Month: March 2020

Birds. I know birds. I had a unique childhood, being the daughter of “the bird lady of Burke.” My mom has always been a champion of animals, and when her friend in Fairfax who took in injured birds lamented the fact that she was the only such person in the area who did this and was becoming overwhelmed, my mom jumped in to help. At first, we got the occasional baby bird who fell out of a nest, usually a sparrow here and a robin there. My mom would do her best to nurse them back to health, but the survival rate was pretty low, especially for those who had been injured by a cat. Still, as word spread, we would have upwards of 60 birds in our dining and living rooms in the spring.

We had some who were with us for years, like Zeke, the horned lark. Early on in his stay with us, my mom tracked down a flock of horned larks in Chantilly. After we said our tearful goodbyes to Zeke, she held him up toward his brethren and croaked out, “Goodbye, Zeke. You’re free now.” Well, he failed to launch. He figured his daily sunbaths on the living room chair and free food were too good to give up.

Then we had “the pensioners,” as my dad referred to the grumpy old sparrows who lived below Zeke. They were named Prince and Misha, and we had to separate Zeke from them when my mom found him pinned down one morning with Misha’s beak in his chest. No doubt, Zeke did something to deserve it.

We raised a good number of blue jays in our day, but I’ll never forget Baby. He was a spirited young fellow whom my mom managed to release in the neighborhood. One day, a terrified young mother ran up to my mom and asked, “Have you heard about the blue jay who is terrorizing the children?! He dive bombs them when they climb to the top of the slide at the playground! He must have rabies or something!” Um, hmmm..”Well, I…” At that moment, who should appear in the tree above, but Baby the Terror, cheering happily down at my mom. The woman looked wild-eyed from Baby to my mother, and that was the end of Baby’s days in our neighborhood. We relocated him to a friend’s farm in the Shenandoah where there were no children on slides to dive bomb.

I have so many stories to tell, like the sea gull who enjoyed wading in pizza pans in the kitchen, Cricket the talking starling (no lie), the clump of chimney swifts who clung to our shirts, the woodpecker who would sit on my shoulder and slip his tongue in my ear when I least expected it, the purple martins, Wiley and Wattey, whom we took with us on a camping trip down the coast so we could release them with their flock in South Carolina (this time it took)…

After many years, my mom stopped taking in birds, but she couldn’t say no to the kids who would end up teary-eyed on our doorstep holding a sad little damaged bird. I think it took about 10 years after she officially quit to completely empty the house of birds. No, wait, I take that back. They have a solitary pigeon she rescued a few years ago named Bella. She thought he was a she, and he’s not very nice to her, but there you have it.

Our good friends, Natasha and Scott, said goodbye to their dog, Tessie, today, who must have been around 16 years old. They adopted her when she was a young and vivacious hound mix with the soul of a diva and the appetite of a teenage boy. We have looked after each other’s dogs over the years, and we quickly learned to prepare for Tessie’s arrival. She could snatch your just-made sandwich off the counter in the snap of a finger and then look you dead in the eye, thoroughly unashamed and deeply offended that you would address her in such a manner. After a moment, she’d slink off to her spot on the green couch, undoubtedly to plot her next move. Don’t think for a second she missed that fresh baguette you just stashed beside the toaster oven.

Tessie was forever on the lookout for strangers who had the gaul to walk down her block. Woe to the unsuspecting interloper and its human. She would begin an unrelenting howl as soon they appeared on the block and wouldn’t stop until they were out of sight. Since it worked every time, why change tactics? Despite Natasha and Scott’s efforts to calm her, she remained vigilant into her twilight years. As she aged and her eyesight weakened, she would sometimes bark at her dog friends, and then as we got closer, she would abruptly stop, but never really expressed regret. I always admired this about her; why apologize when you’re not really sorry?

Tessie was a drama queen who was used to getting her way. Natahsa tried to guide her toward home once when Tessie had other ideas. She began howling so pathetically that a woman (obviously, not from our block) accused Natasha of mistreating her. I found this hilarious because if I were to die and come back as a dog, I would want to live with Natasha and Scott. I once tried to coax her inside after her long doze in a sunny patch in the yard. After calling her several times, I tugged gently on her collar. You would have thought I began beating her with a baseball bat. She won another 20 minutes in the sun.

Yes, Tessie could be high maintenance, but she had a heart of gold. She was always up for a cuddle and never failed to greet you with her tail wagging and those loving, almond-shaped eyes that looked into your very soul. I loved how she’d nestle into her green sleeping bag and poke her head out the top, just far enough to make herself available for a good behind-the-ears scratch. I will miss her howl and Natasha’s accompanying, gentle scold. She was quite a special girl, and our block became a little less spirited today. 

I’ve been discussing books with my students on a discussion post titled, “What are you reading?” Some answer with one or two sentences, just the facts: title, whether they’ve finished it, and maybe one basic piece of information. Others write a brief summary, and then there are those who go into quite a bit of detail about the story and how they feel about it. I’ve answered every one, which has been easy, seeing as I’ve only heard from 20 students so far. They range in tone from “I’m posting because I’m supposed to” to “I really want you to know about this book!”

I’ve also gotten a few emails from students with questions about what will be graded (nothing, but it’s really important you do the work, and I will give you feedback!). One student apologized for not doing enough, even though she stayed up until midnight. Her mother told her to go to sleep. I told her to please listen to her mother and take a breath, that the work posted is meant to last for a few weeks. A few students were concerned that they missed a few questions on one of the Newsela quizzes and were wondering if that would hurt their grades (again, no, nothing is graded, but I assured them that it’s important they maintain their skills and to keep up the good work!).

I miss the kids, but I’ve been keeping busy and finding comfort in posting lessons, responding to emails, and recording the rest of our read-aloud to share with them. Then, I got an email that made me tear up. Subject: school. “Hi ms Mann are the things we doing graded? Cause they are really hard to do without a teacher.” I hate this virus, and I hate that it’s keeping me from meeting face to face with the kids who need us most.

Here we are, Day 3 of social isolation. I’m calling it Day 3 because we were pretty much in denial until Sunday. On Friday night, we went to a neighborhood open house of a friend’s stunning new home, where another friend had her artwork arranged on the walls throughout this art gallery called a home. People were elbow bumping and not really eating any of the food, but we were out.

On Saturday, we helped friends move things from their old house four blocks away to their new house up the hill about 3/4 of a mile away (same block as art gallery home). After finishing helping, a bunch of the guys stretched out in the sun and made loose plans to play poker that evening. They’ve been meeting once a week (and sometimes more in cases of holidays and snowstorms) for the past 10 years, and I think their brains had instinctively switched to snow day mentality – so many opportunities to play poker over the next few weeks! After we parted ways, nobody made a peep about it, not one ping in the group text on my husband’s phone.

As we mulled over possibilities of getaways over the next few weeks, we considered Airbnbs in WV, the Shenandoah, St. Michael’s…on second thought, maybe not. We don’t know these people and how well they’ve cleaned, and we have no idea what it’s like at the grocery stores. Okay, so maybe only go someplace where we know the homeowners. A friend suggested we go to her lake house for a few days. Wouldn’t that be fun! Well, neither of us have mentioned that again. I guess we really shouldn’t be in close quarters with each other.

Next up: do we go to Sarasota, Florida to see Chris’s family, as we had planned to do over spring break? The plan is to drive down in one day, get some beach and family time, and drive back a week later. We can stock the cooler and even fill up some gas cans to put in the truck bed. Then we’d only have to stop to go to the bathroom, and we’ll wear gloves and wipe down everything before touching. Hold on. I’m spinning out. So many questions. Is it worth it? Am I over-reacting? Would we be foolish to embark on such a journey? Would we unknowingly infect Chris’s 75-year-old parents? How cautious have they been?

Here’s what I’m going to do: take a deep breath, make breakfast, and get the kids up to start the second day of our new schedule, and it will be great! We are going to walk Sasha, play basketball, read, learn online, and end the day with a family board game. Exhale.

We have a schedule here at the Mann household for the upcoming week, some semblance of normalcy in this sea of unknown. It gives us comfort. At first, I thought it would be a struggle to get our kids to accept certain daily requirements, but they were actually pretty receptive to it. I guess they’re craving normalcy, too.

I had a schedule to go on from a friend living overseas, which was, to put it in middle school lingo, a little extra: every half hour is spoken for, chores listed down to putting pjs in the hamper. This, my friends, was not the schedule for us. I knew that we needed one, though, and we have created one we can all live with (fingers crossed). It allows for outdoor activities, electronics-free quiet time, academics, free time (i.e. Xbox, TikTok, Snapchat…), and family time. We will embark on this tomorrow. I expect a few bumps in the road and some hand-wringing about what’s safe and what’s not, but at least we have a plan.

Chris and I have been using the app AnyList for a couple years now, and it has made grocery shopping, meal planning, and cooking during the week so much easier. You can pick a recipe you have saved or search for one online, add the ingredients to the store list, and put the meal on a calendar. It saved us from coming up short on a busy weeknight and caving in to take-out or yet another defrosted meal from the freezer. A list might include onion, whole peeled tomatoes, chickpeas, feta, etc., beyond the basics – bananas, milk, fresh garlic (which is a basic item in this household). Now, and probably for the next month, our list looks more like this: milk, whatever fruit they have, whatever produce looks good that we can throw together to make a meal, toilet paper?, hand sanitizer?? This is uncharted territory.

On my run this afternoon, I started thinking about what I should write about today, and I began focusing more intently on my surroundings. The airplane coming in for landing? Maybe. The construction of the sound barrier wall between 395 and Army Navy Drive? Definitely not. Trees? Yes! What about them? Then a question popped into my mind: where are all the tree climbers? Are kids still climbing trees? A few good climbing trees loom large in my memory.

Some of my scariest memories are being stuck way up in the top of a tree across a cul-de-sac from my house, and I only have my ego to blame. Kids would say, “You’ll never make it to the top,” which was all I needed to jump up and grab the lowest branch, swing my leg up over it, inch my way to the trunk, and pull myself up to a stand. It was a heady experience slowly and steadily making my way up and up, as the other kids watched from the ground, squinting up into the leafy green. I’d make it to the top and peer out over the leaves longingly at my house, starting to tremble a little, wondering how bad living in a tree would really be. Eventually, someone would talk me down, as I searched gingerly with my foot for a lower branch, some with such a gap between them that I practically had to do the splits to reach it. When I hit the ground, I was so relieved I nearly wept. Whew. I’d never do THAT again…today.

I asked Edwin if he ever climbed a tree, and he grinned and asked, “Is this for your blog?” Yeah, so…? Well, he has! He’d climb them at the park a few blocks away, but they stopped when the county pruned the branches and they could no longer reach the lowest branch. Outrageous. Maybe I should be the crazy lady at the board meeting who rants about the lack of good tree-climbing trees in our county parks. I bet nobody’s claimed that one.

I am committed to this daily blog post now, but I need to remember to write earlier in the day. When I got home today, I took a break from running and, instead, read my book and made eggplant noodle-less lasagne. After dinner, Chris and I walked Sasha and discussed what the possible upcoming forced time off would be like. Should we go somewhere with the kids? Stay at home? Would everything be cancelled? What about piano lessons, crew practice, orthodontist appointments? What about the gym? Is it really a good idea to have those people sweating on each other? Okay, stop. Do not go down that rabbit hole…

Anyway, after tidying up the kitchen, I finished my book and gathered my bedtime necessities: glass of water, reading glasses, phone, and next book. As I yawned and turned to head up the stairs, I thought, “Oh, no! I haven’t posted anything yet.” I almost shrugged it off, but no! I will not give up. I opened up my laptop and started writing this. I will not break the streak, and I promise something more interesting tomorrow.

I finally got out in the garden this past weekend to do some much needed weeding. I don’t know what the greatest offender’s name is, but it had spread everywhere. Luckily, the roots weren’t deep, so I didn’t have to dig too much before ripping it out. It was quite satisfying plucking and chucking it onto the sidewalk. Now, the crocuses and daffodils can really shine. Next to bloom: my childhood favorite, the hyacinth. The petals are still tucked tightly together and have a greenish hue, but it won’t be long before they unfurl and make every trip I make up and down my front walk a little more divine. Neighbors have caught me down on my knees with my nose in the hyacinth – it can be a little embarrassing, but I’m not going to stop. “Oh, hello, I was just smelling a hyacinth” is worth the instant connection with all that has ever been wonderful about spring.

We have a very special dog named Sasha, who is about nine years old. We got her from Rescue Angels, who transported her here from Tennessee when she was a few months old. Her name was Sunshine, and when I saw her picture online, I decided we had to have her. We headed to a woman’s home in Alexandria to meet her and prove ourselves worthy. We passed the test, scooped up Sunshine, and headed home with Edwin and Maxine, who were five and two at the time. By the time we got home, her name had become Sasha (middle name Sunshine), and we discovered she is a little cross-eyed and that one ear always stands up straight while the other flops over.

She can be a bit of a delicate flower. When the cannons go off at Ft. Myer, she becomes a drooling, quivering mess. She has to meet you a minimum of thirty or so times before she concedes that perhaps you are not out to get her. She’ll bark and run, fierce watchdog that she is. Once you’ve won her over, though, she’s never selfish with her love. She rewards her very favorites with a desperate whine and booty shake that cries out, “Where ever have you been?”

Sasha’s true habitat is the woods. It’s where she’s happiest, especially when we can let her off-leash. People who have gone with us and have only seen her timid side are astonished that this is the same dog. She hurries from scent to scent, wagging her tail and keeping at most a 10-foot distance from us. Sand is what really gets her motor running. She digs and prances along the creek or river bank, barks and play-growls, doing her “mad dog” routine. It’s always our favorite part of a hike, and as soon as one of us spots a stretch of a sandy bank, we can’t wait to get her going.

She’s our Sasha Sunshine, and I wouldn’t have her any other way.