Mike has spent the last couple of days posting old photos to his blog. The latest are baby photos of Allan and their sister Jo Ann. Now Allan has posted another baby photo on his blog. So what the hell, let me jump on the baby bandwagon. You've seen me in my high school glory. Coming Soon: The Awkward Years.
Or not.
Here's an article I read in The Onion last night.
Just another addition to my jar of reasons why I refuse to be a teacher for the rest of my life. (Any of yas out there hiring? I'm smart and catch on real quick).
Actually, thinking about that Onion article and teaching reminded me of my 12th grade English teacher, Mr. Segedy. The first day of class, he recited The Lord's Prayer in Old English. I'll never forget that: "Faeder Ure..."
He was a cool teacher. I remember he made really good sound effects. And when we were studying Shakespeare's Sonnet # 18, he asked the class "What could we say if we were comparing someone to a summer's day? What could we say about Alison?"
The guy sitting next to me (omigosh I had a huge crush on him) piped up with "She's hot?"
I did get hot that day. Hot and red in the face, but I was secretly delighted. See, I was such a geek in high school, and never got asked out, never got invited to parties (Hey DMU, remember OHAB? LOL), and I may not even have had my driver's license at that point.
But let's not forget what happened to the ugly duckling.
Anyhoo, three out of four of my high school English teachers were excellent. I hope that during my years of teaching, I affect some of my students in a positive way.
And not because I'm hot, either.
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Here are the links I wanted to add to this entry, but which kept turning my entire text into one big link full of HTML gibberish, so I took them out:
The Lord's Prayer in Old English
I don't know why they're working here but not up there. I'm not going to try again. I've already spent way too much time fiddling with the damn things. It's time for me to get ready for work.
Easter Monday is always a bitterweet day for me. It 's the day my mom died, not long after my arrival in France. She and my dad made the trip to the wedding in February, and they had a great time. Two months later she died, and I wasn't there to be with her; I didn't even know anything was wrong until it was all over. I take that back. I did know something was wrong, just not what, and I felt like I wanted to go home.
That was 11 years ago, and perhaps I haven't dealt with the grief in the right way. It's as if the feelings stay under the surface until something -- a word, a memory, I don't know -- brings them back. It's like one of those scrapes you get: it doesn't hurt much, then the next thing you know there are little dots of blood all over it.
Cheesy analogy, maybe.
Two years after my mom died, on Easter Monday, my beautiful daughter was born. That's the sweet part of this symbolic day.
The cursor is blinking at me and no words are flowing to meet its demands, so I'll quit while I'm ahead.
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