Unthinkable.

This post changed titles three times already. I’ve drafted two rough starts and deleted both. There’s no making sense of the news from Newtown, CT. In its place, a flashback that hits me every time one of these unbelievable tragedies occurs.

Long ago – well, not really all that long ago. It was eight or nine years ago. I taught in an elementary school with a go-get-em principal, a woman who will remain at the top of my list for elementary principals forever. She was contacted by the local police department who wanted to train and practice the new recommended procedure to neutralize shooters or other dangerous intruders in a school, mall, or other public place

She said yes, of course. When she asked for teachers to volunteer, I joined up.

Along with most of the city’s liaison officers, several higher-up district administrators, and all the school principals in town, we teachers filed into a high school auditorium to watch an analysis of the Columbine High School tragedy. The officer in charge pointed out the main things that went wrong and then used that to tell us the rationale for the new training.

The method that was new then is now the norm for mass shooting scenes. CBS News interviewed one who helped put the philosophy into practice. “Go toward the shots,” he said repeatedly. “Neutralize the shooter or shooters.” It’s what we practiced, and it’s what they still do.

Sandy Hook Elementary School had staff who knew what to do. The principal’s last act may have been turning on her PA microphone in an attempt to inform the rest of the school that there was danger. Children told of calm teachers who pulled them to safety, hid them in corners and in closets and in cubbies, and evacuated them swiftly to the gathering place, a nearby firehouse.

Press conferences and news releases were, so far, compassionate and respectful. Grieving parents photographed from a distance, parents of surviving children showing support and empathy for those who lost theirs. But – there were no bodies, no blood, no attempts to show or suggest the carnage that remained in the school building the television cameras. For this thoughtfulness, I’m grateful. I hope members of the media continue to respect those touched by this tragedy.

But did this mass murderer show signs beforehand? We hear too many stories after the fact. Red flags, as we call them in education, fly up and grab our attention. Then files are filed and the students drop out or move out of town, out of state, out of range. The medical files remain sealed, and the only public statements come from the distant memories of people on the periphery, not close enough to have intervened.

Our public safety forces know how to get in and stop mass attacks like this. But so far, too few people know how to prevent them.

And that still scares me.

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Don’t believe the commercials on TV.

The superstition thing? Great music (Stevie Wonder, oh yeah), realistic sports fans (mostly), bad beer, and hey, where’s the ultimate football schedule routine, Eating the Opponent?

Diamonds? I don’t need diamonds. My “diamond” gift hangs on the wall, not on a pendant. My special gift was a share of Green Bay Packers stock.

The eTrade baby was cuter when he was little. This schtick is old now. Somehow, the eTrade Toddler doesn’t have the same ring to it. Put the character back in his crib with

his smartphone – now that one was clever.

Oh, Aaron Rodgers and his State Farm commercials – I enjoy them all. The best, of course, is the School Career Day version. “I play football.” “That’s not a job.”

Oh, by the way – No need to faint. Santa and the M&M guys are real. For real. Just like the Thanksgiving Fairies.

As for the holiday specials, there’s bad news about Frosty the Snowman. Keep it from the kids if you can.

Frosty: Busted.

 

 

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CSI: Bunny

The signs were all there; the trail led me into the den.

trail of evidence

Then I saw the true scene of the crime.

crime scene

It was dangerous – the evidence kept sticking to me – but I moved in closer to see the source of the spill.

closer to the source

It covered everything. But what was the true source? Where did the hurricane of tiny, static filled pellets begin?

the source – finally.

It was a bean bag chair, people. A small bean bag chair that, paired with a couch pillow, kept the rabbit away from the television cords, or so we’d hoped. She decided to make her way through the barriers, but we caught her.

We caught her, but not before she made a mess so huge it was almost criminal.

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The view from my front window

The tree in the front yard survived. I was ready to let it go, but the crews worked around it. They dug up the street, replaced the huge pipes that go underground, filled the trech with gravel and eventually covered it with blacktop. The road will be resurfaced next year. While the road was dug up, we had some basic plumbing done, too. We had our sewer lateral (the one that was being destroyed by tree roots) replaced. It was expensive, but less so than if we’d done it at some other time – namely, when the street wasn’t already dug up.

And so it goes – the road work provided entertainment in the form of trees and city council meetings, opportunities to both spend and save money, ecological and not-so-eco-logical events, and an interesting view. View? Here it is, folks: my front yard during the sewer work.

 

 

 

I guess I can’t tell them to stay off my lawn.

Just stay away from my campaign signs, punks.

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Homecomings – an encore presentation

My “children” are now 25 and 20. This post remembers a weekend evening a few years ago. Was it only a few years? Oh, my.

The thing about kids is that they grow up.

Homecoming Week at Amigo’s high school just ended. A chronological recounting won’t do; the impression of the week is more of a scattered collection of events.
The bonfire had a perfect night — that is, the rain date had perfect weather.
Spirit Days! Must discuss spirit days.
On “Dress Like a Pirate Day”, Amigo wore a bandanna on his head and someone gave him an eye patch to go with it. Substitute his white cane for a peg leg, and there’s one cool pirate.
Decades day? He chose the 80s and wore a shirt featuring the Packer quarterback who preceded Brett Favre. Okay, trivia buffs, can you name the quarterback?
At the football game, Amigo sat with us, but he was never alone. Kids kept walking past and saying hi and calling him by name. The homecoming king himself, the most popular boy in the entire school, sat and watched the game and talked with Amigo for quite a while. Husband joined us after work, bought supper from the concession stand and bought a sweatshirt from the booster club as the sun went down and the temperature dropped.
But the most glaring sign of growing up was the dance. I picked him up at midnight, tired, hoarse, thirsty, grinning from ear to ear. We came home and found La Petite had caught a ride home from college with her boyfriend to spend a night here with us and with her bunnies.
And that’s where it ended: my two teenagers, one 19, one 14, sharing homecoming stories on the couch after midnight. The high school freshman and the college sophomore chatted and laughed and compared notes. I don’t know how long they stayed up talking about pep rallies, football games, dances, and spirit weeks. I’m sure they didn’t even notice my absence when I went up to bed.

I guess the great thing about kids is that they grow up.

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Dear world; again? So soon?

Dear clinic that shall not be named —

I’m sure she meant it in the best possible way. I won’t assume anything, but I’ll guess that the RN in charge of messaging didn’t mean to use a commonly known text-message and IM abbreviation. She must have been unaware that there could be another interpretation. So, dear clinic, you still might want to train your personnel to be more careful with their shortcuts, lest they tell an already frustrated patient to do this.

“Please call our office to schedule this f/u appt.”

Okay, Readers, here’s the rest of the story. As I make arrangements for multiple appointments, including another MRI for my neck and the start of a potentially lengthy series of Physical Therapy, I’m doing my absolute best to schedule at the beginning or end of a school day so I can get away with using less sick time. I used up years of accrued sick days in order to take a significant leave of absence in 2011. I started earning sick leave from scratch last year, so there’s not much in my sick bay at the moment. Dealing with cataract surgery and attempts to see a psychiatric nurse practitioner who only worked from 8 to 3 weekdays, I withdrew plenty from that account. And that reminds me —

Dear clinic that shall not be named —

Forcing someone with a severe depression to wait seven months for psychiatric care is a bad idea. Assigning a teacher (a field known for less-than-flexible schedules) to a psychiatric nurse practitioner who doesn’t see patients after 3:00 p.m., well, is yet another poorly considered idea. So think about it, clinic, oh you-who-claim-2B-efficient. A seven month wait? A medical professional with office hours that force the patient to take time off from work every single time? Efficient? Not for the patient.

Readers, I gave up on the psychiatric care. My family physician has done well treating my depression, as well as or better than the one-who-was-not-worth-the wait. I know from past experience that I need to put myself first. In the real world of employment, however, I need to balance my doctor time with my work time. I love my work and my job, too. I’d like to stay employed there. My supervisors would like me to remain employed there, too.

I guess it would be more efficient on my end to remember that laughter is the best medicine. The next time an RN writes “f/u” in a message, I’ll just respond by ROTFLMAO. Right? Right.

 

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Dear world —

Dear driver of dented black pick-up truck;

Your bumper stickers do not inspire confidence. When I see “9/11 was an inside job” next to “I Stand With Scott Walker” I wonder…oh, I just wonder.

  • Sincerely, An educated and informed voter. You wouldn’t understand.

Dear Pittsburgh Steelers;

Fire your designer. Now. Don’t bother auctioning those bumblebee suits; burn them. Please.

  • With bag over head, The Unknown Football Fan

Dear Shopkeeper;

I was relieved to find out that the vintage fur coat was beaver. I ran my hands down the front and it felt an awful lot like I was petting my bunny, Buttercup. The coat was lovely, but I was glad to know it wasn’t rabbit.

  • Yours truly, The Bunny Whisperer

Dear pharmacy that shall not be named;

You haven’t fixed the chopped-off voice mail message yet. It’s irritating. Does no one check these when they’re changed? Never mind. Obviously not.

  • Just another customer
Dear Chuck;
I know my NFL predictions have been pretty close to right on in the past weeks. Unfortunately, I don’t think I could make a living betting on football games. Sorry, honey.
  • Love, Daisy

 

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Small Business Saturday

Small Business Saturday is a day intended to relieve the pressure and the mobs and the sheer craziness of Black Friday. Taking my own path as usual, La Petite and I decided to visit a few small shops yesterday, Friday.

Shop Number One: a few blocks from my workplace, a shop with an eclectic mix of vintage and upcycled items for the home. We picked up some cute frames and wine cork boards in a variety of sizes. Better yet, I got some great ideas to substitute for wrapping paper.

I gave up using commercial wrapping paper a few years ago, and I’ve stuck to that vow. I’ve used a few scraps of leftover paper, finagled a few bits of tissue into service as packing and wrapping, and salvaged all kind of larger scraps for reuse. A more accurate motto might be No New Wrapping Paper. More later on the trimmings and trappings – now back to regularly scheduled program, Small Business Saturday.

Downtown Appleburg had some goings on to draw customers downtown. Shops planned cookies and beverages. Some had prize drawings. Many participated in the window dressing contest. Participants had creative displays that showed their wares and celebrated the season. I’d offer you pics, readers, but my little camera doesn’t do the displays justice. Imagine bright red ballet shoes hanging alongside a tutu made of tulle, with silver bells and more, all in the front window of a dance apparel shop, and you’ll get the idea.

We finished up the morning at two vintage and crafty shops directly across from each other. I treated myself to a cool vintage hat, one that goes well with both of my winter and middle-weather jackets and works with my hearing aids, too. So many hats make them squeak and squeal; this was a deal for that point alone!

With a final stop at Walgreen’s for hearing aid batteries, we were done. Fun times, money spent at small local businesses, and found some unique gifts. For the real Small Business Saturday, I’m thinking of visiting thrift stores.

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