Mom. Don't I Look Like that Newscaster You're Always Obsessing About? Um, No. She Always Wears Black. Okay. I Tried

Howdy, Sunday. I can say that my Saturday was moderately successful because even though it rained, I was able to hunker and accomplish items on my schedule. Chitunga and I even found space in the evening to find dinner, but restaurant after restaurant after restaurant was packed. We sort of bit our nails thinking, "Um, too soon and optimistic for that." We finally found a great one, huge seating areas, great food, on the water, and no one really there. He had a Blue Cheese burger and I had delicious Mahi Mahi and spinach, with a layer of baked potato in a sour cream sauce. Whatever it was, it was outstanding. 

I think it is my haircut. Maybe it is the glasses. I look like Rachel Maddow. I know people love her, but she drives me nuts. I get it. She contributes much and was ahead of the game, but I'm never a fan too much of the fanatical and frenzied. Call me an imp, but I don't like being pigeon-holed into a typography. News stations and agendas do this to us.

I submitted another set of edits for a project (that I've compared to an analogy of being onstage to dance. "Oh, we liked what you did, but we wonder if you might try this move in the next attempt." You return with that move and a few others and they say, "Wow. We never thought about it this way, and now we're wondering if you might try a maneuver like this." So, once again you return and they respond with, "Incredible. But now we're wondering if you might return to the original way you were moving, because we preferred that."

Hoops. There is is.

No, Hoops. There we jump. 

And 90% of the game becomes, "What are you looking for? Just tell me and I will give it to you. And if you don't know, what do you think it might look like. Stop making us all try to guess at what you're envisioning." 

This is the nature of writing for publication. The target is always moving, and the sudden shifts are mind-boggling and frustrating. If you want me to look like Rachel Maddow, I can look like Rachel Maddow, but if you want me to look like Don Lemon or Anderson Cooper, I'm afraid you're out of business. I can look like Don Rickles meets Drew Carey meets Jerry Lewis, if you want. That's aligned to my natural state. 

Okay, Sunday. Two more projects to grade and then a big overhaul of Monday and Tuesday classes. I know that I'm blessed and have magic happening this week, but I can't make that public...it's just between me and my graduate students who are going to be totally surprised. 

That's the way, uh huh, uh huh, I like it. Uh huh, uh huh. 

May peace be with you today.

No more February days left. 

Some Mornings I Wake Up Wishing I Lived A Hotel Life Where I Could Walk Downstairs to a Breakfast Buffet. Nope. Toasted Bagel Instead.

Hello, Saturday. Thank you for the rain today and tomorrow. Should you be sunny and blue-skied, I'd hate you, because I know I'm trapped at my desk for 48-hours, and up this morning early to get ahead for Zoom calls coming my way. Teaching Monday/Tuesday classes means Saturday/Sunday planning, too. At least my socks bring joy.

Pam says they look like the Partridge family bus, but I had to look that up for reference. Now I see it, but my colors are brighter, happier, and more fun. 12 pairs of funk in a sock bag of happiness. That's what I got from my little sister this year for my birthday. I like pulling my sweats up (is anyone wearing pants any more?) and feeling like an Oompa Loompa.

Yesterday presented an interesting challenge, as we hosted the Martin Luther King Youth Leadership conference online, so 70 elected youth could participate in a workshop on tapping passion projects for writing achievements. It appears, however, some youth shared the link with friends, and we had ZOOM bombings (which I've heard about, but never experienced). In the blips of time's radar, I have flashbacks of middle school kids acting like idiots from my early adolescent days, too. The goal was to wreak havoc without any understanding of consequences - just to be imps who acted as fools. Gillette Road and North Syracuse Junior High School epitomized the impish, ridiculous behaviors of our adolescent, freakazoid behaviors. So goes the age.

In the beginning of the program, however, we had kids come onto the screen playing loud, inappropriate music, then a few who would just stopped in to scream. Such drive-by idiotics, of course, were hard to monitor as most kids called in from home and if the link was passed to friends....well.

More alarming was the chat feature, where kids posted inappropriate things which were very disturbing, including the N word over and over again as we talked about MLK. When we sought to find the culprits, they were kids who changed their name to MILF or P@SSYLICKER. The fun stuff of middle school minds. I didn't think it was appropriate to call out BLUE BALLS or MY D#CK IS HARD by their names. Nope. I just threw them out of the room.

As I hosted, I had to play whack-a-mole and remove kids like this as soon as they created disturbance. This was a monitoring of 4 screens, and the actions needed to be fast. I stopped, of course, and did a talk about the maturity and respect of a youth leadership academy, and afterwards, the majority of kids put in the chat, "Thank you. We're so sick of these kids who do this. It's not funny." I assured them it happens everywhere, is part of the age, and something scholars study for a living. The trouble, however, is it is behavior that goes nowhere. As achievers climb and make their way in the world, the idiots remain idiots. There's no space where they don't exist. 

20 minutes into the program, all the chaos was squashed and the fools departed. The next hour and 40-minutes went smoothly, with joy, hard work, and results (which is what was expected). 

Bless the souls of middle school teachers everywhere. It is a never-ending battle to invest in good kids as imbecilic kids go after immediate gratification and pseudo-humor to disrupt purpose and order. Been there. Done that. Wish there was a solution (may be why I like Wonka's world so much...send them to the incinerator...the brats).

In the end, MLK's legacy won the day, but still it was disturbing. When Marckus - I LOVE C#CK enters the room, you wonder about markers, meaning, language, purpose, and intent. When there's physical presence, there's opportunity to pull the kid aside and work through their motivations. That is much more difficult from home, especially when they can hide with no camera on and a changed name. It was calculated by the crews, too, which is intriguing, as they put their minds together to achieve a common goal (which really was the intent of the program - I just wish their goal was productive towards good).

I hope the parents are watching, listening, and playing a role in the lives of their kids, too. That helps. 

To live is to learn, though, and yesterday I learned...actually, recalled...the incredible strength and patience required you work with the middle-grade age. 

Phew. 

So, Yesterday Sort-of Stunk...Began with a Skunk, My Mind Went Defunct, so I Went to Bed Feeling Bodunk.

And in the category of being most like Jerry Lewis, but wanting to be Brad Pitt, the winner goes to...

Dr. Bryan Ripley Crandall.

This is where the muppets come out and cheer, confetti is flown, and Kanyea West arrives to the Mic and says there's no way I deserve it. The award really should go to Paul Reubens.

So, I had three days this week where I was up at 5:30 and online by 7. As a result, I went to bed early and was able to fall right to sleep. Wednesday night, however (it was a warm night, so slept with the windows open), I heard Glamis whining at my door, so I awoke to let her in. When I opened the door there was an acrid smell, but I figured it was Edem's cooking. He does that while we sleep, as he works overnight. I immediately jumped back to bed and kept thinking, "Oh, someone must have hit a skunk outside."

I woke up the next morning and thought it was gone, and came downstairs to look to the street to see if I could find a black and white rodent squashed to the pavement. No death, though. It wasn't until Glamis came downstairs that I realized it was her. She was hit. Quick.  Apparently, Edem let her out after I went to bed and let her back in. He said he smelled skunk, too, but figured it was just outside. Actually, he said it was permeating the house, but he didn't realize it was the dog.

Um, of course it was. The culprit was lying in my bed.

Now, this is bad, but it is nowhere near the episode when Baby was hit in Cicero. That skunk seriously foamed her and when she came inside, she looked like she took a bubblebath. It was that gross and she made our small house smell like skunk for almost two years (The Nottingham Bulldogs will remember the days I walked the hallway simply saying, "Yeah. That's me. I smell like skunk." It was on everything I own).

So, I scored high school portfolios for 3 hours and then ran to get Skunk B Gone at a local pet store, so I could return home to go after the smell. Glamis can be a miserable wretch in the bathtub and today was one of those days. As I was scrubbing her, she whaled like I was skinning her alive (I will leave that whaled because it was an Orca like sound). Then I put her outside and scored for another 3 hours.

When we finished portfolios, I went for a walk with Glamis so she could get more of the stench into the fresh air. It wasn't until the evening, when I went to pay for a special Sue McV birthday dinner at Eatz Vietnam Louisville that I realized my wallet was missing. An hour of tearing up my house looking for it (I'm a creature of habit. My wallet is always in the same spaces, just like my keys and, now, just like my masks. My glasses tend to disappear more often), I realized it wasn't here. 

Long story short...

My wallet was found in the parking lot and they held it. I couldn't believe it had the same cash and cards - as that has not been my experience in the past. Usually the cash is cleaned out and only your cards are returned (don't ask. Road trips between Kentucky and Syracuse). 

Ugh. Well, today I have the MLK Youth Leadership Academy and I'm excited to be featuring Becoming Muhammad Ali by Kwame Alexander and James Patterson. I am also very, very thankful that the kids won't be able to smell me. 

Nature. Of all superpowers, you had to give skunks that one? Phew. It's too much.  It's just gross.

My Once a Year, Annual (Felt in Heart, Body, and Soul) Shout-Out to Joel Barlow High School and Their Junior Year Writing Portfolios

Since 2012, I've been enamored, dazzled, and supportive of the writing curriculum in Redding, Connecticut.  Invited because of my role as the CWP-Director and with knowledge that the work began as National Writing Project work, I attest there's really nothing like it. From 1997 to 2007, I had the honor of teaching in Kentucky during the age of writing portfolios. It is what I knew, understood, cherished, and applauded. When they were going away, I left teaching.

Four years later, I found the portfolio process alive and flourishing in Connecticut - well, at least in one school district. It is a devotion of many and every year I say, "here's a district we all should be modeling our curriculum after."

It's true. I was telling Tim Huminski, the Writing Center Coordinator and teacher, that I'd love to have a Joel Barlow student just once at Fairfield University. Portfolio after portfolio I can't help but think, "Phew. These kids are getting an education. They have no idea how many years ahead they are of peers their age. I can only hope a graduate student or two can write like these kids."

It is simple. Invest in writing. Invest in professional development for teaching writing. Invest in multi-genre evaluation and beyond-state testing writing curriculum and you build thinkers, creators, doers, and idea-makers for life. You harvest magicians. I trust an educational facility that has cross-curricular, interdisciplinary writing programs and where administrators invest in writing curriculum.

I'm serious. It is night and day.

I've said for years that my seniors in KY were decades ahead of their national peers when it came to writing (only when the State invested in it). Those days are gone. Now, in CT, I can say that the students at Joel Barlow High School are years ahead of their peers in the nutmeg state. Why? Teachers are invested in building their writing capabilities. 

I continue to be in awe (and love) with what I read from student writers at the school. Yes, I choose two-days of non-stop reading of student work (5 pieces per portfolio). I also receive a tremendous amount of hope. The work is simply incredible and our National Department of Education should be invested in such assessment at the national level. 

If we truly believe in the best of all students, we'd invest in the writing programs in each state. Period. Explanation Point. End Stop. 

Perfect Mug for a Perfectly Hectic Week of Buzzing About: Over-Committed, Laughing, and Somehow Getting By

One of the highlights about getting up super early to stay on top of the game is watching the sunrise in the east. I wake up, make my coffee, sit at the desk, and watch the orange sparkles begin to throw their flares above a row of houses and naked trees, until it becomes a full orb, too blinding to look at.

I can also say that the new health alarm that turned itself on within my iPhone is actually pretty kind in how it wakes me up. It starts with a really light melody that is barely audible and grows louder every 30 seconds or so. I appreciate it, because I rarely allow it to get loud....just enough music to say, "Get in the shower, Crandall. It's going to be a long one.

Last night was The Write Time - Kwame Alexander and Tyler Jones and it played back nicely. I've begun the habit of putting it on the large screen t.v. and laughed when Edem noticed, "Hey, isn't that your mom in the chat?" It was. Ol' Popeye, however, hit the anger button instead of "like" or love. It was an easy fix to coach, when I called her afterward. "Hey, Bryan. Why'd your mom hate the show so much?"

The next two days are two of my favorites, as I'll spend them with Joel Barlow High School in Redding (well, online) scoring junior writing portfolios and reading wonderful work. So rare is a writing-driven school and it is joyful to see the skills kids bring when an entire district embraces writing processes. It is night and day compared to those that do not. I am inhaling and given the school my time, knowing that when I creep off that screen at the end of each day, there will be a need to creep onto other ones to fix what I missed by not being around all day. 

First dogs barking. I guess other households are beginning to wake up. Too bad...They missed the entire sunrise. She's up and full blast already. 

When You Can, You Must: A Celebration Applauding a Clean Living Room, Although There's No Way It Will Last

Who was up at 7 a.m. on ZOOM yesterday? Who finished ZOOM at 10 p.m.? 

Good. Then you will understand what I accomplished yesterday when I pretended to take toilet breaks. The living room was picked up, dusted, vacuumed, rearranged, and de-haired (for 15-minutes, anyway). 

I kept looking in the backdrop of my day thinking (otherwise the Mt. Pleasant landscape that others see), "Oh, it looks like your backdrop is representing the facade of who you are...that is good. It looks like you actually de-cluttered and were domestic over the weekend."

Look at that. Coordinated. Clear. Light. Open.

Don't let it fool you. It will be a shit show in 3...2...1.

How do I know this? Well, I spent 4 hours yesterday driving copies of books to K-12 schools because (a) they don't have budgets for decent books and (b) I play games. You want me to do what? Okay. Sure. I will do your 'what' if you'll fund me books for kids. 

Robin Hood bartering. Reminding the haves to invest in what they talk incessantly and holding them accountable to putting action to their words. It's a game. 

And I taught all day...also visited colleagues who teach in their own ZOOMs. I offered critical friendship (because that is the way we roll).

Yes, I teach again today. This is what it's about.

But my living room is clean and I will take pride in that. I will also take pride that I made incredible rice pilaf and almonds for dinner. Have to finger snap something different. A new flavor is always good. 

Suns out. Books piled for todays writing and planning. Coffee in the mug. Raisin Bran to my side. Happy Tuesday. Another day in paradise. 

Three Days this Week My Zoom Life Begins at 7 a.m. (Can't Make This Up), but I Have My Deathly Hallows Covid Mast to Get Me Through

What are Sundays? Why, yes. You are right. They are non-stop planning days for Mondays and Tuesdays. It's all good. I'm ready, and I have to travel to schools to deliver copies of Kwame Alexander and James Patterson's Becoming Muhammad Ali. I most definitely will wear my Harry Potter Deathly Hallows mask that Kaitlyn Marie made for me for my birthday. It is my fancy 007 mask, and I almost want to wear it with my tux and get a gold bow tie. Ninja teacher to the whiteboard!

In spite of procrastination and hope, I also did some laundry, mopped, vacuumed first-floor dog hair (that really could be a full time job), and sort-of rearranged the cork collection. Cynde got it for me a couple of years ago (Stafford, CT....pretty close) and I realized it is almost full. I haven't been drinking much wine, but Edem has and his Josh Pinot Noir collection has filled half the tank. I now realize, though, that it needs to be two layers so it will stay solidified and in tact. That day will come. We're on Year 2, so give us a couple more years.

I think I fell asleep at 6 pm last night, but worked until 10 pm - the entire day felt like I was craving a tremendous nap (but I had to keep moving on). There is a meal made for a few days, desks organized, and grants almost ready to submit.

I also think I figured out the CWP website, so it is up and running and I made the Fairfield Moms publication of summer programs by 1.5 hours. Man, I rock. That's the problem that arrives when I know longer have any assistance to support the programs. I miss emails and alerts that were normal routine for us.

Wish me luck. We have cancelled 3-weeks in a row of service learning collaboration as a result of snow. I am hoping this morning it will be on. We've worked too hard to have any more SNAFUs.

Okay, Monday. I see you. I don't necessarily love you, but we have to get this going.

Five Days Later, I Got My Cupcakes & a Chance To Unwind with Friends Over Hummus and Falafels.

With home-stay, academic pace, and all these storms, it's almost hard to forget what being social is, and how to take a night off from the grind. But that's what happened. I sent barnyard bakery products to Pam a month or so ago, after I decided I was going to buy everyone chicken beaks so they could wish me a clucking birthday - she makes the best cupcakes in the universe and I like to encourage her by offering year-to-year themes.

I can't say that cupcakes necessarily go with hummus and falafel, but that is what I wanted, too. Both were delicious, although I felt like an oinker for eating so much and today I need to get myself moooooving. I quack myself up.

The evening also turned into a father/son conversation as most Saturday nights do, where we talk until neither of us can keep our eyes open any more. I made it to midnight last night and I was out.

And today needs to be the day of building presentations for the week, because there won't be much space in the days ahead. I anticipate each night ahead I will be waving my finger over my bottom lip going bwub bwub bwub, as I anticipate another day.

In the meantime, I'll appreciate an evening of music, talk, tequila, frosting, and pita bread. Get it where you can. 

Yes. I Cut My Hair. But This Was Me Yesterday Symbolically Putting Out Dumpster Fire After Dumpster Fire.

I should always known that when there's a day wide open without scheduled meetings and obligations, that as I buttered my toast and sipped my first coffee, the emergencies would start to arrive. 

1. Incompletes with grade changes that never went through while I was on sabbatical.
2. CWP website that can't be updated because...well, I guess it's because the web-browser I used is no longer compatible. Don't get me started. Because we are an ORG I pay to have professional support so changes like this won't be difficult. Um, it was difficult.
3. Because I'm CWP's Director and have no assistance, not even a graduate student this year, I have been negligent about checking the CWP computer. I brought that downstairs. I keep forgetting I have to do that job, too.
4. WorkDay. Okay, it's supposed to help out, but there is a system for in-person work, and protocols from work-from-home, none which were explained. You have to write emails to get clarification and tone (well, misspellings, typos, and trite responses, are hard to interpret). 
5. I believe stay-at-home lifestyles have more people inquiring about more information on programs, so you find yourself suddenly creating rooms to discuss with possible candidates (this is a good thing).
6. Grants.
7. Research projects. 
8. Email.
9. Grading.
10. A Barfing Dog

And that was my Friday yesterday. Nothing on the plate and at 11 p.m. I was like, "I can't do any more. My brain is shot. I didn't get outside to run, ski, or walk, which I thought was going to be my pleasure after I read a couple of books which I need to finish.

Then there's the population of magical thinkers who contact you to say things need to get done, but they don't do anything towards it. Let me have you created it and when I have edits, I will send it back. When you're done, I will take credit for you. Okay? Does this sound good. I mean, I am the one who asked you to do this for me and my team....so I get the applause. Deal?   Human beings are a species, I tell you. I will leave it at that.

It's Saturday. I planned to get groceries yesterday (nope), planned to cook yesterday (nada), did do one load of laundry yesterday (anticipated three), and now have to catch up on how yesterday wiped me off the planet. There is, of course, the reality that without State/Federal grant support for CWP over the last two years, a new structure made the request yesterday, "What State and Federal grant support do you need?" Well, easy for me, I sent the trajectory of accomplishments (and failures) since 2011, because I chart it. Trouble is, that format didn't fit the survey they created.

Email. I sent them a mini-documentary via email of how we built a great program, but lost all that when a decision was made that a grant officer was no longer needed.

There will be a day where I simply say, "Um. This is just bonkers." I say it now, but at some point I will act on the insanity and disappear from it. 

The Gods Must Be Crazy.

A Day of Snow. A Day of Socks. A Day of Expensive XX Ski Shoes (the best part of the day), and a Secret. Shhh. Beautiful Interview

I awoke at six with a mission to accomplish 3 more curriculum guides knowing that by the end of the day, I needed to say, "Yo. I got this. I read these books, so here's my thinking." By noon I hit send, and I looked out at the streets knowing 6 or 7 inches had fallen and plows hadn't come through. I said, "Okay, get your skis, and hit the roads.

Seriously. The secret to Northeast living is to have the ability to jump on these roads before plows come through. With a pair of cross country skis, it is like roller skating, sliding along clouds, and Winter Land Nirvana. I went out for two hours and the streets were all mine. There were a few out shoveling, and a couple more driving, but for the most part, the snow that fell between the trees and the roads were 100% mine. It's magical, and yes it's blustery and cold, but the feeling is something that can't be replicated.

Bliss. 

I'm also amused that I walk all the time and run, and no one honks or yells out the window to congratulate the performance. Yet, while skiing, cars stop to give me a thumbs up, and people yell out their windows, "Hey, we want to be you." 

Well, be me. Get a pair of skis. 

Of course, the leather boots (made in Italy, I believe) are the most expensive shoes I own. I Mr. Bargain Hunter and they're hard to get on sale. I feel so Italian and fancy with them...like I'm a fancy Austrian Duke or something.

I do have, thanks to lil' sis Casey, a bag of new, colorful socks that make everything FEET-FOCUSED and joyful. They are soft, warm, vibrant, and clever. I love them.

Finally, we recorded the next episode of The Write Time, and I wanted to wait until it was completed before I got gung-ho about it. Shhh. Don't tell anyone...okay, tell everyone...I can say it is no other than Kwame Alexander. What a blessing to have his humor, wit, craft, and wisdom with Brown School teacher Tyler Jones. It is a recording that will be remembered for the rest of my life. Amazing. 

More about that later. 

Today is Friday. I am tired. Next week looks impossible. There's more snow today. I hope to enjoy it before afternoon meetings.

I imagine I will find more time to glide along the falling white stuff (schools here have already closed for the day) and I look forward to the exercise I plan on getting. 

I also know that I've had back-to-back writing weeks, and I'm due for a few days of reading so I can catch up with all these books that have come my way.

Here's to the weekend. I have hope. Do you?

Well, Sasquatch, You've Done Cleaned Yourself Up Again. Who Wants all the Hair Ties I Have Lying Around Now? Another Jerry Makeover (aka Haircut)

Twice I've had my hair cut and donated the locks to charity. Previous renditions were arm's length, but this one was more 'Cousin It in Lilliputia'... just enough to make me think, "Whoa. You had a head of hair," but not enough to say, "NOOOOOOOO, why'd you cut it."

It's cut. That hair is dark, too. What is underneath is almost totally gray. Gone is the wig, the furry creature, the head of hair that has been accruing since last March.

Truth is, I awoke yesterday morning pretty sure I was morphing into Snape or William Shakespeare. I looked at the head of hair on top of my head and said, "Okay. Make a decision. You've got this head of hair, but growing it out won't make you 24 again. It will just make you look like an almost-50 year old, creepily trying to look younger. That's always wonky."

After cutting it, I asked my older sister, "Why didn't you tell me how ridiculous I've looked for the last year," in which she responded, "I thought you knew and wanted to look stupid."

She knows me, I guess.

I was surprised that Abu texted back with total disappointment that I cut it. "You're so gray." Um, yeah. "You look old." Well, okay.

Anyway, it's gone. I cut it. That phase is over. I have an incredible barber and I'm super thankful to Jerry Simeon, Fade Factory, in Stratford. He's a genius with the clippers and although I blame him for allowing me to grow it out, "You've got hair Crandall, grow it out," I was equally happy for him to get rid of it. Although that mop of hair on the floor looks impressive, I know for a fact it is no where near as thick as it used to be. My 20s hair was big-time heavy. I think my hairline is fading.

And speaking of heavy, so comes another round of northeast storms - two days of the fluffy stuff with less than 24 hours notice. The alerts just popped up and I was like, "Whatever. How is staying home any different than, like, staying home? At least its arrival gives us an excuse to get outside and do something new?"

Next week's schedule is approaching and I'm looking at it with alarm...Uh, Crandall. You don't have superpowers. How are you going to accomplish all that you're committed, too? Um, I will. With luck...more snow will come and there will be cancellations (but something tells me I won't be so lucky).

Meanwhile, I'm feeling relieved, like my sisters, that everything worked out well yesterday in upstate New York, and now I am sending wishes for the best, fastest recovery. 

"You could never be a supermodel," I once was told. "You're face is all crooked and you don't know how to smile."

I realized yesterday that I don't smile for photos, because when I do, my cheeks grow enormous and my face looks like a baboon's ass.

And with this, I think my vanity posts will disappear for a while (I'm thankful, too).

Let it snow! Let it snow! Let is snow!

 

Birthdays are Love Letters. The Older I Get (especially because of Facebook) the More Nostalgic and Reflective I Get

It's always nice when a birthday lands NOT on a workday, which is NOT what happened this year. I had a full day yesterday and couldn't quite process the celebration until around 7 p.m.. Over the week, boxes arrived from friends and family, which I stored to the side for the 49th celebration. Chitunga suggested we go out to eat, but my recommendation was to wait until we both have more flexibility in our schedules. Both of us had been working since 7 a.m. - if we go out, I want to enjoy it and not fall asleep over my salad bowl. Besides, Edem handed over a bottle of bourbon before he went to his night shift. 

Highlights of the day were seeing that the beaks I distributed were put to use (as I now have an array of songs from cluckheads. The whole thing quacked me up). I also received The Love Letter by Anika Aldamury Denise (illustrated by Lucy Ruth Cummins) from Susan in Florida, which is a wonderful reminder that putting love into the world is the ultimate gift. Love begets love. The more you can distribute, the more it returns. Yesterday's posts, videos, and mailings were a prime example of this. I thoroughly enjoyed my evening with 100s of notes. Perfect for watching This is Us, which remains one of the best shows on television...happy it was an episode that didn't make me sob (like they usually do).

Today, my mind is on meetings to the 10th degree and thoughts/prayers for my family in upstate New York. This morning, the sun is immensely bright and the skies are wonderfully blue. I don't think the balmy 50 degree temperatures of yesterday are returning, as the cold front entered last night. Running yesterday was heaven - a true taste of spring and summer (which I know I need to package back up again, otherwise I'll get depressed as March rolls in). 

What's this, you say? Another storm is on its way? Bring it on. I have my skis and, because of Kris and Dave, a fridge full of beer. I now have a lifetime supply of socks from Casey and Dave, too. 

Feeling grateful. 

Officially Able to Promote this Logo for the Next 365 Days with Fellow Brethren and Sistren Born in 1972...All as I Approach the BIG 5-0

Funny, how quickly it is to be 49 years old. This life thing flies by, especially since I'm forever 15 (thanks, Abu and Lossine for that). I just graduated high school...okay, college...finished a Masters...Oh, then that 2nd one...taught summers in Denmark...started Bread Loaf School of English...decided on a Ph.D...lived in Binghamton, Louisville, and Syracuse. That was yesterday, right? Now I'm in Connecticut and officially in my last years of the 40s.

How did that happen?

I would say my body gets it, because although I've maintained a healthy pace for most of my life, ever since the mid-40s hernia, and the abrupt sprint towards a word that rhymes with Nifty, my parts are conking out. They aren't what they always were, which is frightening, but part of the game.

I remember cousins warning about the 30s, the 40s, but I'm heading towards that other number (and there's no turning back). Ouch and ugh.

Happy Birthday to Me.

I'm feeling blessed with a full day of meetings and teaching until 7 p.m. tonight, and will be a mono-maniac  to get through it all. I'm sure when I finally have the graduate school Zoom-wave of good-bye, I'll be, "What the h#$$ was this day?" I am thankful, because I rarely get too many days with spaces to process the chaos of it all. Better to keep busy.

But this day actually belongs to my mom, Sue, who pushed me out so many decades ago, and to my father, Butch (son of a Butch) who provided that one pollywog 9 months before this day was even on the Crandall radar....a June experience, I fathom (good time, too - not as hot and humid as the rest of summer...usually rather nice in upstate New York).

I got the best gift yesterday from my mom. She and Patch are engaged. After all these years and who knows how many episodes, the two of them have finally decided it's the right time. She isn't breaking ties with my father, however, because there's always been room for Salem-love in her world, too. It's just now, it's being made official.  

I wish I could eat a whole cake, have ice cream, and even a party, but we all can claim a Covid-celebration for our festival this year. I just want my friends to quack me a Happy Birthday with the masks I provided...if not Happy Birthday, then a Name that Tune song (preferably on Facebook, so it can be shared with others who wonder what is wrong with Crandall).

Happy Tuesday, everyone. Enjoy the storms that did what they did to you. Apparently, they are everywhere. I'm a 49-er until next February 16th....I'll keep you posted on how it goes.

Because It's About To Be My Last Year in the 40s, and I'm Trying to Get My Head Around Time, Age, and Parallels

I've been nerding out a bit, more because I'm trying to get a grip on time, but also because it interests me historically. I've been playing the game of, "I am now the age my parents were when  they....," and now I'm able to play, "Chitunga is the age right now I was, when I started to..."

It's crazy to comprehend. When my mother gave birth to me, it was my 2nd year as a teacher (I know that sounds weird, but I'm talking about age). In my 6th year of teaching, I was the age my father was when he had me. When I finished my doctorate, I was the age my dad was when I was in 3rd grade. My first year of teaching, I was the age that Chitunga is now (we both started our careers at the same time). 

When Chitunga was 11, he was the age I was when I had Mr. Finster, my last year at Cicero Elementary. It's crazy to think about. When I am the age my mother is now, Chitunga will be 52 years old. In 2031, Chitunga will be the age when I knew I needed a career shift and went to Syracuse to get my doctorate. 

This is all to say that all three are VIP to me, and I keep them in sight whenever I'm working (as they are on my wall of inspiration)(Funny. Mom looks like Jacob Charles here)(but also like Karen Perra). 

I'm also trying to date the year this photo was taken, as the only copy I could find is the one hanging beside me. 

This just in...I will officially be the same age tomorrow that my father was when I graduated high school in 1990 ... the age my mother was when I graduated from Binghamton. I'm two years older now than my was when I moved to London as a 19 year old (and I worry about Tunga staying out too late....I left the nation. Unbelievable)

I'm tripping out now, too, because I'm able to chart Tunga's age in the same reign of my parents. My mind is sort of bugging. I'm too slow this morning to put all these numbers in Cynde, Casey, Mike, Dave, Nikki, Dylan, Shaun, Jake, Abu, Lossine terms...but perhaps they can. 

And I think the age my dad was when I was a sophomore is also the year I was when Chitunga graduated high school. 

Rollin! Rollin! Rollin on the River.

A Weekend of Seeing Everything Anew - Feedback, Editing, Revision, Finalizing, and Sending It All On Their Way Again

The good thing about sabbatical is that I dipped my toes in several bodies of water. As I was telling Chitunga last night (who said he was having a hard time doing things on his task-list, because new tasks kept coming his way), "To be honest, kid. That's how I accomplish things. When I have many things to do, I procrastinate on one thing, by chiseling away on another." The secret is to have the lists loaded.

The trouble is that during sabbatical the 24 hours in the day belonged to me, and I definitely got in "Squirrel! Squirrel!" mode. Fortunately, the things I chased here, there, and everywhere turned out to be promising possibilities, but I didn't hear back about submissions until January. Now it's all about grinding at them so they meet the eyes of reviewers, publishers, and businesses.

So, I've spent the last 48 hours in total revision mode, jumping from one item to another, simply trying to get them ready for new due dates. I was early on some, later on others, and distracted by a few more (in particular, it's recommendation season, too, and when I write I often send my thoughts to those being recommended so I can get feedback before I send them in). Alas, my email was on overdrive with many who  needed my letters.

Meanwhile, colleagues who have grown to trust my editing skills, have been sending me items they've been stuck on, asking if I might give it a quick glance with how I would revise. Sure. Why not?

Needless to say, my eyes are currently wonky from all the screen time.

Perhaps the hardest project has been revising a number of curriculum guides where a publisher has changed direction again and again and again with what they are trying to accomplish. Take this 350-word section and make it 100 words. Expand this 50-word section and make it 250 words. Break this section into 4 parts with thematic titles, and don't use page numbers anywhere, as we can't guarantee readers will have versions of these books with the same page numbers. 

It's been fun. 

I believe I hit "send" on 9 items this weekend, which was more amusing to think about when I had my front porch all day long and no distractions. I now have teaching back in full-force and the ever-growing, time-consuming call for meetings, meetings, meetings. That's why I value long spaces of time to write and revise.

I know I seem whacky, wild, and all-over-the-place to many, but the truth is, I hunker down, focus, and hit the tasks. It drives me nuts, though, because I want to be skiing, the house needs to be cleaned, and I really should be cooking instead of ordering out. Alas, as I've written before, this is a lifestyle...and for now, it seems to be very gracious to me. I cannot complain and know I'm a lucky son of a Butch to have so many opportunities. I don't imagine they'll disappear any time soon and for that I'm grateful, too. 

Okay, Sunday. Time to prepare classes for the week. Perhaps, too....you might get to one more revision task (he says with fingers crossed).

Happy Valentine's Day. I love the work I'm fortunate to do.

I Shaved. Sat, Wrote, Thought, and Wrote for 14-Hours, Took One Walk, Showered, and Yes, Shaved.

This is a fake beard. Mine is almost all white now, and I covered it while I walked Glamis. I love my bearded knit caps, especially during arctic temperature dips in the northeast. Nice to have a warm face on cold days (thought I'd lose my fingers when I took off my gloves to untangle Glamis's leash. Painful cold).

And I hit send on two items. Actually, three. One a series of revisions. I needed them off my radar so I can concentrate on the professional development, summer planning, recommendations, grants, and writing workshops being hosted over the next several weeks.

By 10 p.m. I said, enough. I showered, shaved, and came downstairs to find mindless television to distract me as I played games and rolled through social media (How come no one told me how good This is Us was this week?). The other big news of the day was Covid-19 test # 5, this one a home-swabbing sent by the University, as we need two negative tests before we can return to our offices. We also were told we have to be tested once a week, or our Stag cards will be deactivated and we can't enter buildings. Apparently colleges and Universities are taking a huge hit. Hmmm. I wonder why. Of course, the University lost its server all day yesterday, so after that message was sent, there was no way to do Fairfield work at all. Had to wait until this morning.

I am thinking, too, of my K-12 collaborators who are doing their education-thing in schools - teaching, with some in the room and a majority online. It is psychologically maddening. As my friend Paul Hankin wrote, "It's like writing sub plans for another space, but also having to be the teacher, subbing for yourself as you're teaching the in-class kids, in that other space, too."

I feel this. I always said it isn't worth calling in sick, because writing up the plans was horrendous. Easier to be in the space than to guide another to do the work. 

The funniest part of the day, however, was navigating the home testing kit with Dr. Kris Sealey, philosophy, who happened to be administrating her own test down the street. She texted me with questions at the very moment I was pilfering through the directions, too. Two Ph.Ds stressed out about doing it right. She caused a sneezing festival and I just gave myself a blood nose. 

The testing was not difficult. It was the piles of directions given, located in spontaneous places that didn't "talk" to one another that was hilarious. Of course we wanted to do it right, but there were so many spaces to totally screw up (Melissa Quan wins the day with spilling the tube liquid all over her floor). If you can't laugh, you cry. So I laughed a lot thinking about the insanity of it all right now. 

Hello, Saturday. Hello, Desk. Time to catch up on all work avoided as you worked on publication projects. Meanwhile, work REALLY needing to be done couldn't, because the University's server was down. We were paralyzed. I have to get to that, too.

Happy Birthday, Kelly Chandler-Olcott!

Something New. Long Overdue, Too. Using Chavez's Thinking at the Collegiate Level to Start Thinking About the K-12 Work of Our Community

It's Friday, and I am TGIF'ing it all the way. Caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and thought, "Crimminy, Crandall. You need to hit the gym soon and move away from your desk. Also, thought, "How is Chitunga not screaming at you that you turned the downstairs into a a community bookstore with your collaborations, research, service, and engagement. There are boxes of books and projects everywhere. 

He's right. I need to get on top of that, and my Covid girth. In the meantime, I have some questions to answer inspired by our collaborative team working through Felicia Rose Chavez's prompting questions. These were selected for last night's conversation.

• For whom do you design your curriculum? In other words, who is your ideal, imagined student? What assumptions do you make about their background?

  My idea student is the Brown School student - a character from 1st and Muhammad Ali in Louisville, Kentucky. That's what I knew as a teacher. Who is a Brown School student? Hmmmm. If it is out there in the world, it's in here (to borrow from the Yellow Pages). We didn't track. We brought from multiple zip codes as a mission. We held high standards for all kids. We celebrated individuality and the uniqueness of every learner, and we appreciated the importance to giving back to the larger community. My ideal student couldn't be defined, because the Brown was a little of everything, and as a result, our kids were a pastiche of the nation at large. The Brown student is a thing...a phenomenon that is carried forward within them for life. It has to be experienced to be believed.

  
  

  
  With that noted, I also saw all kids as motivated, capable, and original, while recognizing they may need prompting to reach their fullest potential.

  
  

  I've been thinking a lot about life-long learning, but also about Dewey's Experience + Reflection = Knowledge. I'm a lucky son of a Butch and my experiences have been remarkable. I'm not sure there's time enough (or an ability) to replicate them for others. 

  
  

  My assumption is that every kid is on a journey to find out (to reference Cat Stephens) and what they find out is ever-changing.

  
  

• Do you articulate your own positionality when lecturing? Why or why not?

  
  

  I don't think I lecture. I know it's corny, but I've sort of begun this Jerry Springer final gathering where I articulate my final points about why I chose to do what I do. I guess I publish, and this is sort of a textual lecture about what I believe in (community). I am a working class, White kid educated in tremendous schools where I, because of luck and opportunity, found myself in privileged locations of higher education. I recognize that my education, including a doctorate, is at the pinnacle of privilege. I worked hard to get to that point, but I was also born into a society that allowed such an opportunity to occur.

  
  

  I articulate my positions all the time. They are perceived differently everywhere I go. I still laugh at my Kentucky days when someone put me up against a wall and said, "Aren't you one of those IVY-League, educated, rich Yankees?" - I was like, "Huh?" I realized how regionality is part of the game, too. I didn't realize Yankees was anything other than a baseball team. The Mason-Dixon Line was still drawn.

  
  

  Middle-child, geek-boy Frog. Extroverted Introvert. Cynical Optimist. I have many identities.

• How does your teaching legitimate the cultures and experiences of students of color?

  
  

  I have more flexibility now as an Associate Professor than I did as a high school teacher. Still, I tried to differentiate as much as I could. I valued #WeNeedDiverseBooks even before Twitter introduced us to such hashtags as #DistruptTexts and #ProjectLit simply because I wanted to see my student populations represented in the reading and writing experiences of my room. Brown's mission was super diversity by design, and that's what I wanted in the curriculum I taught.

  
  

  I realize now, however, that such a mission is unusual. My solution to the world is to create Brown Schools everywhere.

  
  

  One of the better things accomplished in Louisville was yearly collaboration with Omega Psi Phi Fraternity at the University of Louisville and our Men of Quality programs, especially the conferences. Also, because of our Coalition of Essential Schools status, we promoted senior culminating projects, so each and every student was able to showcase who they were as an 18-year old human being and present a change they desired for the world. It was rather remarkable.

• How does your curriculum require white students to acquire the intellectual and cultural resources to function effectively in a plural society?

  
  

  Cough Cough. Different answer depending where I am. When I do professional development, travel the country and/or provide programs during the summer, the communities I work with are super-diverse, integrative, and inclusive. When I do University work (to pay the bills), I work in an extremely homogeneous community (seriously...I didn't know locations like this could exist in the 21st century...but they do, and I tap it to do be the scholar I am - intellectual Robin Hood).

  
  

  I am definitely not anti-the classics, nor am I anti-Western traditions. I am, however, curious about who was being represented at each phase of the game, and who was being exploited for the comfort and games of White populations. I am White. Can't deny that. But I've always thought of my work as bringing the democratic torch to the next generation - one that doesn't have its roots in such cultural hegemony and Western naiveté. We are all the outcome of Imperialism and Colonialism. The diaspora of many populations has direct ties to the period "civilizing" the Globe. I have the look of those Imperialists and my bloodlines are tied to those nations. I have chosen to do my life's work, however, in support of those who have not benefited from such history in the ways I have.

  
  

  Perhaps my work with refugee-background communities is tied to all of this, and why (by default) students in my courses get Bryan, as Bryan. It can't be helped. I am what I am.

• How do you build a community in your classroom where students learn actively from each other and draw on their own knowledge sources?

  
  

  I think about this all the time. I know I do what I do, and teach as I teach, and always feel like I'm messing up, mis-speaking, and acting a fool. I do what the National Writing Project would do, what my mentors at Brown would do, and what I learned as a researcher is best practice. I know it is awful, but I never name it. I just do as I do, and the feedback from students articulate that whatever I do is unusual, rare, effective, and useful. I always ask them, "what am I doing? Name it. I don't get it."

  
  

  Truth, it's community. I step aside and coach their expertise. My mentor Sue always said, "there's no learning outside a relationship," so relationship-building has been central to my teaching. For years, I did community-building at various outdoor learning sites. Team-building (and those games) are at my core. I often like to say, "I can leave my classes, run an errand in the same building, come back, and 100% of everyone is on task doing what they should be doing - learning." I just try to stay out of their way.

• What can you do to make your assessment criteria show what all students are capable of, drawing on their strengths and promoting their agency and creativity?

  
  

  And this is the hardest question we're asking ourselves. Assessment. I am spoiled. I had a decade of writing portfolio assessment and in my current work I still gravitate towards schools that require the same. I see State testing (even EdTPA which higher education is subjected today), as complete nonsense - but how do you measure? Please. It always is a measurement of Whiteness. All kids are talented and gifted, but all kids are at risk.

  
  

  It is criminal when we place societal deficits on any student, when the deficits are really in society. My critique of Chavez's work (and it is totally out of respect and admiration) is (1) colleges are traditionally White spaces...if you want diversity, get off campus (for real, real), (2) if higher education isn't called out for their economic profiteering and elitism, then none of us will ever win - they are the greatest segregationists in our nation, (3) who is defining writing? In the case of Chavez, it is creative writing programs, which is writing, but only a fraction of what writing is and necessitates within and from multiple writing communities, and (4) someone NEEDS TO DO SOMETHING/ANYTHING about State Assessments, AP exams, etc.- it isn't intelligence. It isn't helpful. It is institutional and structural, and they are racist by design. As long as administrators view those outcomes as measurements of intelligence, we'll be subjected to the very system we so desperately need to change.

  
  

  There you go...I just answered same prompts our participants answered tonight (and this is before we read Chavez). I can't wait for all still to come. And these questions? Phew! This is only a sketch of what needs to be said and explored.

  
  

Hi. I'm Bryan. It's Thursday. I Have No Idea If the Sun is Coming Out Today. Maybe It Came Out Yesterday. I Don't Know. I'm too Busy Working

Yesterday morning, in an exchange with the incredible, wonderful, and inspirational Dr. Marcelle Haddix of Syracuse University, I told her I was listening to a morning song to give me oomph and hope for the rest of the day, and sure enough, it just so happened to be Dee Dee and the Five Steps, "O-O-H Child." I'm not sure how the song was on my radar, but it's what I was  up and singing all day yesterday.

Hope. Light. Possibility. Optimism.

Phew. To counter Ugly. Dark. Restraints. Pessimism

These are the eight words I think about regularly with a job in higher education. Alas, I digress. I will sing and try to do what is best for the kids, teachers, and the world while I work in the business apparatus of exploitation, swindling, money-making, funds, and the grand-ol' capitalistic heart of what we do....deliver degrees to those willing to pay for one.

All under the umbrella for equity, diversity, and inclusivity. Bring on the commercial. We all know what this is about in higher education. Hypocrisy.

Meanwhile, I really, really do like the song and mission of what on-the-ground, dedicated, focused, and good-natured professionals do - those that put actions to words. It's beyond con-artistry. It's the work. Anyone who has their eyes open, understands K-12 schooling, and wants the best for the world will see it bright and clear. The sun doesn't lie.

But, we have to deal with all the nonsense of everyone else. 

O-o-h, Child. Things are going to get better. That's the hope. 

Another day of non-stop meetings, and attempt to focus on my focus. I trust good work. I believe in doing what it is right. Everyone else can play their games and claim their claim, but in the end, it's the actions that speak loudest. Today, as always, I'm choosing sunshine, even if we are expected to get more snow. 

A GIF My Mother Should Recognize (Because It is From DAYS OF OUR LIVES). It's Humpday, Week 3, New Semester, and Ugh. Here's Where I Am

I have to await my mother's text. She'll recognize this .gif immediately: character, location, context, year, month, and where it fits into the Days of Our Lives scenario (she's never missed a reference). My guess is "Tony" circa 1987. That's all I got. Was I close? Actually, I typed buried under a rock, and this was one of the choices. I thought he looked familiar and guessed he might be relevant.

My point. I'm being buried alive. 

My point. It isn't a Day unless it's sand through the hour glass, even if it is Quick Sand....everyday of my childhood.

It's been my reoccurring nightmare for weeks, and then when I read about two women hiking on Walnut Beach being swallowed by melting snow in a sand slurry, my dreams became more vivid. They survived, but the images in my head did not. This is what I wake up to at 2 a.m. dreaming about. Last night, it was about alumni from Brown School telling me about the books they wished they read in high school that I never assigned (Thanks, Erin Lobb. You were the head of that committee).

Pant. Pant. Gasp. I'm doing all I can. 

I'm three weeks in, post-sabbatical, and this week is a little high on the 14-hour day miracles. Meeting upon meeting upon teaching upon research upon meeting upon writing upon due dates upon grading upon meeting upon next direction. 

I am drowning.

Yesterday morning, I woke up with a sinus migraine, only to learn that the atmospheric pressure is causing them all over the nation. I took a hot shower, medicated, and got to work. I had no choice. 1st class at 8 a.m. and last class ending at 7 p.m. (then the emails....Oi Vay, the emails). When I got around to falling asleep, my brain was already in pure panic mode. My biggest fear in life is being buried alive. This is what I felt in my last years at Brown School, and those fears are coming back again. When day life interrupts night/sleep life, it's time to pay attention.

I was ZOOM all last spring, ZOOM all summer long (270 students and 30 teachers), and only ZOOM light while on sabbatical. Back on full ZOOM-mode, I'm overwhelmed. It doesn't end...go...go...go...and there's no time to process, reflect, think critically, and understand.

Hence, the buried alive metaphor. Okay...hoping that the next 48 hours of meetings will help me to find a life jacket and buoy to grab onto. The suffocation is not a feeling I enjoy...

...at all...

But now I'm curious as to the Days of Our Lives metaphor. Was I close, Mom? Huh? Huh? Huh?

As I Slide on the Edge of the Universe Where Winter Meets Summer, I Am Thrilled at What Is Possible

January/February in Connecticut is pretty much impossible. Last Monday, K-12 schools were cancelled, but University faculty were told to take the work online (which, duh, we're doing anyway). The trouble is, we're collaborating with a 4th grade classroom. I had two plans ready to go, and obviously we went with B. In 10 minutes I shifted gears, modeled a one-page visual autobiography, and then modeled a way to record one's story using a cellphone. 

BOOM. 

Before an hour was up, I had several autobiographical essays perfect for a 4th grade class. Audio files and visuals saved on Google Docs. 

Then, THEN, the 4th graders did us in. They went on Flip Grid and recorded their autobiographies to send back to us. Can't meet face to face? Well, Universe, determined educators, kids, and graduate students, we'll show you how it is done. When the world throws you snow, you simply navigate it with new trails (which is what I've done for two days as mental therapy....sliding across snow...at the beach...alongside the ocean...Zen)

Then comes this Monday. Bridgeport called it off way too late, so I have to be innovative. This morning, I will be working with the 4th graders, pushing forward what I hoped to accomplish yesterday with all my students. Alas, they are in other classes and taking care of other responsibilities. So this one is on me.

Ah, but I do have all their work to use with the kids today as models. Ms. Savoie is introducing drama to her 4th graders and we had a few tricks up our sleeves yesterday. Now, each of my graduate students have drafted a bit of 4th grade drama that I'll be able to share this morning. There is no snow in the forecast. Whoops. There is snow in the forecast, it did snow, but school stayed on (at least in this district)

I am sort of amazed by the creativity, resiliency, and intelligence of all my online communities right now, and don't really see a need to go back to what it was. I do miss human beings and the wackiness we bring to face-to-face experiences, but this works just as well.

In fact, it's more innovative and clever. We're having a great time. 

Meanwhile....sinus season....why are you here already?

So Much Respect for @IRISCT and What They Accomplish Each Year - This Year Cross-Country Skied for Refugees and It Was Perfect

Glamis and I just about finished our walk yesterday when it really started coming down. There was black ice everywhere and we both wiped out several times. I imagine we humored the people looking out their windows. I planned on running a 5K for the Annual Run For Refugees race, but I knew I would break a leg so I skied for a couple of hours instead. 

It was heaven. Skiing or refugees.

All the streets were plowed once, but they couldn't keep up, so the roads were wide open for me to glide through them. And because the snow was so light and fluffy, it was almost like roller skating. It was fast and smooth. And I was pumped for it, too. As always, Chris George did a spectacular job emceeing the event, and I was impressed that Sam Waterston was a guest promoter. He was extra special, just as the musicians were. 

I actually recorded the Yale Choir seeing, as they are beyond awesome and make the event more powerful each year with their voices. It was all online, and then the celebration could occur in individual homes. 

There is still time to sign up, to raise money, and/or or donate: https://irisct.org

Meanwhile, after the walk, the ceremony, and the skiing, Chitunga and I tackled the driveway and that of Krystyna's, our 92-year old neighbor from Poland. He's my kid, and as I was finishing the corners of my own driveway, when I watched him head to hers. When I got there, I gave him the handles of the blower and I took over shoveling (earlier in the day, he took my car to check out Kohl's and I texted my mom, Father/Son appraisal. In thinking about Chitunga taking my car, the Hulk, in this snow to travel to Kohl’s. I had a moment where I said, “Yo. Syracuse trained him for this shit. He’s good, dad. He’s good. He’s got this.”

He had it, indeed.

Finally, I end with six years of Bella and Max watching the Puppy Bowl. Yes, it's the Super Bowl, but before that starts my sister has a ritual of letting her dogs watch the television (which they obviously do obsessively). I have to admit, I missed the entire thing because I was out in the snow, and when I did come in I had to plan for the 8 a.m. graduate class in collaboration of Cesar Batalla 4th grade....

...which by the way is cancelled for the 2nd week in a row...

I'm looking at yesterday as an emblem of perseverance, faith in humanity, joy of sports, creativity of commercials, team work, and getting outdoors for fresh air and beautiful, white fluffy stuff. 

Getting xx skis. Best gift I ever gave myself. 

Skiing for Refugees - pure joy.

Live with a purpose. And let everything else fall into place.