Back to School Isn't Just About the Kids

“You learn something new every day if you pay attention.”

---Ray LeBlond

While one doesn’t have to be in school to learn, it is that time of year. Folders, binders and
supplies are flying off the shelves, the big yellow buses are rolling, and it’s what some parents
(and at least one store advertisement) have called “The Most Wonderful Time of the Year.”
I get that. Summer is great fun for the kids, but it can be a hassle for parents. The beach,
backyard BBQs, longer days, sea breezes and sand are a much-needed part of growing up. So is
an education and, when September comes, that’s where you’ll find more than a few grumpy
kids.

Parents can breathe a little easier when school starts, at least for the first week or so. They no
longer have to be the activities director. The house is quiet for a few hours and there isn’t a
constant stream of Fortnite players and floss dancers bouncing off the walls. While many might not admit it, the kids get over the moodiness of summer’s end pretty quickly. So, parents are happier now, the kids can start their fall sports and see their friends every day, what’s not to like?

Well, I think we are forgetting a few people in the back to school crunch. What about the
teachers? Summer time, at least part of it, is a huge break for them. Summer means that the
alarm clock isn’t bleating like a lost sheep at some un-Holy early hour. There’s no pile of papers
to grade every night. Lesson plans are not due, classrooms are locked and the fun beach books
are in the “to be read” pile instead of IEPs and curriculum changes. How hard it must be for
educators to put away the sunscreen and, once again, clean, unpack and decorate a classroom.

Think about the first day of school. You arrive at your child’s school, dragging a case of Kleenex
and a tub of wet wipes. The desks all have place cards on them, with the names of students.
There are theme boards with cutesy calendars, and color-coordinated task charts. Who did all
that and when did they have time? The teacher did it, and they make the time while most of us
still have our toes in the sand and a drink in hand. The whole “Teachers have it made, they
don’t work all summer” concept is a lie. Every single teacher I know spends a good part of the
summer on continuing education, cleaning classrooms, buying supplies with their own money
and planning the year to come. Also, not every teacher can take the summer off. Many have a
second job, because rent needs to be paid in the summer too.

No one likes the fun to come to an end, but teachers have to be ready, on the first day, to take
on the entire year. No kid shows up on the first day of school already knowing how they are
going to teach the unit on fractions, but the teacher does. That’s because they likely worked it out over their “vacation.” Teachers show up at the school room door already knowing the
names of more than 20 kids and the family and health information on a good many of them as
well. They didn’t wait until Labor Day weekend to think about how their classroom should look.
They were likely in that classroom during the dog days of August, setting up a reading corner
and moving furniture around. There is no “Laminating Fairy” that sneaks into the teacher’s
lounge and heat seals 50 sets of handwriting cards and multiplication tables. There are no
education elves that neatly sort crayons and markers into brightly colored bins. That is done by
the teachers while their students are still hitting the waves.

While it’s a lot of work and a job I could certainly never do, many of my friends who are teachers say back to school is a new beginning for them. New faces, new challenges and, at
least for the first few days, the fresh clean smell of Xerox paper and red rubber kick balls for recess. January is the start of a new year and when many of us make resolutions to get
organized, start over, do better at something. Personally, I find no renewed motivation for anything but Netflix and bacon during the frigid days of January. September and back to school is my jam. What a perfect time to turn over a new leaf, when they’re all gorgeously gold and red, showing their best sides. Teachers know this too, and they’ve come prepared to make it happen for our kids. So while you dance back to the car after drop off, take a minute to realize that this day didn’t just appear out of thin air. It happened because dedicated education professionals skipped a few beach days. To the teachers I know, welcome back, you were missed.

Live From a Kitchen Near You

“Cooking is the art of adjustment.”

---Jacques Pepin

Adjustment? No, I’m sorry, I am horribly maladjusted (or so I am told), so perhaps this has been the problem in the kitchen for me. It’s not that I don’t try hard. I do try. What I lack in skill I make up for in effort and the ability to put out a fire. There are kids to be fed in my family; takeout and cereal are not proper meals, at least not every day. Recently though, I challenged myself. A good friend is an excellent cook, foodie, blogger, and social media maven. Jessica Alves has it going on in the kitchen, from simple to elegant and everything in between.

She recently started hosting Facebook live videos from her kitchen with fun recipes that can feed a crowd or just a couple of preschoolers. Honestly, a couple of preschoolers is a crowd, and they can turn on you fast. She asked if I would be a guest on one of the videos. Her current project is about waffles. Not those frozen Frisbees, but genuine, homemade waffles. She can do anything with them; it’s quite something. The problem, for me anyway, was that I would be entering into a Holy Trinity of danger if I agreed. There would be open flames, sharp knives and a video camera aimed at me. I don’t do well with any of those. Not to brag, but I don’t even have to touch a pan or a utensil to have a near-death experience in a kitchen. I suffered a concussion just from mopping the floor in my kitchen. A track light exploded over my head once, because that is the kind of luck I have, and I nearly lost an eye. I accidentally killed a goldfish in my garbage disposal; it’s a long story, but the gist of it is, don’t clean a fish tank in the kitchen sink. The floor at my badminton club is still sticky from the Great Caramel Sauce Incident of 2012. But hey, I have red shoes, what could go wrong?

Still, I was intrigued, so, like many of the adventures people ask me to go on, my answer is eventually, “Ok, why the hell not?” We agreed on a date, and that was that. Until it was fast approaching on my calendar and then began the wailing and gnashing of teeth. What was I going to wear? Did they make aprons that would cover up the evidence of a well-fed summer of fried clams and soft-serve? I don’t own anything flame retardant or camera ready. What about my hair? I tie it back when I cook because burnt hair stinks up the kitchen, but it’s not a good look for a close-up. Thanks to another good friend, I found an apron, and she monogrammed it for me, in case there was some disfiguring accident, the EMTs would know it was me by my initials. Jessica had the food all handled; my job was just to show up and help. I even wore lipstick, because I could hear my mother’s voice in my head, “Would a little lipstick kill you? You’re gonna have your picture taken!”

I showed up at the right time and on the right day, an accomplishment in itself. It was go time! Jessica’s kitchen is organized and looks like a magazine layout of some celebrity’s home. She got the camera rolling and there we were. Making angel food cake waffles, with maple sauce and roasted fruit. You can roast fruit, who knew? Ok, everyone but me.  My first job was to slice up the cake. Check that off the list; no blood was spilled. So far, so good. Then, for the sauce, I had to boil maple syrup and sugar. In a pan, over a gas flame. Another home run! I stirred, it foamed, it caramelized, it was a thing of beauty. No burns, no spills. Melted butter had to be brushed on the cake slices and the waffle iron. Pro tip: Waffle irons are hot and melted butter is slippery. Still, no incidents! I was cooking with gas, literally! Dusting waffles with a dredge (great word!) of cinnamon and a mere splash of butter. Plating fruit. But wait, there’s more! Whipped coconut cream. If you keep a can of it in the fridge, you can beat it into a smooth topping that tastes amazing. The mixer was humming, the waffles were sizzling, and I didn’t burn the fruit. Truth be told, that’s because Jessica did that part, but, moving on, what about the video you ask?

Well. It turns out that I am not good at knowing where to put my arms, they just flap around. On film, it appears as if I have restless elbow syndrome, but I’m working on that. We won’t discuss the fact that the camera adds 80 pounds. People say it’s ten, but that is a vicious lie. Couldn't I just hide?

 Also, in a Facebook video people watching can comment during the broadcast. Except I couldn’t see the comments since I was busy licking the coconut cream mixing bowl. I’m a class act for sure. Finally, whenever I have to speak around or to people I don’t know, I make a concerted effort not to sound like my Aunt MAHHHHGAHRET from DAW-CHESTAH. Except for this time. Holy Masshole Batman, it was wicked pissah. I did avoid dropping any F-bombs though, and if you know me, you know that’s a win.

All in all, it was seriously fun and surprisingly safe considering a kitchen is pretty much the Bermuda Triangle for me. Check out Jessica’s website at https://atasteforliving.com/blog/ for awesome recipes and videos. I will be back, stay tuned. Jessica's blog can be found here

https://atasteforliving.com/blog/ and the video is hosted here

Don't Forget Where You Live

“Don’t forget where you live.”

---F. L. Kelley, Sr.

My father would say this every time one of us walked out the door. He wasn’t really concerned that we’d forget our address or not be able to find our street; it was more than that. I know where I live, and, lucky for me, it’s the same house I've been remembering for years. The same room where my father sat, watching the game and reading the paper, is where I sit if I have to wait up for a child. Our side yard, where my friends would pull up and honk is now where my own kids wait for a ride, or, in the case of the boys, park their cars when they visit. The car horns and slamming screen doors echo through years of Friday night dates; Neck runs, prom dates and playmates trying to round up enough people for kickball.

An address on a driver’s license isn’t what my father meant when he warned us against forgetting where we live. And it’s not as simple as “where you live is who you are.”  It’s about the place you’ve chosen to call your home. Fair warning, it’s a little bit of a philosophical rabbit hole, something my father was known for getting lost in, but it came to mind recently when there was a discussion on being a “True 'Header.” In its most basic meaning, a “True ‘Header” is someone who was born in Marblehead. Usually, this means the old Mary Alley hospital which doesn’t exist anymore, so in one way, a true ‘Header is quite rare. Sure, now and then a wee one gets born at home, here in town, and that’s pretty amazing, but overall, where you happen to slide into the world, slippery and screaming, isn’t always where you are “from.” In a town like ours, with so much history, so many significant world events that began here, and so much pride, I can understand the importance some place on being a true ‘Header. To a point, that is.

Eventually, though, it must be asked, “Does everyone who lives here now, but  who came from somewhere else have to be identified as such?” How long does one have to live in a place to say, for instance, “I’m from Marblehead?”  I was eight years old when I moved here. It’s been 46 years, and other than a brief time in college, this has been where I call home. What is the proper response when someone asks me, “Where ya’ll from?” For the record, the “ya’ll” is legit, it seems the only people who ask that are from the southern part of the United States; they’re just extra sweet and friendly like that. Vermont holds a special place in my heart, because when I lived there, for school, it became my home, in ways that are not defined by a zip code. I’m not from there though.

Before we moved to Marblehead, my family went all the way back in Nahant to when the boat from County Cork docked. The best stories my parents told growing up happened over in Nahant, like the time my father “borrowed” a police car for a joy ride or the time my mother rode her bike down the church steps. They were from there. I don’t think I am though. Their parents? They were from Ballydehob and Clonakilty. And so it goes; the concept of where we are from becomes a debate, or, sadly, something that causes yet another division between separate groups.

Our country is incredibly divided right now; I’m pretty sure everyone would agree on at least that. Regardless of what label you carry, be it political, racial, geographical or financial, the fact remains that like a Venn diagram, there are lots of areas that overlap. There is someone in town whose ancestry goes back to the same village in Ireland where two of my grandparents lived. So, are we “from” the same place? He’s lived here his whole life, born right in town. He’s a ‘True Header” by definition, but I am not, so I guess that’s a no. Seems very strange to me though, there must be something I am missing. I love telling people about my hometown. It’s the birthplace of the American Navy; our founding fathers were regulars at taverns and historic homes. There’s an ocean that on rare days I can hear from my driveway. There are beautiful beaches, great people, and fresh lobster.  When my father said “don’t forget where you live, he didn’t mean Marblehead or even Nahant. He meant where we are rooted, and where those we claim as our own, wait for us, care for us, and welcome us back.

My children are still finding their way into their adult lives, so who knows what they might say when someone asks, “Where are you from?” I do want them to remember where they live though, always. We should all remember who our people are, regardless of what a map might say. I live here. This is my home, because of who my people are. Call it whatever you like, I won’t forget.