The "In Memorials" 2021 Have Helped Me to Stay True to the 50/50/50/50 Pursuit. Drove to Trader Joe's & Stocked Up for Better Eating

I think it was the fact that so many actors from my childhood that were always on the televisions in my parents' house passed away this year (I mean, the captain of The Love Boat and Biz Marke? Sondheim?). I don't know. Was just another reminder to enter this mid-life gig with more intentionality than the past year has allowed: injuries, injuries, injuries. In my head, I can get back to those phases in my life where I was at the gym for an hour and then ran 5 or 6 miles. I was still a big guy then, genetics, but I loved the routine...the thinking...the me-time. I want to have the me-time, back (which I still get on the walks...it's just not the same). 

Amazing to think that this is the last day of the @#$#-up year, and that it really is 2020 "too," and this is feeling a little reminiscent of last year when we podded ourselves up with safe people, and only occasionally socialized. I told Chitunga, "I'm perfectly fine with that isolation, but I also know it's not good for the soul." We need people. Am curious how the University will handle the incredulous uptick. I know New York colleges and universities have already outlined their thinking. We'll likely learn a couple days before, and be applauded for our flexibility and willingness to adapt. Go us!

Chitunga and I grabbed sandwiches at a deli for lunch, then we headed to Laguardia, so I could turn around and get stuck in Connecticut traffic for two hours. Yes, the traffic returned a while ago, and I did enjoy the days where no one was on the highways like they are now. Connecticut is synonymous with traffic.

Also, I'm boostered. I also got my flu shot, too, so I'm not having too many expectations for myself today other than keep-on-keeping on. I know Tunga was taken down for two days 24-hours after he got the booster, but he also had the J&J. I had the Moderna, so shot #1 was the bad one (supposedly). 

Okay...time to get this day going. Heading to campus in 3...2...1.

Back at It, Day 4, but I Won't Be on Campus Today: Getting Boosted, Finishing Collaborative Pieces, Driving Chitunga, and Reading From Home

I need quiet when the work really needs to be done. Silencio! Silencio! So, I've been hunkering down in my Canisius Office. The work is slowly getting done (proud of Suzie-Q and me for hitting submit today), completed a number of monthly Work Day tasks, delved into the service work (until my eyes teared up with exhaustion), and talked myself into holding my breath for the month of January, as I always have to do. 

I've been noting two other faculty members who have been faithful to campus life and I'm wondering what they are working on. There's only been three cars in the lot this week. Knowing who they are, I imagine they are working on their 12th or 13th book. My admiration for their work ethic is there. Phew. 

Karal is getting used to my away-from-home work, too, making sure that she's extra spastic, extra obnoxious of squeaky toys, and extra enthusiastic about play time when I arrive home. I think I met her expectations this week, because she is collapsing on the couch by 9 p.m.

I've been learning of the abundance of positive Covid/Delta/Omicron cases in my region, and sort of alarmed by how everyone I correspond with is directly affected. Symptoms aren't severe, but I'm hearing people have been down since the semester ended: sneezing, freezing, fevers, headaches, exhaustion, etc. But that is par for the course with teachers and academics with or without a pandemic. We're worn down at the end of a semester, and this year, like last, more than ever. 

I, for one, can't take too much news or social media, as it adds to the overwhelming exhaustion I already am feeling. I am laughing, too, as I'm channeling all the Danish teachers who I was fortunate to work with for a decade who always grew exhausted when they visited American schools. "We work differently in our country. We work hard, but we also don't kill ourselves with the work." I think about this all the time knowing that I've never known the work without the killing self part. 

But I'm being good: moving, aware of self-care, and maneuvering through the work with a sense of humor (and purpose). And I get to hang with the kid today, so there's the joy.

Fifty Days Out Until Fifty, so Committing to 50-Minutes of Intentional Movement (Sweating) & 50% More Healthy Decision-Making. Feel Free to Join Me

It was right before my birthday last year that I ran my last 5K. I've walked some since, but I haven't run them. Why? The body as it ages is no joke: returned hernia, severe leg cramps, a stabbed eye, then a snapped ankle with a boot. It's very easy for me to say, "It's been a year, alright."

We're currently 50 days away until my 50th and I'm in the mindset to cease the holiday garbage feasting. It's not that I go insane in December, but I do know that there's more easy-to-grab treats on every table. In the end, it simply feels miserable to have so much food, booze, and munchies around every corner. I hate it, especially because it also weighs on the head, and mentally I feel lethargic, grumpy, foggy, and not myself.

I'm not saying I will get my running stamina back because I'm not pushing for more injuries. Rather, I'm committing to movement 50-minutes a day for the next 50 days (which isn't impossible, since I usually walk an hour every day with the dog). I do, however, want to sweat more, and I'm even thinking about joining a yoga studio. I need to feel stretched and flexible, much more so than the past year of injuries has allowed. 

Yesterday, on the phone with Susie-Q in Pensacola, I told her my plan: elliptical, rowing, walking, maybe running, just sweating is what I'm after. She said, "I'm in. 50 for 50."

So that is what I want for my birthday. I want everyone who finds this to be a viable option to simply dedicate the next 50 days to a healthier you: more stretching, more vegetables, better proportions, more movement, better decision-making, and fresher air. It is likely to be miserable the next two months (that's why I got cross-country skis last year), but I'm setting my plan into motion. Physical health equates to mental health.

50 days of 50-minute sweating intervals until I'm 50 (with 50% better decision making for my health...whatever I interpret that to mean). 

50/50/50/50 - Maybe I should have a 50/50 raffle, too. Everyone can send me $10, and of those, I will draw a name. 50% will go to the winer. The other 50% will go towards a birthday party. 

I still can't believe the big five-uh-oh is around the corner, but we'll do with it what we can.

Do You Remember? The 28th Day of December. Love Was Changing the Mind of Pretenders, While Chasing the Clouds Away. Ba Dee Ah. Dancing in December.

No, it isn't September, nor the 21st day, but I have a younger brother right to change lyrics to suit my needs. Today is Cynde-Loo, Cynderballz, Cynde Crandall Isgar's birthday, and sadly I didn't stick around to torment her in person. Rather than pick out something she would never wear and causing her to return it, I decided to dress her on my blog and send a Grub Hub card to her instead (although she's a good cook, and does alright with her own fixings). Even so, she deserves to tell Mike she's ordering (by the way, I tried to cuss on Grub Hub and they had an alert of "Watch your language." I had to use @#$$#, instead). Good for them. 

If she likes the blonde hair, she is more than welcome to drive to Amalfi Drive and borrow some of Mom's colored hair creams. And if she does actually like the swan dress, I'm sure she can alter the abominable snowman pajamas I got for Mike this Christmas, which he doesn't seem to like - he still hasn't sent me a picture of himself wearing them. Sigh.

Cynde should be getting an email, and I want her to note that I color coordinated the Grub Hub card with my blog so I'm capturing a kind-of theme. I'm sure she's at the same place I am in life simply wanting zero attention on these birthdays and would rather just be left alone.

My real goal is that anyone who types Cynde Ann Isgar or Cynde Crandall or Cynderballz...any variation into Google...will find this photo of her in a swan dress to match her knitted frog nose warmer and glitter lights photo. 

Yes, it's the 28th day of December, where love was changing the mind of pretenders, while chasing the clouds away. Ba Dee Ah, Dancing in December, Bah Dee Ah, lyrics I can't remember, but singing the song anyway.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, CYNDERBALLZ!

I hope it is a great celebration!

Book for the Road Trip - WHY WE FLY by Gilly Segal and Kimberly Jones...You Know It's a Good One When You Don't Want to Exit the Highway

I was a fortunate soul to meet Gilly Segal and Kimberly Jones in Texas when they were road tripping with I'm Not Dying with You Tonight. I was at the North Texas Teen Book Festival with three of my favorite people: Susie-Q, Kim, and Rebecca, there to present for the incredible, wonderful, and super-inspirational Rose Brock. We were there for teacher day, and presented to a room full of 100s of teachers. This, of course, was in the spring of 2020, AND the last trip any of us would take since Covid interrupted the globe. Without a doubt, meeting Gilly and Kim was a tremendous highlight. This was right before craziness hit the nation, but I left Texas inspired.

Fast forward. I'm super excited that THE WRITE TIME will feature the authors, Gilly Segal and Kimberly Jones, later next year to discuss their book Why We Fly. Trust me, I'm still partying like it's 1999 and I'll likely go to my grave with that line (even though I know exactly where I was in 1999, and do not wish to return back there). 

So. Much. Has Changed.

With that noted, I knew when I listened to the audio book read by Suzy Jackson and Jasmin Walker that I'd begin this post with a little bit of a disclaimer: (1) I do not and have never understood  the cheerleading culture, (2) I know from my niece who was a Winterguard athlete that Cheer, too, is a sport, (3) There's no doubt in my mind about the dedication, devotion, hard work, or athleticism of these athletes, and (4) I'd be a better man to keep my mind open to everything.

This is why I'm here to say that Why We Fly by Kimberly Jones and Gilly Segal was exceptionally well-done. I loved every second of it, wanted to argue with the characters, and call the authors up several times with a um, can I ask you a question about... but I didn't. Instead, I listened to the stellar, nuanced way two writers put their minds together to create a narrative about two young women, budding and blossoming in their senior year, when they make a stance for the racial injustices that, at least to me, seem obvious right now. Youth know better and are stronger than the adults they follow. History, I believe, will deliver this fact LOUD and CLEAR.

I'm definitely in awe of the story...especially the different voices that narrate what goes down in the tale...and I'm ready to know more about Three. The trained feminist in me wants to see him interrogated more, especially with his celebrity status, but I truly do believe that all of us should sit back a little while and listen to how the authors, Kimberly Jones and Gilly Segal, established their own friendship, work together to tell stories teenagers need to read, and offer light to all of us during troubled times.

I loved it. I loved every second of it. Part of it, I believe, is how different the two narrators are, believable, but in their own ways. I can say that I was rubbed the wrong way a couple of times by each, but the authorial craft won me over. I know the girls are fiction. What I really want to know is the back story of how they came after this particular story.

And I will learn this, soon. 

For today, however, I'm simply excited to have this story in my mind, heart, and soul right now. I know it will bring me the wisdom the authors will deliver to much greater clarity. It truly was a beautifully written story...grace, intelligence, insightfulness, and joy. I love that they are a writing team.

All the Joy in a Simple Photograph on Christmas Morning. Papi, Chitunga, & the Monster Pup In-Between.

I keep forgetting that we were not able to gather last year due to Covid and all our festivities were hosted online. Therefore I forgot that we opened our gifts at the Homefront during the morning. Mom got her pajamas, dad a new pair of sneakers (not the hand-me-downs he's been taking from me for years), and Chitunga got luggage, apartment toys, clothes, and gadgets. Karal was in between wanting to be center of it all, always seeking a bag for herself.

I think we can officially declare an ending to the food festivities, where every plateful is a bit too much, even though each bite is absolutely delicious and you don't want it to end.

Christmas Day at the Crandall house is quiet. Everyone is in a coma of exhaustion, and the Barnwell breakfast affair puts the stomach over the edge. Delicious, but an extreme desire to go home, get under the blanket for the day, and simply fall asleep for a long, long time. 

I did well in the gift department this year: Grogu ornament, a robot vacuum, and several pieces of wall art made from photographs of the last year. I'm good to go, but I need to quickly reconfigure my mind to the University service that needs to be done before the semester kicks back off. 

But for now, I have Chevy Chase Christmas Vacation to keep me thankful. I forgot about how awesome squirrels are. 

Morning toast. A dusting of snow on the ground. Cups of coffee. We're all good. We're all thankful. We're all blessed. Who could ask for more?

Merry Christmas, Everyone, from Salem, I Mean, Clay, New York. I Am Thrilled To Say that Roman, I Mean, My Dad, Chased Satan Away

Greetings from Salem, I mean, Clay, New York.

Dear Santa,

I want to thank you for unraveling an uneventful Christmas Eve. It was normal, like usual...so it always is with the Days of Our Lives. Yes, Satan arrived with her blazing torches to burn down my sister's Christmas tree, but it was no match for Roman...I mean my father...who came in to rescue the tree. And lucky for me, the eye I poked doing electrical work is much better. I know longer have to cover it, so I didn't have to come this year as Patch.

My older sister, however, did shave her head to look like my cousin Mark. Actually, I think she also worked on my father's mustache, because it's all sorts of crooked. Oh, never mind. He did that on his own because he took a shower to get ready for events on Christmas Eve.

Yes, my father may not be Victor Kiriakis or Stefano Dimera (guaranteed I spelled that wrong, but I know that Stephanie Caroli will call my mom, and then my mom will call me and tell me the correct spelling), but he did have the magical necklace that caused that evil, satanic bitch to fly across the room and smash into the walls. Don't worry. Cynde will be okay, even if Marlena did knock a few fixtures off the wall.

But it was a good celebration, Santa Claus. Although none of us are quite up to my mother's second family in Salem, she's learned to tolerate us in Clay. What else can I say?

Oh, Nikki's hair looked really good, so she volunteered to get the Christmas ornaments so Mrs. Horton I mean Maggie, I mean my mom would be able to hang them on the tree with her lover for life, Roman, I mean Butch (son of a Butch, Crandall. son of a Butch). 

And yes, there's only one flake like Mike...one cracker for Dave. Indeed, ugly sweaters were handed out and I believe a few abominable snowmen and a moose showed up to the festivities (or it might have been Abe, Eugene, and Calliope...I always forget). 

It's all good, though, because the love was shared and as we learned in Salem, I mean Clay, New York, LOVE ALWAYS WINS. LOVE IS NO MATCH FOR SATAN. 

Take that, Marlena and Days of Our Lives fans. Take that.

I hope the hot cocoa and salt potatoes I left you were to your liking, Santa. I got the recipe from the Japanese salt lick in downtown Syracuse. Please, Santa, bring peace, love, and joy to everyone I've been praying for and yes, it's okay to give out coal to those who are hateful, vicious, and repulsive. They deserve it. 

Finally, any bourbon you want to bring my way, or Chitunga's, we are grateful. We learned this from our friend in Kentucky....another Sue. No, not the Susan Crandall that died and was listed in an obituary. That wasn't the Sue I'm talking about, either. McV. That Sue.

Here's to the reason for the season.

Bry

You Know You Are in Central New York When the Japanese Noodle Bar That Opens Up Serves Kimchi, Wasabi Salt Potatoes. Well, Okay, Then

It was a joy to eat at a salt lick today, as Syracuse is Salt City. Actually, the Japanese restaurant was very good, and the salt potatoes were really good...perfect flavoring and a wonderful appetizer. The flavors in my main meal were good, too, but phew...let's talk about salt. Let's discuss pouring in two cups of salt and saying, "Hmmm, this should make it salty." Holy Nursing Home, Batman.

It should be called Ka'salt....not Kasai.

Afterwards, we went for chocolate at a new chocolatier in Syracuse and Cynde spent a fortune on treats for mom. I got a cup of hot cocoa, which easily was six Hershey bars melted into a cup of hot milk. Between the salt and chocolate, my mouth was many sorts of "there must be a Jolly Rancher somewhere?"

Mom and dad got spaghetti at night, but my stomach was still swollen from the salt and chocolate, so I passed. I need to lay low today, because I know tonight is the best evening to eat of the year. Nikki's meal was the best. She got a noodle dish that came out as a soup, and she didn't seem to be licking her arm the entire time scraping salt off her teeth. 

I do know that my ankles are likely to be extra swollen tonight, as Nikki told me to avoid salt and keep my legs up since my 2021 ankle-mishap. Lord knows I consumed more salt in that one meal than I have in the last two years of my life combined. 

Still, it was tasty. I see the potential of what the excellence could be should the chef have his salt-arms tied behind his back. 

It's Christmas Eve. Looking forward to the day ahead!

I'm Blaming Torrey M. for Starting My Holiday Season with a Mild (yet Brilliant) Distraction. He Must Understand I'm the Type That Loves These Stories

I guess it came at the perfect time...a message from author/teacher Torrey Maldonado asking if I had watched Arcane on Netflix. "I rarely watch television," I said. "Should I check it out?" He recommended I do. Dang. He knows me. How does he know me? He understood my love of Mandalorian, but how did he know I'd geek out over Arcane? Did he know my love of Umbrella Academy? How did he know I was a geek, too. Probably because he's a geek.

Anyway, I can say that I've been absolutely obsessed with the Powder/Jinx storyline and I'm absolutely in love with Mel Arcane (he said, "Wait until you meet her mother"). I met the mother. I still love Mel. The mother is a bit...much, no? Phew. Haven't quite see her in the movies now have we? We have now!

Now, as we start the chaos of food, gatherings, gifts, and squabbles, I am going to be thinking nonstop (obsessively) of how I can rewatch every episode of Arcane in slower motion. Yes, I've texted the geekiest of my geeky friends to say, "Stop everything and watch this now" (including, Chitunga). Now I await for them to say, "Yes, I started watching. Thanks." 

I imagine it will do to them what it did to me. 

But it's Thursday. Why am I thinking of what only a few know about? Because it's that brilliant. I now want to know everyone who has watched this and I want them to contact me immediately.

Yes, it finished just in time for the Kennedy Center Honors (we were there at Thanksgiving). And I'm thrilled to see both Joni Mitchell, Lorne Michaels, Justino Diaz, Berry Gordy, and Bette Midler honored. I know, too, my high school friends Tricia and Mike were live at the event. Amazing. 

But. back to Arcane. Wow. I am a new man because of this show. Applause. Arcane. Arcane. Arcane. 

Got Me a Tuesday Night Chubby's Case of Val's Wings, Salt City IPA, and Quick Pick Gambling - All is Well in CNY

I don't mind smooth travel. Yesterday was extremely smooth. Few cars on the road, no stops, blue skies, and sun (until I was a mile from Syracuse - then I could see the gray clouds of doom cascading over the city - seems like Mordor has a hold of the place - it's almost comical), and numerous cops looking for speeders without many cars to catch on their radars. 

Maybe it was worse than that, but I didn't know, because I was engrossed in a good audio book and the trip felt like the blink of an eye.

This morning, I'm still trying to digest the fried chicken wings of Val's as Papa Butch and I did a Tuesday night Chubby's run. That was my goal all along - to get to Syracuse in time for a beer with Butch. There are no wings as good as Val's breaded wings, and this morning the stomach is paying. Absolutely delicious - it's the holidays, so I indulged. 

They are calling for a wintry mix today with 2-4 inches possible. That would be nice although I think it will all melt by Saturday, so Santa's reindeer won't need their ice skates. 

My car needs to be emptied. There's no use dumping everything at my parents when they should be placed under Cynde's tree. We missed this last year because of Covid, and this year we're rolling the dice and hoping for the best (with fingers crossed/prayers for Chitunga who was contacted that he was compromised....waiting on his results).

But now I'm wondering what I'm going to eat today...so far I've resisted the buckeyes in Mama Sue's freezer. I don't want to get the cookie thing started until the last minute.

And I also want to finish my audio book. It's that good. 

Karal is at home....she loves the big back yard and dogs to run around with. It's a matter of fate with parent she trips first. Someone is going down. She's too fast and they are, well, slow, uneasy, clumsy, and a pair of klutzes. 

Awww, Shucks! I Got the Package of Lifesavers, Again! Throwback to Every Holiday Classroom Event, K-6th. Queue the Charlie Brown Christmas

I'm not sure what launched the conversation, but a few weeks ago I said something in the order of, "Oh, me? I always ended up with the package of Lifesavers someone's mom got from a local drugstore." We were discussing holiday swaps, and I was reminiscing about gift exchanges back in the day where we didn't move between classrooms, and everyone was instructed to bring a $5 gift to class for the holiday exchange. It is true, I always got the Lifesavers, and Kaitlyn Marie Kelly remembered. Somehow, somewhere, she found a box...the storybook kind, and sadly they didn't have the butter rum flavor that was always a favorite, but I will cherish the rainbow sort.

This, of course, prompted me to the 5th grade Christmas concert where I tried out to sing a solo. I didn't get it, so I tried out to play Frosty the Snowman. I didn't get that either. Even so, Mrs. Shakow, the music teacher, called me down to her office and gave me a candle. It was an angel singing to the Great Whatever. "I just wanted you to know that I was thinking of you," she said. "But the other auditioners were sons of school faculty and staff. Someday you'll understand school politics." Well, that touched my heart and I always loved my special gift and the recognition that she knew I could take the truth (actually, it's probably because I can't carry a tune and she was simply glad to get me out of her way). It was all good, though, because I did win a spelling bee in that elementary school by spelling leprechaun and bureaucracy correctly. Crandall for the win.

I spent the majority of yesterday editing an article with Susie Q in Florida, and doing a few quick trips to potentially find gifts for under the Christmas trees. 

I'm hoping, depending how this morning goes, that I'll pack up the car and head to Syracuse in time to take Papa Butch to Chubbies, so he doesn't have to gas his riding lawn mower. I did fill the tank of the Hulk. I have loose ends to tie with work before I leave, "Where on Earth did my one student disappear to?" I sure hope that health is on her side - she is in my prayers, as is her family. Only crickets from her on email. 

I've download 4 books to Audible, and I know I'm likely only to get through one, but I'm optimistic I might listen to more while visiting loved ones. 

And I have Lifesavers for the ride, and a gift card to Dunkin Donuts - I might even splurge on an egg sandwich on the way home to visit the folks.

...which will sit in my stomach for 3 days...

maybe I'll just get a coffee...

...which will make me have to pee...

This Is My 2021 Christmas Card - a Christmas Karal - Who Wishes Everyone a Peaceful Week, Calm, Grace, and the Love of Family. May Joy Find Your Heart.

I lost Glamis last Easter. It was not expected, it came fast, and it was heart-breaking. I wasn't in the market for another dog and quickly grew appreciation for a de-dogged home, including hairlessness. I boxed all dog materials in the garage and moved on with my life...one lived online because of Covid, one watching Chitunga soar on his own, and one hopeful something would give. I'm not sure why this particular face, this dog, broke through the "I'm not getting another dog barrier," but I knew it was going to be her as soon as I saw her. I kept going back online, memorizing her biography, and figuring out a way to get to Harrison/Rye in NY to visit her at PetRescue. It was, in fact, the first time they had in-person visits since the pandemic. 

I drove the hour trip, met the foster dad, played with her, and wondered, "Is this the dog I thought she'd be?" She was a frantic little girl, more concerned with everything around her than me. BUT she kept coming back to sit and perch her surveillance from my side. I knew she needed work, but I was sold. Driving home, she stared at me from the rearview mirror and then quickly fell asleep. 

It was only a matter of days before she did as Glamis always did and made the bay window her nook. I knew when the time came, I'd put up lights, and I'd be able to display a Christmas Karal. Pulling in my driveway last night, I had to take a photo. Yes, a Christmas Karal, indeed. A pain in the ass, so much energy, a passion for love bites and jumping, and we are working on that. She gets better each and every day - this dog who was adopted and returned 4 times in her first year of life because she had way too much love to give families in their small NYC apartments. 

Now, she has routines: morning Yoga, walks, more toys than a creature needs, and lying in the window to watch the neighbors and middle school kids walk by. She doesn't bark. She just nods her approval. She saves the barking for when she wants to go to bed, and she thinks I need to go upstairs with her. 

Anyway, this is my Christmas card this year - a Christmas Karal. Perhaps next year I'll add music outside the window so everyone who walks by can look at her posing and sing along. 

Fa la la la la la la la la. 

Now, I'm off to do some shopping. God help me.

It's My Mama's Birthday! Hip Hip Hooray (the Same Day in 1918 that Robert Ripley Began a Column of Unusual Stories - Believe It or Not)

This is not an unusual tale, although there is tremendous potential with the feet. Today is my mother's, SudyRip, Susan Marilyn Ripley Crandall's birthday! And no, as far as we know, there is no relation to Ripley's Believe It or Not or our line of Ripleys, even though I want there to be. That was the lie I loved to tell my students in Kentucky. I'm heir to the Ripley's Believe It or Not franchise and I don't need to teach. I choose to, because I wanted something different than all that money. Perhaps that story is true. I will never tell.

I can also say that on this date in 1957 The Music Man appeared at the Majestic Theater a few months before I was born in 1972. Also, CBS aired a Homecoming: A Christmas Story, which introduced the Waltons to the U.S. (goodnight, John Boy)...that was 1971. 

December 19th is a date I've always marked as a kick-off to the Christmas season and one where, during the best years of teaching in KY, I'd be able to get home to Syracuse as the target to chill-out for a while. Not so lucky this year, as there's more to be done this week, but I will be in upstate NY soon.

Even so, I knew my mom would be watching the interviews for the new West Side Story that aired a few weeks ago, so when I saw that Rita Moreno streaked her white hair with a wonderful red, I immediately searched online and found hair gels so my mom could do the same. In my head, she, Karen, and Stephanie Caroli could all have these hair-streaking parties when they were sick of their husbands. To my surprise, my mom was a bit resistant, thinking it would stain her beautiful white locks (that would maker her super-pissed). Touché. I really didn't know, but spent a pretty penny to send her six colors. 

I can proudly say, however, that my niece Nikki spent Friday with my mom convincing her it was okay to put the colors in her hair. Of course, Nikki tried every color under the sun and made her look like on of her  abstract paintings from last year (a result of too much wine and tequila), but that's okay. The barrier has been broken. Mom is okay with the dye and is willing to be festive when occasions allow. Better yet, Nikki also did my father's mustache in purple, which he loved.

So, I'm expecting a streak of blue today for her birthday and on Christmas Eve a little green and red for the holidays. She has no excuse not to add funk to her world. I can also report that the flowers arrived as expected, even if they look NOTHING like what I ordered online. Mom says, "I think they're going to bloom in a few days. They should fill out." Um, at that cost!!!! they'd better fill out. 

Anyway, this is my Sunday blog post and love-fest for everything MOMMY. My sense of humor, my passion for reading, and my ability to exaggerate any story to get the attention of others comes from her (Casey, Cynde, and I grew up witnessing such as my mom's practice of storytelling got better from one person to the other as she hung up with each, only to retry the story with someone new - these were the days of phones with cords, True Blue 100s, and always, always, always, layers of foundation makeup on the receiver. A simply trip-to-the-store story could quickly become an episode of Days of Our Lives by the time she was through with it. Yes, Roman Brady helped carry the groceries to my car. He pinned me up against my Renault and said, "Sue. Sue. Sue. I've always been in love with you. Marlena's possessed by the devil again. Let me stare in your blue eyes. Oh, and I love the blue streaks in your hair."

It's what we love about you, mom! Enjoy the day and I hope you receive all the attention you deserve! HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU!

We're In The Final Hours Now: Dog-Sitting, Holiday Drive-By's, Waiting on Just a Couple More Projects, and Realizing, "Wait. Christmas is Next Week?"

I need to get to campus. There's working needing to be done, but the University requested faculty stay away except for emergency needs (I'm thinking I might be okay on the weekend), and so I spent Friday finishing grading one class and hoping the last few projects would come in sooner, rather than later. But, like many on campus, I have students who are sick...very sick. I'm flexible, compassionate, and understanding. But I would like to put a bow on this semester.

Karal had yearly shots at Companion, so I swung by to pick up Jake. This way, they could spend a day together while Jake's mom, masked, was able to proctor examinations for students who requested extra time. As a result, the day was spent with two dogs trying to be on my lap wherever I tried to sit and tripping up my feet on every maneuver I tried to make.

A good friend, too, was diagnosed with Covid, so I put together a care package to leave on their doorsteps. I also got my hair cut by Jerry. I'm beginning to feel a lot like Christmas, because everywhere I go there are the reminders that it will be here before we know it. The roads around town are jammed with shoppers. Ugh. I am thinking I will just go with silly this year, and not stress myself out. I'm not a fan of crowds or frustrated people. I'll do what I can, when I can do it.

And something in the universe has my eyes watering and my nostrils closing up. It feels like I've been in a field of poinsettias, which are definitely not my plants. Either that, or I've been bathing in a pool of cats. I just know I'm burning, itchy, and nasally. 

Today, the weather is supposed to be miserable, so if the last projects don't come in, I believe I shall curl up under a blanket and try to read some of the piles of books in every room of my house. 

Finally, I keep thinking about the volleyball games last night and how disappointed the Lady Cards must be. They shouldn't be, but I know how hard they worked and what awesomeness their season actually was - all the games could have gone any way. They were that good...point for point, moment for moment, but Wisconsin sure put up a major barrier.

Meanwhile, schools are going back online...it's all kicking in. I'm sending prayers up to The Great Whatever. Teachers can't take aany more. It's difficult work under normal conditions.

Connecticut - up 50% in 24 hours with cases. Hmmmm. And now we have to figure it all out all over again. 

The Great Compromise of December, 2021...I'll Move My Laptop Stand, Karal, So YOUR Bed Can Be At My Feet. You Have Trained Me Well.

Dogs must think we're weird. Well, my dog must think that I'm weird. Why would someone sit in one place for 14 hours straight looking at a machine? To my credit, I would play ball, and alligator, and bones when they were brought to me and I could toss or tug them. It's not that I am ignoring her.

Still, the stress of a human sitting in place: devoted, dedicated, and focused for so many hours must perplex the canine brain. I mean, I am home. Why wouldn't my attention be completely on her?

One class is graded, and I have another to go. I did order pizza and I did watch NCAA volleyball to give myself an alternative to text.

I did lie on the ground and play with Karal during the games, but when she went into her barking phase, I knew she wanted to go to sleep. The bed was by the tree, so I put it by my feet. She curled up and fell to sleep. Compromised. It worked for her. She simply wanted to collapse, I guess, where she could inhale my foot odor. 

As for the stress of this time of year (and for the game), I have no words. I just had a love for the blood, sweat, and tears that goes into the work. 

It's Friday. The University made a call to close campus and to request work-from-home policy for final exams: no meetings, no in-person work, and finally new recommendations to be safe as numbers go up and the reporting can no longer be hidden. 

Bless us all. Bless teachers and educators everywhere who are central to the work, but obligated to the bureaucratic, administrated systems that govern us. 

Just bless. 

And for the Lady Cards - it's been a delight watching you compete this year, and Wisconsin put forward a solid, massive force. Be proud. What a season.

Yesterday, I Spent 14 Hours Studying for a Bio-Chem Examination. I Figured, "Why Not Do This Before I Delve Into Graduate Research Projects?" (Um, I'm Kidding)

I snapped a photo of these notes (this review), while teaching my graduate course Tuesday night. Just having it on the board put pre-service teachers into a tizzy. When they entered, I told them they needed to copy everything they saw because there was going to be a quiz at the end of class. The joke flopped. They looked like they wanted to cry.

Covid. Pre-service teaching. Other classes. The holidays. 

Anxiety is at an all time high, so my little joke basically resulted in a panic. So, I slowed down. We processed the work needing to be done, and I lent myself to them for help. They are not doing surgery on brains (not even hernias), so they should breathe a little more. Ah, but there's lessons to be learned about expertise, knowledge, and being comfortable with the processes expected of you.

I was a jerk yesterday. I got up, bulldozed, and tried to get one of my courses finished. Projects have been trickling in (they were due last night at 11:59:59 - guess how many sent theirs at 11:59:59?). Still, there were enough turned in early, so I had a steady flow of keeping up. I will get the ones that came at 11:59:59 today, as well as begin receiving another batch from another class. I just want them done. There's a whole semester soon to follow, and tremendous service work to do over break (not to mention pressing writing projects that need to be submitted and, bites nails, started).

HOW THE @#$# IS IT CHRISTMAS NEXT WEEK? WHY DIDN'T ANYONE TELL ME?

Ah but I want you to blow up this picture, and begin studying these notes - super impressed by the handwriting and orderliness of it all. As hectic as my days are this week (as they are for all academics), I might have to learn all of this (again). Not doing it. Bless the kids studying for this examination. 

Okay, Thursday. The goal is to repeat yesterday....the grading frenzy is upon me once again. And as always, applause for administrators who schedule meetings galore at this time of year. They either have no clue, forgot what it's like to be in an actual classroom, or have sadistic tendencies. Seriously. They scheduled 3 meetings today...a week before Christmas, as classes are ending, and grading needs to be done. Welcome to the Master Class of Ineffectiveness. We'll do what we can. 

PAMMAPAMP, 2022 - Last Class for the Semester, Exhausted, and In the Tradition of Teaching Writing, a Final Poem to Tie It All Together

I've been telling many this semester, I'm used to being tired and exhausted at this point. With that noted, this year I'm EXTREMELY tired and exhausted. Like, I'm almost numb from it all. Even in class last night as I tried to run the final workshop, I had to admit, "I'm delirious. This semester wiped me out."

Ah, but the cake was delivered, a student brought incredible Thai food to class, we ate, we worked, we appreciated, and we said goodnight. 

So, mid-week, a humpday, I offered a traditional acrostic for my students, Crandall style.

PAMMAPAMP, 2022

A 5-Stanza Poem

Bryan Ripley Crandall

I.

M emories. are fickle sprites, buzzing around in

A lignment of meaning and stardust -

P ainted dreams with flashbacks of

P eople, places, and things (are we nouns) we once knew.

I am, because we are. In this together. Just one community

N estled for a moment in serendipitous spaces,

G rouped as allies, amped as a team, this temporary tribe.

A nd so he we are as the results of another semester…

M ore seeds planted in gardens we’ve yet to see, more

P layfulness and tomfoolery of words, brain turds, and

I magination, as we read the word & the world, both

N ear and far, naming what it is we think we know.

G iants provide these shoulders. Upon them we stand.

II.

A nd there are always Fairfield turkeys.

L ollygagging poultry gobbling at our purposes in

L ife. These parking spaces can be a lot,

Y et there are always songs for protection.

F riendship, I believe, is like this, too.

R elationships built from family, friends, and the

E xistence (persistence) of what the tea leaves tell  us —-

E nter the road. There’s a box, some tress, a key. We

L ook to the Tarot for answers…the signs, the semiotics. Coincidence

A nd chance. What am I supposed to learn from this?

N othing? Everything? What about this Connecticut, or the

D eleware, the Maryland, and the Virginia. Is this what the story is about?

III.

P eople. They rush everywhere, each with their own secret care.

A nd I can’t help but hum that song along the Mersey,

M i fe está con los grandes.

E verywhere, The Whatever, the ferries carrying

L aughter, pain, nostalgia, hope, and surprise…
A ll the joy of perros cachorros. La

M agia llega de la punta de los dedos 

A s these ideas, thoughts, and possibilities 

D rip from my mind to these fingertips,

R eminding me (you/us) “We write to know what we think,”

I nternalizing ourselves externally upon the page (sometimes with rage),

G radually unraveling exactly who we are…what we might be…

A cross blank canvases we become, stunning, allowing

L anguage to weave a voice of one with the humanity of many.

IV.

M emories may lie, sure, but they also offer elm trees.

I, for one, believe in the bark beetle, the canopy and the roots.
M ens sana in corpore sano, and
I love sounds that embody eternity.

L ook at shorelines, how the waves lap

O ver and over again with a cosmic rhythm, stars bathe

U nder sunlight and, sometimes, beam from Mr. Moon.

G rowth depends on this. Seeing. Thinking. Reflection.
H arvesting these memories with such tides, creating music & singing
L yrics to live by. Longing to be amused. Entertained.
I n the end, we might live forever through the
N otebooks we leave behind. These thoughts. The sketches. Such possibilities.

V.

C ollectively, we’ve become. We are. We were. We will be.
O n Tuesday afternoons (or is that evenings?) we have
M apped and amped temporary blueprints …
P lanning, printing, drafting, believing, and revising for a while.
O h, the places, Seuss, we went…the places still to go.
S o… it comes to a finale, or is that a beginning,
I n the exact moment when we were just getting the party started.

N ow we need lights, more pens, even better questions for the
G atherings of students we’ve still to meet…but whom we’ll touch.

T ommorow and tomorrow and tomorrow,
O h, that’s the way it goes, Macbeth, these tales (I’m such an idiot),
G o in tandem with the temporary bonds of time, the
E xistential randomness of the single moment, the ever-evolving
T ask of asking, “Who am I? Who are you? Who are we together?”
H ere, however, in this fork in the road,
E ach of us. One spoon (maybe a knife) to empty the ocean. Teaching,
R eaching forward with the power of our words. Write?

Processing this Moment in Time, Thankful to my National Writing Project Family, LOVING the MacBook Pro Gifting the Work I Do, and Praying (for What it is Worth)

And, it's a Tuesday.

I know I was well past a 14-hour day when I realized, "Dang, Crandall. I hope what you're doing actually matters in the grand-scheme of things." As anticipated with a Sunday work-fest, my Monday was spent grading, collaborating, tuning, processing, and dreaming. It's the point of the semester where I simply throw my arms up to the Great Whatever. 

I'm feeling confident about collaborative writing projects (love me some Susan James and Jessica Early), hopeful about what tomorrow might bring (hello, Abu. You better hear everything I said), and happy about graduate work coming in. 

I'm also thankful to the lights of skimpy, albeit it practical Christmas tree (and for me, it brings forward memories I love). I wrote to Chitunga simply to say, "Our worlds differ, son. But for this moment, academics everywhere are hoping for the best. It's what we do. I will be there for you during tax season."

And I suppose this is a day of holding breaths. I have a full day of finalizing graduate courses, all the while I am thinking of many I care for, worry about, and have on my mind. Life is always heavy; it might be a heavier contemplation given where we are globally right now. Many are on my mind. 

Ah, but for today, I've got items in queue for meeting discussions, graduate work ready to address, and a final class to teach. As I type this morning, I also have the smell of tonight's gift for so many who worked so hard (and a special gift for a colleague who has become a new neighbor). 

Okay, Tuesday. I see you, and I'm on it. 

And I'm being honest here. The new MacBook Pro given to me by the University makes everything easier. I love the keyboard, the ways it guides those of us who live online, and the design. Very grateful and thankful, today, for such a machine.

Okay, Monday. I Got You. I Geeked All Day Sunday, so Come at Me With What You Got. My Nerdiness Has Me Ready For You. Bring on the Grading.

You know you are at the end-of-the-semester when you spend the weekend in anticipation of the last week of class, knowing all has been graded thus far, and preparing for all still to come, by tackling items on the to-do list since September. 

Seriously. Those of us working in higher education know that there are only glimpses (fragments)(tiny blips) of time to do the additional work expected of us to maintain our jobs, simply because doing our job requires our attention 24/7. So, when students have a week to work on final projects, we have a weekend to answer emails, respond to inquiries from two years ago, to work on writing projects that are long neglected, and actually to advise students we never really have time for. 

I awoke yesterday in nerd-mode and I remained there all day. I'm not sure how much I really accomplished, but do know I finally submitted a grade change for a student from 2020. He's gradating this year, and I finally got to his work. He got Covid and needed to sign-out for a while. It's taken me two years to get back on this...that's how the academic's calendar rolls...and it's not like we're not aways working. 

I'm hoping to carry some of the nerdiness with me today, too. I only have one last class to teach left this semester, then grading, writing projects, and University service-responsibilities to contend with. At this point of the semester, I feel guilty even looking at the piles of books that are next on my to-read pile.

And I did watch the videos of groveling teachers stuffing their pockets with cash at the Teacher-give-away at some ice-rink out West. Someone posted, "What stage of capitalism is this?" and I had to agree. On one hand, I'm excited that a few teachers ACTUALLY had a chance of getting resources for their classroom, and on the other hand I was thinking, "What nation makes it so difficult for teachers to do their jobs, that good teachers are willing to crawl on their hands and needs in front of spectators simply to get a few bucks for the kids?" Obviously, I applaud these teachers for always doing anything they can for their students. BUT having spectators and arenas full of people cheering on educators groveling for the chance to have support for their kids is just sick. 

Um, shouldn't every teacher simply be respected with resources naturally given to them?

And with that, Monday. Here's another day in America. 

The Oldie, But Goodie, Of Internal Prayers, Whispered Within, and Sometimes Aloud, Since 1989 When I First Heard It...Seeking Wisdom to Know the Difference for Over 30 Years

When I was a senior in high school, I was approached with my friend Melanie (now a PhD at Syracuse) and my friend Laura (wish I knew where she was) to participate in a pilot program at an office of Social Work in North Syracuse. The social workers at the facility offered 3 internships for seniors to be peer advisors for fellow teenagers throughout central New York, where we simply worked to offer friendship, guidance, listening ears, and support to fellow youth going through a lot in their lives. It was there I learned the Serenity Prayer, and internalized the motto in my life. 

In later years, I learned it was a mantra for AA and that made sense, as mottos for overcoming extreme difficulty are both helpful and healing from time to time. I've used the prayer almost daily ever since. The bottom line is that there are some things in life that are just overwhelming and extreme, and it is humanly impossible to correct them. Having the wisdom "to know the difference" is the key.

More often than not, I've had the "courage to change the things I can," but I've also been savvy to recognize what is out of my control. I can only be responsible for my attitude and my actions. That is why I've always lived (at least I think) where my choices and actions speak louder than my words.

It's the Matrix swirl: take the garbage, swirl it around and put it to the side. Yet, when the garbage piles and piles and piles, and there's no visible way to contend with it, I simply have to think about how it is affecting my attitude and/or paralyzing my actions. And I just want good. I seek fairness and equity, and nothing makes me happier than those who act with integrity and joy. When this is defeated, I have to return to being able to "accept the things I cannot change," "the courage to change the things I can," and of course, "the wisdom to know the difference."

I suppose what makes me such a jerk is I want and expect more of the world and those around me. And so this is what I'm wrestling with on a Sunday morning, knowing I have to contend with what my heart and mind have been telling me for many years now, amidst the weight of adulthood, maturity, and responsibilities. For sanity's sake, I have to find the adjustments necessary so I can live a happier, better life. No fun having the icky feeling in your stomach.

This is where I am this morning as I drink my morning coffee. Yes, I'm disillusioned by the universe right now, but I've been in this space before and made the adjustments necessary to grow and to be stronger. I  look for The Great Whatever to offer me a path forward. This is how it is, has been, and will always be. 

God, grant me serenity.

Trigger Warning: Note to Fairfield University Faculty and Staff Who Walk Into the Digital Neverlands. This is Art on Their Walls (Dream Trauma)

There are two dreams that I've taught myself to wake up from. The first involves any and all variations of being buried alive: quicksand, dirt, rocks, buildings. I can't stand the suffocation, so I wake up instantly to shake it off. The second is the pervasive high school locker dream. You're running late for class, your locker is on the 3rd floor, and you need to get to the gym on the first floor, totally other side of the building. But you can't remember the combination. Sometimes I do, but then I don't have gym clothes packed away. I have this dream once a month. 

Perhaps that is why the wall art in the Dolan Commons of Fairfield University struck me as triggering. I wanted to leap up and start spinning the gigantic lock on the wall.

As a follow-up to yesterday's chaos, I can report that the car is done, the new laptop is in my home (and I love it! And I love Sherry Salafa who is one of Fairfield's most amazing workers), and the inspectors thumbed-up the new gutters and trim. It looks great. They gave me a quote for a new bay window, too, and I coughed. Um no. Then they came back and said, "We have what you need in stock, and a green campaign not to have any waste. We can give you a great discount. How about 50% off?" Um, suckered in. Now that all windows have been done and the trim looks great there are two major eye sores: I need to paint the porch and the bay window is like 40 years old. It is starting to detached from the house and I'm afraid I'll have another disaster. Why not mess with my credit a little?

Karal was an absolute nutcase with the inspector. I had to lock her away. No combination on that door. She was obsessed with jumping on him and biting his shoes. Some people she goes cuckoo over. He was one of them. And I loaded him up with books to take home to his two children.

Finally, the boot is off. And I walked Karal 4 miles. There was no pain. That was probably the greatest part of the entire day. Actually, no. I got to play trivia with some of my Syracuse University peeps in an online platform. Not bad for a day that was suppose to be terrible. We came in 3rd place, losing 2nd with a tie-breaking question we didn't know. The 1st place team gets everything right, every time. We just know this is the way they are, and let them do as they do. We simply compete to have fun, which we always achieve.

Bryan the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day (Month, Year, Life). Ugh. It's All Good. I Also Like Annie (and She Has Red Hair, Too)

The computer from the University that I was notified about 8 months ago and that has sat on campus, is ready to be transitioned to my hands. This, of course, requires leaving my computer over night, so that all materials can be transferred, although most is kept in Dropbox. Fine. I get a loaner for 24 hours, which doesn't get the transfer, so I spent this morning doing what I could to find a way to post my daily blog. Achieved. Last night, I spent a hour getting into a ZOOM meeting. Achieved. 

Today, however, I am dropping off my car at 8 a.m. and need to be home by 3 p.m. to talk with the contractors for a final walk through. I also have to be on campus by 1 to pick up the new computer which is supposed to be ready by then.. I have to be up early to make arrangements for pick-up for drop-offs throughout my day, unless the dealer thinks they will get to the car quickly (do they ever do this? No.) Meanwhile, I have a 7 p.m tonight I also have to be at.

I'm anticipating chaos. We are so reliant on our computer systems and I'm forever multitasking (and rather quickly). When I don't have all my digital tools readily available to me, I get paralyzed. Those of us who twirl plates, juggle chainsaws, and ride unicycles achieve this because all of our login information is stored and access to the multiple platforms is easily achieved.

Until your computer is taken and traded for another. 

I got up this morning waving a tissue. It is my white flag. I know today is impossible, but I will do what I can do in the ways I can do it.

On a happy note, the new trim looks amazing, and I can't believe how wonderful new gutters actually are. I now realize the birds and bees did more damage than I realized. Everything looks so clean now. And I was in conversation with National Writing Project directors from across the country who have already turned in their grades. I have another week.

I wish I could spend today in bed. Actually, I wish I could spend today in a normal way. None of this will be happening. Maybe tomorrow. Or Sunday. Or Next Week. 

When you're stuck with a day, that's gray, and lonely....just stick up your chin, and grin, and say.......

Cake Night! & Summer Contractor Delight! Oh, Wait! It's December 10th - 5 Months Later the Materials Are In! Take That Carpenter Bees & Woodpeckers

One of my graduate students wrote a think-piece asking "how does one finds optimism within the cynicism of K-12 schooling?" He asked for my advice and I simply responded, "I do the Matrix." I explained how I swirl all the negative and put it in a ball, and push it out of the way. I then look for something good to do for the world. In the tradition of Crandall graduate classes, last night was about THE CAKE. Everyone is tuned, workshopped, research, fixed, and evaluated, and I offered them a snack, while I met one on one with each in the hallway. Last classes are always odd, and I've always hated having presentations as a finale. I'm more interested in the work they submit and want to meet them one-on-one, with what they are working on. 

On another note, John from Power called to explain that the reason all those supplies were delivered to my house without any announcement is because they would begin work at 8 a.m. yesterday morning. And he was correct. I am amazed at how much was accomplished in one day and how good it looks. For those wondering, the house I inhabit was uninhabited for a few years, resulting in squirrels, mice, bees, and birds staking claim to the wood, attic, and trim. The carpenter bees have been the worse, drilling holes in all the wooden framework, only to lay eggs that are later sucked out by Pileated Woodpeckers. Basically, the wood frame on my garage and house looked like people have been shooting at it for target practice. This, and with the rains that rot wood, it's looked awful.

So, I had the framing and gutters of my house completely redone. It looks great, but now I see the major need to have the entire outside of my house repainted. The flashy whiteness of the trim has the house looking chipped, dull, and in need of fresh paint. I'm very impressed at what they've done so far and can't wait to see when the new gutters are put in by Friday. 

The A-frame of the garage looks brand new, and I'm looking forward to all that is still to come.

Ah, but then there is Karal. She wanted to be with them as much as possible, but wasn't allow to be with them at all. Of course, today they get to work in the coating of snow on the roof. A light, fluffy snow fell overnight. 

They send only one man and I said, "I guessed there'd be an entire crew." He responded, "Nah. People don't like to work. So it's just me." He was super efficient and I had to laugh by how quick he could walk on the roof, up and down ladders. It was like a Super Mario game. When I get up there, all I can think about is falling and losing my footing. 

Oh well, time to see the dermatologist. It's Kennelog day, which means I get to stick my legs into a wast's nest and get a 100 stings in my leg to treat the psoriasis. I know many would cringe, but I get excited that for a short while, anyway, my legs will clear up and not burn or itch. So, here I go. 

Seemed Like a Good Time to Throw a "Scripted Workshop" into a Graduate Course, Because It's the Time of the Year When So Many Of Us Simply Need To Laugh

I love my colleague Dr. Michelle Farrell. Why? Because I know she is a phenomenal educator, she came to higher education from a K-12 background, and because I hear students celebrating everything and all from her classrooms. She's become a reliable, professional friend of mine, too, and in a recent dialogue about teaching, when I said I hate the "Actor" metaphor for teachers, performing on the stage, and prefer the notion of Improv comedy and being on our toes, she simply tapped her theatrical background and said, "Actually, the work of teachers is more of a Stage Manager...the kids are the performer, and the manager is the master of ceremony: knowing the objectives, having prompts in place, understanding lighting and direction, and basically being behind the scenes for everything and everyone is what we do. We know how the show should go.

I simply love that.

Last night, I decided to run the 2nd to last class as a performative script. I wrote the entire lesson with actors, actresses, movement, course content, and humor as a screenplay. The students simply performed the learning, which I was able to tap as a point for their own lesson plans. Think of lesson-plan as stage-managing. Make sure you know all the behind-the-scenes work needing to be done: content, expectations, objectives, anticipation of what will go right, and what will go wrong. The entire night was scripted.

I took the shot above of a student dancing in the middle of the lesson to Pharrell (as the directions required, although there was no call for coconuts or lizard masks. That was her improvisation). I absolutely love teaching, especially during exercises like last night. 

Then I walked out to my car. During the day, the lot is full with cars of students, staff and faculty. Graduate academics were given the opportunity to be online or in person. In the words of one student who is in this class, "I finish this semester with my coursework. I will then have my Masters degree. You're the only professor I've met in person and has come to campus." Strange to think that this is the reality of Covid-restricted graduate students. It's hard to believe, but I've hosted all my courses, except two, in person. My students voted they wanted to be on campus and I listened to them while adhering to protocols (I mean, after all, my K-12 work has me in fully populated schools on a daily basis and instruction has gone forward, with adaptations, as usual). 

I'm still in a leg brace, so the walk is lengthy, but when I came out the door, cutting through another building, I looked out to the lots that were empty. I said, "Oh, look, Kermit. You're still the Hulk I've always known you can be. So glad you're still here to bring me home."

And then I came home to plan for tonight's class. Boulder. Hill. Defeat. Repeat.

Yesterday Was the Mondays of All Mondays, Making It the Mondayest Monday of All

Newsflash - I avoided my office on Sunday, but did go into work on Saturday, simply because the CWP administrative work, without an assistant, support, or a graduate student, means that I also get to play the role of support system to myself. It's okay. K-12 teachers know this too well. If you want something done, and you believe in it, you do whatever it takes to make it happen, no matter how many institutional obstacles stand in your way.

So I went into work over the weekend to file, organize, submit, edit, revise, address, label, and figure out the University's Workday system, and then I got everything ready so that if, and when, a graduate student assigned to the School of Education came in to earn hours, I was ready to ask for the support I needed. 

Long story short, as of 3 p.m. yesterday, I successfully got all the Workday materials through, mailed 100+ copies of POW! Power of Words, and prepped materials for the two course coming my way over the next two days. I came home last night and immediately got on top of it. That is, after I ran chili to Pam's and put winter love into our stomachs. 

Phew. It was hard for me to keep my eyes open and at 7 p.m. I was ready to throw in the towel and head to bed. 

We used to say of students in Kentucky, "They live in a magical-thinking world. They want it to be wondrous like it is in their heads, but they don't know the hard work that goes into making those visions a reality."

I can say I put in a rigorous weekend to counter the magical thinking in order to make it a reality. I'm more impressed with myself, however, because I did so given the systems required of us to get anything done on campus. Lord knows there are fewer and fewer on campus to help those of us who work as we do, but I know who they are and I'm thankful for them. They will be given gifts, trust me. 

So, here's to all my NWP colleagues across the country making miracles work wherever it is they direct. There's a book in all this, but I don't think anyone wants to read a scripture of frustration. They just want to know what was accomplished. 

I'm feeling accomplished. 

A Lil' Mini-Adventure to Stamford Yesterday. New Apartment, New Life, Why Not Gift An Early Surprise to Kick-Off the Holiday Cheer

I wasn't sure how well it would go over, but Chitunga did mumble that he went looking for a tree for his apartment, but they were pricey. I've been keeping my eyes open, so when Kaitlyn Kelly said Friday night, "Mom. I think I'm going to donate my old tree to Goodwill," my ears perked up. I inquired, "What if we do a surprise trip to Stamford and help Chitunga to set up his first apartment so he can spend the rest of December with a smile?"

They were in. We each bought ornaments, and I stopped to get Christmas pillows for his couch, holiday table cloths, and a nice gnome blanket to snuggle in as he looks at his tree. Roy let us in, as Chitunga was out, but we had most of it up for when he entered. He was surprised, had a huge smile, and immediately took over the decoration. 

In response, he took us to lunch in the Harbor Yards, and we had a fantastic meal. I went for brunch as I love breakfast food, but rarely get it. The open omelet with mushrooms, potatoes, peppers, bacon, and cheese was amazing, as was the side arugula salad. I did very well. 

When I lived in Kentucky, I remember saying to many people that a really cool side-hustle business would be to partner retirees with people just starting out....so many stored items in the basement that they probably could use. Kaitlyn's not retired, but she did have this pencil tree (her first for her own apartment) and it was perfect for the apartment in Stamford. 

It was a gorgeous day, too. So thankful to the kindness and friendship of Pam and her kids. Also grateful that Chitunga sees them as extended family in Connecticut. I think before the day ended, Pam convinced him he needs to come over for a pajama party and Hallmark movie festival. Kaitlyn, I believe, added with Polish Polka and holiday tunes. I'm not wondering about a perfectly pointless Polish polka pajama party for the holidays. It could happen. 

So blessed to have this kid in my life, and also to be surrounded by people who choose love, kindness, support, and laughter as their own life mission. 

I know, from this year onward, Chitunga will put up these decorations and think of home, all while building a home for himself. I admit, it was hard putting up the tree alone this year and somehow I knew he'd ask, "Why didn't you bring the Pam angel for the top of my tree." We told him, "Oh, we can make you one." 

We will. 

We should also note that Tunga has lights put up in the apartment that change colors. He put them on before we arrived, and everything in the apartment came together at once. So wonderful. So beautiful. Such a special moment in time.

I Love My Colleague, @sonyahuber, and I Very Much Look Forward to Her Latest SUPREMELY TINY ACTS. I Love the Way She Writes

Truth: I will read Supremely Tiny Acts today. I meant to yesterday, but tiny acts came upon me that were unexpected, so that is what I'm scribing today. 

Truth: I am the fortunate honoree to read/review a Sonya Huber book that will be released in the Fall of 2022, and I can't wait to get that book in the hands of my teachers. It's a perfect National Writing Project text that will be beneficial to directors everywhere. But, shhhh, Crandall. You know nothing. You just know this stupendous human being who arrived to Fairfield when you did and who has kept you in awe ever since: a rock, a sounding board, a fellow collector of knick knacks and silly shenanigans, and a passionate human being in love with the power of words. Their utility. The insanity. The joy.

Truth: There are some human beings that make this life thing a little more tolerable and a lot more hopeful. Sonya Huber is one of these people. I adore her and the writing she gifts us with.

But what I mean is the every day is draining because the hours are made up of attempts to keep functioning and keep a job and do normal things and microwave mozzarella sticks for one's teenage son (actually, don't microwave, these should go in the toaster oven, trust me) and so every day dealing with the mundane is a stark wrongness, a sign that we are all more split inside, that we have to dissociate or compartmentalize, but I don't think people are numb or tuning out, we're just all divided in several pieces and we know we should constantly be setting things on fire so we are trying to figure out what constitutes ethical action. (p. 7)

Phew. That's Sonya. 

But, then again, that is faith for me, the faith that people who care about making the world better have to add their supremely tiny acts together, and if you can function in that constant impossibility of your tiny actions, then you can contribute grains of sand that might stop the engine of doom. (p. 8)

Boom. All of this. 

Tiny Act: After I left the Fairfield University bookstore, Karal got sick. I'm not sure what she got into, but she began shaking, shivering, and swaying. I could tell she was not feeling well, so a call to the vet (who also happens to be a friend and someone I consider family) suggested a teaspoon of peroxide to get her to vomit. This worked and she released much of what was in her stomach, but as the puppy she is, she didn't want to lose her puppydom, so kept following everyone around wanting to play, wanting scraps of food, and wanting love. But she was exhausted. She couldn't stand unless she was leaning on something. So, I coached in her toward a dog bed, and was thankful when she finally settled in. 

Not sure whether her shivering and swaying comes from nerves about being sick or something more severe, I laid down with her to keep her caressed and calm. She settled, and seemed to appreciate the warm embrace of her human taking care of her. I can only channel the times I've been sick and how I don't want to be sick, especially because I can't keep the pace I'm used to if I'm sick. It goes against Crandall tendencies. When I do get sick I get rather nutty and neurotic, and I have to think the same is true for her. Being sick is confusing, out of the ordinary, especially when you're a puppy and you want nothing more than love, attention, and treats. 

In that moment, though, stopping the pitter-patter of a day, I could only flashback to the morning I held Glamis in my arms last spring as she was dying and her body was shutting down. She wanted to hide from me, disappear as death came upon her, but I wouldn't let that happen. I was with her until the end, and I can't help but think this is good for dogs. They are ashamed of their weaknesses, as are we. So, on that Easter morning, I simply cuddled her, keeping her safe and wrapped in blankets, lying for 24 hours until offices opened and veterinarians returned to work after the holiday weekend.

Karal seems better this morning, and because she is due for shots, I'll bring her to Companion Hospital. I was channeling my friend Sonya, however, as she's always there for me in ways I hope to be there for Karal --- that is, modeling how to find meaning in the sanctity of each and every second. Pam, Leo, and Bev are saints. So is Jake. They care, and I'm appreciative of them. I'm happier, however, that the puppy came back to her normal self...it was just a temporary scare, perhaps triggered by eating something she shouldn't have...a random berry, a tree ornament, goose poop, a cigarette butt...a sea shell. Who the hell knows?

Moment by moment, we never know when our tiny acts will put us in a tailspin of worry, overthinking, drama, and concern. But that is life, especially for empathetic and compassionate souls like me. One second we're walking along the shores of Walnut Beach, the next second we're holding the jaws of a sick dog so she'll swallow H202 and vomit her eternity onto a concrete entryway. 

All this is to say, Congratulations! Sonya Huber, on the book launch. I can think of nothing else I'd rather do today that read more of this memoir. That is, of course, after we pay a surprise visit to Chitunga in Stamford, delivering to him his first Christmas tree, and lunch, all while sharing joy in the chaos of a Sunday afternoon, when I should be grading, should be writing, and should be finishing Sonya's latest book. 

Enormous acts within every tiny moment. Tiny victories within the enormity of it all.