The POWERS That Be

Some of you may think that my blog posts are written at the expense of innocent children. I assure you - most are not. I am simply relating tales from my teaching experience (and sometimes, my real life). I can't help it if the material is downright ridiculous. It just follows me - like a three ring circus. And I am - apparently - the Ring Master. So as you read today's post about "Mr. Wiggles", please keep in mind: the story you're about to hear is true. Names have been changed to protect the identities of the innocent... or slightly depraved...

On a beautiful winter's day in Bug Tussle, I was enjoying the gravel walking track at recess. Four times around is a mile and I make it a personal goal to complete one mile during the twenty minute recess. This isn't just for my health, but my mental well-being as well. Students know this and therefore, unless someone is bleeding or broken, they leave me to my own devices. Sometimes, however, they venture onto the walking track for their own reasons. Some to walk, some to skip, some to talk about each other in catty voices and pledge allegiance to some hateful Queen Bee of the moment. Whatever their reasons, we stay out of eachother's way. Until today.

Today, I casually glance ahead of me and see Mr. Wiggles standing in front of a large walnut tree on the Bug Tussle Elementary perimeter. Upon further observation, he seems to be consulting the tree on some issue. Intrigued, I quicken my pace and stop (gasp) a few feet behind him. Mr. Wiggles raises his hands in rigid claws, leans back and shakes his outstretched palms at the tree. I stifle the snort welling inside me so as not to disturb this wack-a-doo ritual taking place in the great outdoors.

Mr. Wiggles rests for a few moments and then resumes his pose and chanting - calling to mind the heathen high priests from Indiana Jones' Temple of Doom. That movie has always chilled me to the bone - what with all the heart-ripping and whatnot. (Just an aside). I shook off the fear of weird voodoo spirits and moved forward, bursting to know what had brought on this production.

Hearing my footsteps, Mr. Wiggles drops his arms and turns to stare at me innocently. I smile my best teacher smile, which in this case also includes "please don't hex me" in its sweetness.

"Mr. Wiggles," I say in the voice you reserve for sociopaths, tantrum throwing toddler, and significant others who keep leaving coffee rings on the cutting board (again, an aside), "what are you up to, Buddy?"

With a seriousness reserved for elderly veterans and Catholic priests, he spoke:

"I'm just getting my powers."

 

 

And with that, he returned to his hell-raising arms and jibberish. I nodded to myself, and continued my mile walk around the gravel track, checking from time to time to see if Mr. Wiggles had indeed received any type of supernatural assistance. Because, let me tell you - if it works on that kid, the first thing I'm gonna do on the next bright, beautiful wintry day here in Bug Tussle is work up some powers of my own. In the words of Forrest Gump and Jenny.... "{Powers}, make me a bird. So I can fly far. Far away from here." Amen.

 

XO,

It's Not Dirt - I'm Catholic

When I was a little girl, I vividly remember a Friday during Lent. My mother - a Protestant, it should be noted - made bologna sandwiches for lunch. And I ate it. It was only after the breadcrumbs were scattered across my plate and my juice box was empty that I realized my mother's faux pas. Bologna was a meat. It was a Friday during Lent. And I was a Catholic schoolgirl. In my mind, I was headed straight for Hell...

Later that afternoon I was outside playing on the swing set with my brother. We cavorted around the teeter-totter, performed daredevil feats on the swings, and finally set ourselves the task of a tandem ride down the sliding board. I prepared to go first and coasted towards the ground below when I saw it - a huge black snake with the jaws of an anaconda coiled at the slide's base. I was heading straight toward it before jamming my heels and hands in the sides of metal chute. At that moment, I knew for sure that God was letting me know that bologna on a Friday in Lent was a no-go. I was just lucky it wasn't a hamburger. 

Since that time, and perhaps even before, I have been adamant about Lent. From Ash Wednesday to Good Friday - I'm "in it to win it" with a plan for fasting, church attendance, and (most importantly) meat abstinence. So it's no surprise that I rose early for church on Wednesday morning in Bug Tussle. I hit the "word and communion" service and set out for BTE. After my two years at St. Sign-of-the-Cross, I took having a black streaked forehead for granted as the norm. However, in Bug Tussle, this could be mistaken for the sign of the Beast. 

Amid looks of shock, awe, and terror I took the hallways by storm. Leaving bewildered children and adults in my wake, I endured a barrage of idiotic and misguided comments... including, but not limited to:

* "Did you know there's something on your forehead?"

* "Oh my Gosh! What happened?"

* "It's for your religion?" [pregnant pause] "Which one?"

* "Oh yeah. Lent is where y'all abstain from fish and stuff."

My responses included, but weren't limited to:

* "It's ash."

* "I'm Catholic."

* "It's not dirt."

* "I know. It's there. On purpose."

And these were just from/for the adults! It was then that I had another epiphany - There's no place like a Catholic school in Lent. So bust out the fish sticks and grilled cheese on Fridays. This little Catholic girl has seen the light.

XO,