you when you really should be failing.

How can this be?

I knew that Aunt Lina wouldn’t be thrilled, but I didn’t expect her reaction.  First she gave me the third degree about my tests.  I told her I had them in my locker at school – a torture device that I am not going to get into in this post.  She was not thrilled – she brought up the “Maddie Pennington” incident, and asked me if I wasn’t making those grades up.  My voice went up an octave as I defended myself.  Thankfully, I had one of my Social Studies tests in my backpack; it was a 97.  But the teacher, Mrs. Raschall, gave me a D on my report card.  Aunt Lina just shook her head, then logged onto the school website and sent e-mails to each of my teachers, asking for clarification of how the grades were calculated.  She also blind-copied my guidance counselor, the principal, vice principal and the superintendent on each of those e-mails.  She suspects that these teachers were taking my test grades, adding them up & dividing by the total number of points on all tests given since September.  In essence, that would be like counting all of the work I didn’t do because I hadn’t moved to NJ yet, and calculating them as zeroes.  That would effectively bring my grades down considerably.

Now I could understand one teacher making a mistake like that, but all of them? 

DSW Middle School policy is that e-mails should be answered within 24 hours.  The first response came in a few minutes, from the principal, Mr. Yevetski. He said that the school has a computer program to figure grades based on the full marking period, and that the teachers had simply turned in the grades for computation without factoring in my later starting date.  He assured Aunt Lina that all steps would be taken to correct the problem, and a report card would be re-issued as soon as soon as possible.  He would be contacting the teachers later this evening.

The second e-mail that Aunt Lina received was from Mrs. Raschall.  It was less than cordial.  She claimed that there was no way that the grade she gave me was incorrect, and that she had calculated the grade herself.  She pretty much said I was over-reacting.  She had sent the e-mail with no knowledge that Mr. Yevetski had told us that all grades were figured by computer (and he had even checked to see if mine had been calculated differently, based on my late October start date.  They hadn’t).

I couldn’t help getting a little sarcastic, remarking that this was the offal I had to put up with every day, now that I was in school and not learning at home.

“I understand that you’re dealing with crap, Randi, but maybe I want you to learn how to grow roses.  Supposedly that’s the best growth medium for flowers.”

I love Aunt Lina.  She’d been working on a particularly tricky clay sculpture that day, so she was in no mood for “this stupid nonsense” as she put it.  She wrapped her work up in a damp cloth, covered it in plastic and we went out for dinner.  She needed a change of scenery, so we walked down to the boulevard, to get pizza.  That’s one of Aunt Lina’s favorites.  As we ate, we talked about how I was dealing with school, the move, and my friends.  Aunt Lina came to the conclusion that we should just keep track of my test grades, and ask teachers how they counted homework.  That way I could figure my grades myself.

The day after report cards, all of the teachers made a point of speaking with me before or after class.  A few were apologetic.  One even thanked me for bringing it to his attention.  They all realized that I’d earned an A in their class.  But not Mrs. Raschall.  She was upset that she had to go through “all that trouble” to re-figure my grade.  She said I “deserved” a B.  When I asked her why a B and not an A, she said I didn’t participate enough in class.

And whenever I raise my hand, she makes a point of ignoring me, unless I’m the only one with my hand up.  I guess I’m not going to be her favorite, any time soon. 

Until my next post….

Randi

My First NJ Shift

The frustrating thing about that darn snowstorm in October was the damage.  Trees still have leaves in October.  When the snow fell, it clung to the leaves and the weight made branches fall, trees split in half, or even worse, get uprooted right out of the ground.   Trees fell on wires, I hear that’s why we lost power—they actually cut it off until the wires could be fixed, otherwise there’d be live wires in the streets!  All of that meant that tree litter was pushed to the curb, until the town, county or state could deal with the debris.

The mess was dragged to municipal parking lots, dead ends, and places like the entrance to Horseneck Nature Sanctuary.  It took weeks for them to haul it away.  It was still there for Thanksgiving, but someone had pulled some of the debris aside, so that they could get to the path into the woods.  On the Friday night after Thanksgiving, I went out for a walk in the evening.  Aunt Lina was on the computer; we had just come back from spending the holiday in Connecticut, with Sue and Andy, artist friends of Aunt Lina’s. 

Sue and Andy had teamed up with another couple from their church, and made a Thanksgiving dinner for people in their parish who weren’t spending the day with extended family.  It was weird, being among strangers.  Usually we’d spend Thanksgiving cooking at the farmhouse, inviting cousins and friends to be with us. 

I was too old to hang with the kids watching the parade, and too young to hang with the teenagers, who had swiped a bottle of wine from their parents and snuck out to the church’s parking lot to drink it.  So as dinner cooked, I walked around the empty lot next to the church, watching a hawk fly overhead.  I could scent the fear in the small mammals in the area; the squirrels stopped frolicking, and mice and rabbits disappeared underground.  The cougar part of me wanted to come out and play; it was so overwhelming that at one point I sat down on a boulder and cried.  I felt so stupid when one of the boys who had been drinking came over to make sure I was OK.  He offered to get me some wine, but I really didn’t need to add to my problems. I expected him to leave after that, but he didn’t.  We talked for a little bit & I told him about my move from the woods to suburbia.  He said that it sounded like I needed a walk in the woods. 

His name was Jake and he was a junior in High school. Jake and I took a walk along the side of the stream at the very back of the empty lot.  He showed me where an owl was sleeping (I’d scented her already, but let Jake think he’d “discovered” he), and we turned over a few rotting logs and fallen branches.  We saw worms, centipedes, wood lice and even a couple of salamanders – a blue spotted one and a black-and-white one I’d never seen before – Jake said it was a marbled salamander.  He was impressed that I was careful to replace the log first, and then let the salamanders wriggle back under it, rather than put the amphibian down first, then replace the log.

We went back to the parking lot, where this one girl, Jessie gave me the “hairy eyeball” because I’d been walking with Jake.  He noticed it too, and winked at me.  He’d told me as we’d walked that he and Jessie had dated a few times, but she wasn’t into animals, the woods and dirt the way he was.  Jake wanted to become a conservation biologist.

Andy had come out of the parish dining hall to tell us that dinner was ready.  Jessie came over to Jake and me, and grabbed Jake’s arm.

“You’re sitting next to me, Jake.  We have to talk about the next teen retreat.”  She gave me a look that clearly indicated that I was not invited.  I was going to move away when Jake grabbed my hand and turned it so that my hand was on top of his.  His thumb rubbed my palm, and he pulled my hand up to his lips.  He didn’t really kiss it; it just looked as if he did.  He winked at me again, and I knew he was doing this just to tick off Jessie.

“You’d better remember to wash your hands before dinner.  I really admire a gal that’s not afraid to get dirt under her fingernails.  Thanks for finding that marbled salamander with me, he said.  Jessie tugged at his other arm, and he let go of my hand.

I couldn’t help but notice that he ended up sitting by his parents for dinner.

Before he left, Jake came over to say goodbye.  He also told me that I should get into the habit of walking in a park or some woods, because it would make me feel better.

I felt as if I was keeping a promise, taking a walk in the sanctuary.  It was good once I got there. Night had fallen, and birds were settling down.  I could scent a raccoon family nearby.  Dogs had been walked here this afternoon, and a coyote had wandered here too.  There were deer browsing, and turkeys settling down for the night. No people were out and about – I suppose everyone had spent the day shopping and were too tired to do much outdoors.

So how does a shape-shifter manage a change in the suburbs?  Not to easily, let me tell you.  I don’t know this place well enough yet.  Where can I safely stash clothes?  The ground’s wet, but I was smart enough to bring a plastic bag…  There was this one laurel bush, not too far from the path that was kind of hollowed out near the ground.  Since I was in the middle of nowhere, I just stepped behind a holly bush, took my jacket & everything else off, & stuffed it into that plastic bag.  I stowed that under the laurel & shifted…

Suddenly, the world smelled so much more interesting!  I took off for a run.  It was exhilarating, feeling, seeing, smelling and tasting in this form.  As I prowled the area, I realized that the animals around here had never encountered the likes of me.  Yet I smelled their fear, and sensed them hunkering down or moving away as I came near.  I wonder how they know I could be dangerous, if they’ve never scented me before.  Is it genetic conditioning, or shared memory, like crows have?  Do you doubt that shared memory exists in crows?  Look it up.  If you hurt a crow in front of other crows, they will avoid the scene of the crime for generations, but will remember the face.  Biologists did an experiment harassing crows while wearing masks, and the crows would attack ANYONE wearing that type of mask on campus after that.  One masked student reported being mobbed by a murder of crows, even though he hadn’t been part of the original experiment.

I climbed a tree, startling an owl.  It was so cool to be able to run free.  The sanctuary was still close to suburbia, and I could smell the car exhaust, smoke from fireplaces, and the charcoal broil and fries from the local diner’s exhaust fans, but I was free to run.  I suppose it’s like swimming in a pool after having the whole ocean to play in, but for now, I suppose it will have to do.     

Naturally, I’ll notice the differences for quite some time.  The lack of pheasant and grouse is weird to me.  I mean, at home in PA (why do I still insist on thinking of PA as home?) the woods have all three species.  Here there’s only turkey.  Lots of them – it’s a big flock I scent. Funny, I think they used to be extinct here & were reintroduced….kind of like me.

After a couple of hours, I go back to the laurel bush, and nip at the plastic bag, dragging it with my teeth over behind the holly bush.  I change back, and get re-dressed. 

Back at the house, Aunt Lina is still at the computer.  She looks up, sniffs, and realizes where I’ve been. I braced myself for a bearish explosion of temper (there’s been a couple of times lately….did I mention that Facebook page?) But it doesn’t happen.  With a look and a nod, I get that she knows what I’ve done, and she’s cool with me shifting out there tonight.

I also realize something else; while out exploring tonight, there was another scent that was missing. 

Bear. 

Aunt Lina hadn’t shifted yet, either! 

As I got ready for bed, I wondered how she’s feeling – I mean it’s tough when you don’t shift for a while.  Was that the reason for her temper?  Maybe that’s another thing I’ll have to ask her about.  Even though I was born to this, she’s been living it for far, far longer than anyone else I know (not that I know many shifters….) and I suddenly understood just how lucky I was to have Aunt Lina as a guardian.  And a mentor.  I heard her slip out around midnight, and woke up at about 3 am when she peeked into my room.  The scent of bear was lingering on her.  It made me feel comforted.  I definitely had much to thank God for on Thanksgiving weekend. 

Until my next post…

Randi

Life In White Cedars

Well, the rest of fall was more normal, as far as the weather was concerned, but it certainly was nothing like what I was used to.  At school, I didn’t fit in too well.

 Going to Whitsone Middle School has made me appreciate Jane Goodall, the primate anthropologist who observed apes.  I feel like I’m surrounded by creatures I don’t understand.  Their hierarchies are strange and incomprehensible most of the time.  And I definitely do not fit into their society.

I dressed differently (and refused to change).  I talked differently (too much like a nerd – or a grown-up).  And I had begun to sit at lunch with a group of kids who were considered social poison.  I find them much nicer than the “popular girls”. They’re definitely more interesting.  I can’t imagine sitting around all day vapidly discussing clothes & make up, or viciously gossiping about those the group deemed less worthy.  The “outcasts” I hang with have real interests, and are fun to be with. 

Let me introduce my friends Ruby, Amelia, Dor and Carl.

My friends sit in the back of the lunchroom, and Dor had invited me to sit with them on my second day at Whitsone.  Ruby, Carl and Amelia all went to the Orchard Road Grade School together.  Dor went to Morningside, across town.  As I’ve posted before, the town is about two square miles.  But White Cedars has four K-4^th grade elementary schools in town.  I don’t know why – it’s probably something in the water.  Anyhow, Dor has short hair and Carl has long hair.  They both get teased about it – last year they called  Dor “butch” and Carl “fag” because of it.  Yeah, I know, real mature.

Dor’s really got it tough.  Her full name is Dorcas Koludis.  What kind of parents, in this day and age can’t figure the type of teasing a girl named Dorcas will get. She’s called “dork” and “dork –ass” because she’s smart.  Dor says it’s a Greek thing—kids get named for paternal grandparents first, then maternal grandparents.  Her Dad’s mother was named Dorcas.  It’s also a Biblical name – Dorcas was a do-gooder that Peter raised from the dead in the Bible (Acts 9:36-43). Look it up if you don’t believe me. 

Ruby’s mom is a cop, and her dad’s got a little farm and vegetable stand near the Horseneck Nature Sanctuary.  He grows tomatoes & apples, but sells garden plants & farm produce from other farmers around the state, from spring to fall.  That’s too blue collar for the popular girls, whose parents commute to NY or own businesses in town.  Ruby refuses to own Ugg boots or a North Face coat.  She has a Coach purse, but doesn’t use it.

Amelia’s an artist.  She makes collages, mobiles and cool jewelry out of odd stuff.  One half of the wall in her bedroom is hand-painted with various paw prints morphing from one animal to another.  She calls it “de-evolution” because it starts with a human footprint.  It ends with a bird’s claw print, near the window sill, as if it flew away.  Amelia says that’s just for now. She may do the other half of the wall in the same way…or not.  She may go with different leaves….

Carl’s grandfather was a folk musician, and he taught Carl how to play the banjo when Carl was a toddler.  Carl also plays Pan-pipes and odd percussion instruments.  The Whitsone Middle School Band incorporated a couple of pieces to showcase his talent, and some of the popular boys and girls and their parents thought that it was unfair.  This year Carl’s been playing cowbell and that “cheese-grater” thing

The four of them came together as a group at the end of 5^th grade, their first year of Middle School.  I guess that suffering scorn and rejection together is better than suffering it alone.  I’m just glad that they’ve accepted me, with my handmade caribou-hide jacket (a present from my Godmother who is an Inuit from Alaska), home-knit sweaters and work boots.  I’m definitely not a fashion plate. 

I’ve done homework at Emilia’s and Dor’s houses went over Ruby’s for New Year’s Eve, where Aunt Lina & I met Carl’s parents.  His mom was impressed to meet Aunt Lina; she is an art teacher and has been to several galleries that have shown Aunt Lina’s work.  The group has been over at my place, too, so I guess I’m beginning to fit in.  Ruby’s mom had heard of this after-school program in Frost Spring, the town west of us.  She wanted Ruby to go, and Ruby said she’d go only if the group did.  So two days a week we go over to the Frost Spring Community Center for “socializing, games and good works.”  That’s how Wren, the woman running it, explains the purpose of the group.  I think she’s doing it to make sure her triplets make friends.  Wren seems nice, but Alice, Janet and Sarah, her daughters who are a year younger than us, act like an unbreakable unit – they’d rather socialize amongst themselves rather than mix it up.  If we play a game that needs teams, they’re all on one team, or they won’t play.

For the “good works” part, we’ve made sandwiches for a soup kitchen, collected canned food, and even made a huge casserole for Thanksgiving at the homeless shelter.  We do this at Wren’s house.  Whenever we do stuff at Wren’s, her daughters run off to play or watch TV, so those of us from White Cedars and this other guy Ron do all the work.  We’ve gotten to know each other better at this group.  Wren is enthusiastic about the group and its possibilities as a new program for tweens in Middle School.  She wants to do something big, like go on an outing together during the spring break.  Wren asked us what we’d like better – a museum or the Bronx Zoo.  She said we’d have to raise the money together as a group.  She said that maybe we could go caroling together.  If we raised enough money, perhaps we could go to a local amusement park!

It all sounded great.  I began to think that perhaps the move to NJ wasn’t the worst thing in the world.  I was busy all the time, I was fitting in with the misfits, and I even managed to sneak out a couple of times to Horseneck Nature Sanctuary at night.

Hmm….perhaps I should save that adventure for another post.  So far, I’ve covered most of what went on in November, except for Thanksgiving and report cards.  Plus it’s getting late, so I’ll just save this & post it tomorrow.

Until my next post…

Randi

What’s Up With These Random Posts?

If there’s anyone out there actually reading this, you’re probably wondering why my posts are so random, and why I didn’t post things as they happened.  “Why can’t Randi just post things on time and write about today, and not stuff from October & November?  Well, I’m trying to keep an updated narrative, but life seems to intrude.  So I have a confession to make.     I got caught by Aunt Lina, fooling around on the internet, & I got punished.  She took away my computer access.  I don’t blame her, I guess, because I didn’t follow the rules.  I wasn’t supposed to be on a social network site.  Aunt Lina said I could get in trouble, and I was too young anyway.  But Kara & Lizzie gave me the idea, when we were at the Cranberry festival, to make up a fake Facebook account, with a fake name & a fake picture, then I could message them or chat.  Lizzie said I could keep in touch with all of the cousins that way.  And I could see the photos that Kara was going to post of Spanking Charlene and Care Bears on Fire.  So, since I’d already mastered having a blog, I figured I could do Facebook, too.

I set up an account as an 18-year-old, “Maddie Penington”.  Why 18?  Because there’s all kinds of samples and stuff that you can get through Facebook pages if you’re old enough.  Feminine products, fragrances, soaps, lotions, even scented candles were offered.

I filled in the offers with my real name; I just accessed them thru “Maddie’s” Facebook page.  Aunt Lina noticed that I was getting stuff in the mail, but she just figured it was part of making a move to get all of these samples (if she wondered at all).  I also played free games like Farmville & stuff on Facebook.  Then one day when I was playing a game on the laptop, I went to the bathroom and left the page up, and Aunt Lina saw it in passing.  And she asked me about it.  I couldn’t lie about it.  I didn’t think it was a big deal.  Boy was I wrong!

I got my computer taken away.  Indefinitely.  I just got it back for a little, in December, but when Lizzie came over for New Year’s Day and we were on the computer, she went on Facebook, and somehow, my account (which Aunt Lina & I had DELETED) came up again.  Aunt Lina accused me of opening it up again, and when I told her I hadn’t she accused me of LYING to her.  As if!  Lizzie flew to my defense, because she had probably inadvertently re-activated the account by pressing “yes” to this question about playing Farmville from the laptop…Aunt Lina got mad at both of us, because the internet “Isn’t exactly like playing around in the woods,” as she put it. 

Lizzie reminded her that the woods could be dangerous, too.  Aunt Lina just laughed, and said “Not for Randi.  She and I are at home in the woods, but the internet is like playing in traffic.”  Lizzie just laughed, and that was like adding gasoline to Aunt Lina’s fire.  She took the laptop into her bedroom, saying I couldn’t use it for another month…So I just got it back today and that’s why I’m posting stuff from a couple of months ago.  I’m sorry I’m such a lousy blogger.  And that I got Lizzie into trouble with Aunt Lina.

It’s a terrible thing to be accused of doing something you didn’t, and have someone you love swear that you did it even when you didn’t.  I guess it’s a part of growing up.  But I think it really stinks.  I hate to think that she’ll believe that I lied to her for the rest of her life, when I didn’t.  Imagine if it wasn’t just Facebook and Farmville, but something really important!  I suppose we should be thankful that it’s only a stupid mistake, and not something critical. 

 I also think that suburbia’s getting to my Aunt Lina.  She gets angry really quickly, lately.  Normally, in the winter, she’s dreamy and low-key, like a bear in hibernation.  But now she’s like a bear that’s been disturbed.  I know she wouldn’t like me blogging like this, so I have to be extra-cautious.  Maybe I should just give it up, but I find this writing soothing, and I have so much to say.  So I guess I’m still gonna do this, keeping under her radar.  After all, this began as a homeschool assignment; so she can’t say I’m doing this behind her back!

Until my next post…

Randi 

Our Actual Move – In A Snowstorm!

Aunt Lina and I moved some of our stuff to NJ by car on October 20^th, but we were waiting for her nephew Swift, and his truck and crew to bring in the heavier stuff.  It was kinda cool, sleeping on an airbed and all, but Aunt Lina insisted that I go to school that Monday instead of helping her paint and stuff. 

So I went into D.S. Whitsone Middle School and immediately got lost.  You know that old joke “Ya can’t get there from here”?  That’s DSW Middle School in a nutshell.  It’s a maze of add-ons to an ancient former High School.  The office gave me my classroom schedule and a schematic that was supposed to represent the school.  I couldn’t make heads or tails of it.  I tried asking directions from other kids, but they were rude.  And the teachers were worse.  One guy muttered something about the 5^th graders getting stupider every year.  I suppose that because I’m short for my age, he assumed I’m a 5^th grader.  Apparently, that’s lower than a pregnant slug.

By the time I figured out where the next class was, I was late.  But the teacher, Miss Flemington, took the time to look at my schedule and ask the class if anyone had Science next.  A thin girl with dark hair and a round, smiling face raised her hand.  Her name sounded like “door” – I later learned it was Dor, short for Dorcas.  She helped me find the gym, which I never would have located without her.

Apparently, you need to change into shorts in order to take gym, so I was exempt and got to sit on the bleachers.  Thank God I’d brought a book along – it was the best part of my first day.  Lunch was at 11, and by the time I got to the cafeteria the only seats available were in the back.  One table had a few guys playing some sort of card game –Pokémon? – and there were  a  few empty seats at the other end of the table, so I sat down and ate my peanut butter-and-jelly sandwich, then I tried doing some of the assigned Math homework.  It was so easy that I was done before the bell rang.  So I looked around at the other kids.

The entire sixth grade takes lunch together, so I got an overview of my classmates.  There was a table near the front entrance, near the cafeteria cashiers, that was crowded with girls that were all dressed similarly.  They all had long hair, most were wearing pink tops and starchy-new skinny jeans or “yoga pants” with the elastic waistband rolled down to show either the tops of their underwear or the crack of their butt.  They had ugg boots, and bright colored leather purses.  I guess they were designer purses, because they either had shiny metal tags or logos.  Some of the girls wore make-up, (and had more in common with my ancestors than I did, what with the war-paint and all) while others had neon nail polish.  They all smiled like barracudas and chattered like monkeys, yet somehow I knew which girl was the leader.  In a beehive, you can locate a queen because she is entirely surrounded by her guard, like the center of a “bee flower”.  The queen bee is longer and slimmer than her workers, and to beekeepers, it is obvious where she is because she stands out by being surrounded.

 These girls seemed to surround one particular brunette, whose shirt seemed pinker and smile seemed wider than that of all of the other girls around her.  I knew that this group was not for me, not because I wouldn’t fit in, but because I didn’t want to. They were a cliché, not a clique, and I was not interested in that type of “friend”.  There was a matching contingency of boys, a few tables away, whose uniform was a certain type of high-top sneaker, cargo pants and sports or music themed hoodies.  I would have liked to observe more, but the bell rang, and it was time to run around trying to find a classroom yet again.

I didn’t get a locker until the end of the day.  I was exhausted.  The next day was more of the same, except that at lunch, Dor motioned for me to sit at her table.  I met her friends Ruby, Amelia and Carl.  I’ll write more about them in another post.  Let me just say that this group seemed more real than the plastic girls I’d observed yesterday.  And between Dor and her pals, I managed to have someone to follow to class each period.  So the week progressed.  But the actual school part was nonsense.  By the time the teachers took attendance and stuff, there was barely enough time to whet our appetite before the bell rang.  Thank God I already knew most of the stuff that they were teaching – otherwise I’d be frustrated. 

Learning this way is like schizophrenia!  There’s no time to immerse yourself in the subject matter, no time to research a tangent that happens to hold your interest.  Learning in a school is like being on a factory assembly line – add a little Social Studies here, tighten the Language Arts there, paint on a foreign language there (I’m taking French, because I already know a little), and after ten months, you’ve made a ready-for-the-next-grader!

It’s all so exhausting that by the end of the week I was so looking forward to a weekend of rest.  I wished it were longer.

I should have been careful what I wished for.

On Saturday, October 29^th, a slushy snowstorm started in the morning.  Swift’s moving truck left the farm early, but the roads were so crazy, they didn’t get to us until after 6 PM.  By that time, a tree had fallen across our front lawn, pulling down the electrical and phone wires.  Icy snow had fallen on top of leaves in the road, making it tough for cars to pass.  They were declaring a state of emergency for NJ when the truck pulled up.  It was still snowing, but we had no power.  The only reason we had heat was the wood-burning stove.  We hung out in what should have been the coldest room in the house, burning rolled up newspaper, cardboard boxes and logs that we’d found piled in the back yard.  We heated water for tea, and ate ramen noodles and soup.  Swift and his crew, Joey and Max, had brought sub sandwiches.  We took everything from the refrigerator and put it into coolers, then packed snow around it to keep it cool.  We used candles and flashlights, until the batteries ran out.  Then we turned in, expecting things to be fixed the next day.

Except they weren’t.  We had no electricity on Sunday.  Nor on Monday.  The guys shoveled a path from the truck to the front door, and we managed to get our furniture and stuff into the house.  Then the guys helped neighbors move a tree that was blocking our street, so that they could try to make it out to the highway.  By 4PM, they were gone.  The solar powered flashlight that Aunt Lina had was recharging on a windowsill, and we had more paper and cardboard to burn, from unpacking our kitchen stuff.  One of our neighbors knocked on our door to tell us that there’d be no school tomorrow.  As a matter of fact, there was no school on Tuesday and only a half-day on Wednesday.  Welcome to NJ.  We would have been here a month ago, except there had been Hurricane Irene. Now, the Halloween snowstorm.  If I were superstitious, I’d say something was trying to tell us NOT to move to NJ.  I guess it’s too late now.  We’re here.

Until my next post…

Randi