I threw together a hasty lesson this morning, what with my parking lot duty imminent, the disruption of three snow days in a row, and no time to run off copies on a working copier. The name of this lesson was: Waking the Baby Mammoth.
Thank you, NatGeo, for your inclusion on my mother's cable service. And thank you, Mom, for living in the past and using videotapes over and over for the last 20 years. And thank ME, for hoarding junk in my school cabinets. Kind of like the way Mabel hoards scissors and glue, and offers them to teachers with less of a budget than she, just before uttering the kicker, "They'll be right here in my cabinet, LOCKED UP!!!"
Yes, I dashed into my classroom, fortunate to have a working key, and set about flipping on the laptop, changing the thermostat, writing the new date on the board, and putting away some detritus from the top of my microwave due to the Great Textbook Handout on Monday. And there it was, in all its glory, Waking the Baby Mammoth. I spied it in the middle of a stack of videos that I don't use regularly. And since we just read a Science World article on the excavation of Sue, the biggest T Rex ever found, I saw the need for my students to observe the study of Lyuba, the most complete baby mammoth ever found. It beat the heck out of starting a chapter on conversion of temperature from Celsius to Fahrenheit. Ninety out of ninety students agreed.
After that well-thought-out decision, which took all of five minutes, and some hasty juggling of yellow and white connector dealybobbers from DVD player to VCR, I proceeded to the parking lot. Where nothing eventful happened.
In setting up my lesson for the class, I had to be careful to explain that we were not really going to wake up the baby mammoth. It is 40,000 years old. No reviving there. Not even with a hair dryer and a defibrillator. That's because last time I showed it, one kid said, "You mean we watched that whole thing, and they never did wake her up?"
Today, there were different issues. One student thought the baby mammoth's name was Lump. "That's what it sounded like. And look at her. She just lays there. Like a lump."
Others gasped at the animated parts. Animated to look like real mammoths, not animated like a cartoon. "I want one of those! It's so cute!"
Another said, "That's fake." Um. Yes. There are no woolly mammoths alive now. And there were most certainly no video cameras 40,000 years ago.
One lass took a look at the Siberian Nenets' tent where the reindeer herder whose sons discovered Lyuba lived, and said, "Don't they ever take a shower?" Well, do you see a shower in the tent? Because all I see is a tent. With one window. And no rooms. And certainly no shower. Upon digesting this fact, she said, "But they have to. They have a kid." Well. I don't know where she was going with that, but the gist of it was that they had to be civilized with showers, because you can't have a baby without a hospital. OK. To be fair, that child has missed about thirty days of school so far this year. So maybe her synapses fire in a different way, based on all the sections of learning she has missed.
Still another lad asked why Lyuba looked stiff as a board as they were handling her. Thank the Gummi Mary, another kid told him, "Because she's FROZEN! Duh!"
All in all, it was an enjoyable return to the old grindstone.
Another storm is heading this way Sunday night.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Hi Ho, Hi Ho.
We made a foray into town today. Roads are fine, once you get out of Hillmomba. Within the Hillmomba borders, however, roads are packed snow, slick on top, like ice. Just in case you think you might drop in.
School will be in session tomorrow, running the snow routes. Which means a bunch of kids won't be there, and my lesson plans will have to be adjusted.
But the good new is: IT'S FRIDAY!!!
School will be in session tomorrow, running the snow routes. Which means a bunch of kids won't be there, and my lesson plans will have to be adjusted.
But the good new is: IT'S FRIDAY!!!
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Hillbilly Mom's Law
Annnnnnd...we're off! Again on Thursday. Another snow day.
I'll take it. The temperatures are too low for me to exit the Mansion. I had planned to drive #1 to the post office today (only the best and most exciting trips for my young 'uns) but his surly attitude caused a last-minute cancellation. And I will not let him drive himself down the slippery slope to civilization with the wind chill at 3 degrees in the daytime. It's not like summer when he could walk the five miles back home if he ran his truck into a ditch.
The forecast seems to call for all schools to reconvene on Friday, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's duty day. Unless there is still stuff stuck to the pavement. I wouldn't know. I haven't been out of the Mansion. Our roads are still covered even when the town roads are clear. So I can't really predict Friday's agenda.
I'm going by Hillbilly Mom's law: School will always be in session on my duty day; assemblies will be scheduled for my planning period; early dismissal due to snow will start with my planning period; lockdowns and drug dog visits will occur during my most unpleasant class, necessitating that they remain with me way past their welcome; chocolate cake on the menu does not mean that we will be served chocolate cake, but rather that I will pay my $1.75 and get a condiment cup full of diced peaches.
We'll see what develops Friday.
I'll take it. The temperatures are too low for me to exit the Mansion. I had planned to drive #1 to the post office today (only the best and most exciting trips for my young 'uns) but his surly attitude caused a last-minute cancellation. And I will not let him drive himself down the slippery slope to civilization with the wind chill at 3 degrees in the daytime. It's not like summer when he could walk the five miles back home if he ran his truck into a ditch.
The forecast seems to call for all schools to reconvene on Friday, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's duty day. Unless there is still stuff stuck to the pavement. I wouldn't know. I haven't been out of the Mansion. Our roads are still covered even when the town roads are clear. So I can't really predict Friday's agenda.
I'm going by Hillbilly Mom's law: School will always be in session on my duty day; assemblies will be scheduled for my planning period; early dismissal due to snow will start with my planning period; lockdowns and drug dog visits will occur during my most unpleasant class, necessitating that they remain with me way past their welcome; chocolate cake on the menu does not mean that we will be served chocolate cake, but rather that I will pay my $1.75 and get a condiment cup full of diced peaches.
We'll see what develops Friday.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Building A Tower Of Soup
This snow day was quite productive. I arose at 5:50 a.m. thanks to Misery Loves Company H, who can not seem to wake himself and dress for work without an attentive audience.
After three loads of laundry, the local news, one episode of Malcolm in the Middle, and half of He Got Game...I decreed that I deserved a nap, and snuggled down in the La-Z-Boy with Mabel's gift blankie adorned with my name. (The monks in the caves of the hills of the Ozarks must have called a moratorium on roll-baking for a few weeks to construct such a special gift for Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. Right, Mabel?)
With a morning nap under my belt, I set about peeling carrots and potatoes to brew a big pot of vegetable beef soup to provide sustenance for 3/4 of the Hillbilly family. The Pony does not eat soup, unless it is Ramen noodles. I tossed in some green beans and diced tomatoes and tomato sauce and a packet of soup mix and some Worcestershire sauce and some Save A Lot steak sauce and some Heinz 57 for a little tang. Oh, and three pounds of ground beef so that Carnivore H would be satisfied when he built himself a leaning tower of soup this evening. A side of garlic Texas toast, and my meal planning was complete.
Around 3:30, disturbing my Jeopardy-watching frenzy, the #1 son began reporting on each new school that showed up on the cancellations. Like we don't get three phone calls to tell us if we're out. The Pony and I could barely yell out our answers for #1 crowing about all the schools that surround Newmentia being canceled for Wednesday. I figured that we would join them. We're not one to set a precedent. We go with the flow. It was not official until 5:00, when #1 noticed a flurry of FaceBook postings about our cancellation, then saw it on the news.
Then I got my human phone call for the phone tree. The next two limbs would not pick up, so I had to call Stuart my own self. He's at the bottom of the trunk. Of course he already knew, but had I not made that call, he would have thrown himself a pity party at the lunch table about nobody calling him.
Moments later, the land line rang with the automated message from #1's school, then the cell phone with the message from The Pony's school, and then it was official.
SNOW DAY for Wednesday!
We have about 3 inches on the ground here. Arctic Explorer H reported that the county roads are treacherous, that the interstate was snow-covered this morning, and that he saw 5 cars off the road on his 30-mile drive to work. But he chugged along just fine in his $1000 Caravan with the new studded snow tires. I can't imagine much improvement tomorrow, because the temps are going down to zero tonight, and the high will be in the teens. #1 is itching to go to the post office for his Nook-protector that came in Monday afternoon. I do not want him driving in these conditions, so we might venture out if he minds his Ps & Qs.
That stands for Pints and Quarts, you know. As in a drunk behaving himself. I learned it at a Trivia match, so it must be true.
After three loads of laundry, the local news, one episode of Malcolm in the Middle, and half of He Got Game...I decreed that I deserved a nap, and snuggled down in the La-Z-Boy with Mabel's gift blankie adorned with my name. (The monks in the caves of the hills of the Ozarks must have called a moratorium on roll-baking for a few weeks to construct such a special gift for Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. Right, Mabel?)
With a morning nap under my belt, I set about peeling carrots and potatoes to brew a big pot of vegetable beef soup to provide sustenance for 3/4 of the Hillbilly family. The Pony does not eat soup, unless it is Ramen noodles. I tossed in some green beans and diced tomatoes and tomato sauce and a packet of soup mix and some Worcestershire sauce and some Save A Lot steak sauce and some Heinz 57 for a little tang. Oh, and three pounds of ground beef so that Carnivore H would be satisfied when he built himself a leaning tower of soup this evening. A side of garlic Texas toast, and my meal planning was complete.
Around 3:30, disturbing my Jeopardy-watching frenzy, the #1 son began reporting on each new school that showed up on the cancellations. Like we don't get three phone calls to tell us if we're out. The Pony and I could barely yell out our answers for #1 crowing about all the schools that surround Newmentia being canceled for Wednesday. I figured that we would join them. We're not one to set a precedent. We go with the flow. It was not official until 5:00, when #1 noticed a flurry of FaceBook postings about our cancellation, then saw it on the news.
Then I got my human phone call for the phone tree. The next two limbs would not pick up, so I had to call Stuart my own self. He's at the bottom of the trunk. Of course he already knew, but had I not made that call, he would have thrown himself a pity party at the lunch table about nobody calling him.
Moments later, the land line rang with the automated message from #1's school, then the cell phone with the message from The Pony's school, and then it was official.
SNOW DAY for Wednesday!
We have about 3 inches on the ground here. Arctic Explorer H reported that the county roads are treacherous, that the interstate was snow-covered this morning, and that he saw 5 cars off the road on his 30-mile drive to work. But he chugged along just fine in his $1000 Caravan with the new studded snow tires. I can't imagine much improvement tomorrow, because the temps are going down to zero tonight, and the high will be in the teens. #1 is itching to go to the post office for his Nook-protector that came in Monday afternoon. I do not want him driving in these conditions, so we might venture out if he minds his Ps & Qs.
That stands for Pints and Quarts, you know. As in a drunk behaving himself. I learned it at a Trivia match, so it must be true.
Monday, January 10, 2011
The Waiting Is The Hardest Part
As this never-ending day winds down, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is privy to classified information hot off the BatPhone. NO SCHOOL TOMORROW!
OK, so the information was hotter about an hour ago when I first heard it. Now everybody knows the top secret agenda. Just like WikiLeaks all over again!
The students became insufferable around 12:19 this afternoon. They had all counted unhatched chickens, and were banking on waltzing away from Newmentia at the stroke of 1:00. Where they got their information was a dicey exercise in they said/they said. It started with one mouth, and went viral at the speed of sound. I swear, there were so many lips flapping that I almost contracted a case of frostbite.
Never mind that their cries of, "We're going home at 1:00!" were met with my patented one-eyebrowed stinkeye.
"Funny, that. Nobody has told ME. Perhaps you could share with me the bearer of such glad tidings."
"Huh?"
"Who told YOU that you're leaving at 1:00?"
"Oh. Mr. Principal, of course. He said, 'If this snow doesn't stop, we'll be going home at 1:00.' "
"Look out there. It's barely flurrying. Nothing on the sidewalks, nothing on the road, nothing on the wood chips around the trunk of that little tree. There's no reason to go home. And it's a problem to let out early this late, because nobody will know in time, and the bus can't leave the little kindergarten kids anyplace without an adult in the doorway."
"But... but... "
"Nice try."
Of course we didn't leave school early. To look at the radar, the whole kit n' caboodle of snow showers was hiking north toward the Great Lakes, avoiding our little corner of Hillmomba like Jerry Seinfeld avoiding Poppie's pizza. Or Jerry's girlfriend avoiding the bite of apple pie he proffered on his fork.
Not only did we not leave school early, but The Pony stayed for his academic team practice. I was having none of that. All after-school activities were supposedly canceled, according to the messages left by the automated phone system. I let The Pony stay 45 minutes while I finished some work, then called to tell him that we were picking him up from Basementia. The Pony was not happy. They were in the midst of popping popcorn, in a real popcorn-popping machine. He even smelled like popcorn.
Too bad, so sad. Five miles further, and the snowflakes started to sift down again. Barely. Which was the norm all evening. The radar must have taken on a more ominous tint after supper, because now we are called off.
Maybe I will pop some popcorn for The Pony tomorrow. Real popcorn, in a pan, with oil.
OK, so the information was hotter about an hour ago when I first heard it. Now everybody knows the top secret agenda. Just like WikiLeaks all over again!
The students became insufferable around 12:19 this afternoon. They had all counted unhatched chickens, and were banking on waltzing away from Newmentia at the stroke of 1:00. Where they got their information was a dicey exercise in they said/they said. It started with one mouth, and went viral at the speed of sound. I swear, there were so many lips flapping that I almost contracted a case of frostbite.
Never mind that their cries of, "We're going home at 1:00!" were met with my patented one-eyebrowed stinkeye.
"Funny, that. Nobody has told ME. Perhaps you could share with me the bearer of such glad tidings."
"Huh?"
"Who told YOU that you're leaving at 1:00?"
"Oh. Mr. Principal, of course. He said, 'If this snow doesn't stop, we'll be going home at 1:00.' "
"Look out there. It's barely flurrying. Nothing on the sidewalks, nothing on the road, nothing on the wood chips around the trunk of that little tree. There's no reason to go home. And it's a problem to let out early this late, because nobody will know in time, and the bus can't leave the little kindergarten kids anyplace without an adult in the doorway."
"But... but... "
"Nice try."
Of course we didn't leave school early. To look at the radar, the whole kit n' caboodle of snow showers was hiking north toward the Great Lakes, avoiding our little corner of Hillmomba like Jerry Seinfeld avoiding Poppie's pizza. Or Jerry's girlfriend avoiding the bite of apple pie he proffered on his fork.
Not only did we not leave school early, but The Pony stayed for his academic team practice. I was having none of that. All after-school activities were supposedly canceled, according to the messages left by the automated phone system. I let The Pony stay 45 minutes while I finished some work, then called to tell him that we were picking him up from Basementia. The Pony was not happy. They were in the midst of popping popcorn, in a real popcorn-popping machine. He even smelled like popcorn.
Too bad, so sad. Five miles further, and the snowflakes started to sift down again. Barely. Which was the norm all evening. The radar must have taken on a more ominous tint after supper, because now we are called off.
Maybe I will pop some popcorn for The Pony tomorrow. Real popcorn, in a pan, with oil.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Brown Hole Of Catcutta
We have a dirty little secret here at the Mansion.
On the back porch deck, under The Pony's bedroom window, sits Catcutta. Once a respectable destination for furry members of the Hillbilly community, Catcutta has fallen into disrepair. No longer do sleek felines stretch and loll on the sunwashed planks of Catcutta's promenade, watching the world pass before them, through one squinting eye.
The modern Catcutta is a cobbled conglomeration of cardboard dwellings, notable only for their varying states of disrepair. The regal feline contingent has been displaced by the unwashed proletariat canines. To be fair, unwashed is not completely accurate. The woofers do seem to regularly clean their nether orifices. Unemployed for most of the day, the fleabags lounge in their corrugated compartments, groggily awaiting the free hors d' oeuvres that are occasionally flung out the kitchen door by Chef Hillbilly Mom.
Slumlord H used to patrol Catcutta regularly, razing damaged dwellings, and replacing those with water impairment or structural weaknesses. Now, the architecture of Catcutta has become a nightmarish eyesore. We avert our glance when passing, as if inattention will make the problem disappear. But the crumbling pillars of Coburn Farms, Fairgrounds, Diane's Garden, and Senora Verde linger.
If Slumlord H continues to neglect his properties, I shall organize a coup. Come Tuesday, when I'm hoping to be home on a snow day, I will instruct my lackey, The Pony, to load up Catcutta, lock, stock, and barrel, and transport it to the land of BARn. There, my second in command, #1, will light it ablaze.
No more Save A Lot boxes will clutter my back porch. The dogs have houses filled with fragrant cedar shavings. They have no need to go slumming in cardboard cartons, breaking down the sides, one for each of them for every day of the week. Enough is enough. If Slumlord H won't burn his cardboard trash, WE WILL. Because this is the country, by cracky! Where we incinerate our paper like nature intended. No landfills clogged with our cellulose overflow.
Sometimes, lightning is a forest's best friend.
On the back porch deck, under The Pony's bedroom window, sits Catcutta. Once a respectable destination for furry members of the Hillbilly community, Catcutta has fallen into disrepair. No longer do sleek felines stretch and loll on the sunwashed planks of Catcutta's promenade, watching the world pass before them, through one squinting eye.
The modern Catcutta is a cobbled conglomeration of cardboard dwellings, notable only for their varying states of disrepair. The regal feline contingent has been displaced by the unwashed proletariat canines. To be fair, unwashed is not completely accurate. The woofers do seem to regularly clean their nether orifices. Unemployed for most of the day, the fleabags lounge in their corrugated compartments, groggily awaiting the free hors d' oeuvres that are occasionally flung out the kitchen door by Chef Hillbilly Mom.
Slumlord H used to patrol Catcutta regularly, razing damaged dwellings, and replacing those with water impairment or structural weaknesses. Now, the architecture of Catcutta has become a nightmarish eyesore. We avert our glance when passing, as if inattention will make the problem disappear. But the crumbling pillars of Coburn Farms, Fairgrounds, Diane's Garden, and Senora Verde linger.
If Slumlord H continues to neglect his properties, I shall organize a coup. Come Tuesday, when I'm hoping to be home on a snow day, I will instruct my lackey, The Pony, to load up Catcutta, lock, stock, and barrel, and transport it to the land of BARn. There, my second in command, #1, will light it ablaze.
No more Save A Lot boxes will clutter my back porch. The dogs have houses filled with fragrant cedar shavings. They have no need to go slumming in cardboard cartons, breaking down the sides, one for each of them for every day of the week. Enough is enough. If Slumlord H won't burn his cardboard trash, WE WILL. Because this is the country, by cracky! Where we incinerate our paper like nature intended. No landfills clogged with our cellulose overflow.
Sometimes, lightning is a forest's best friend.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
A Few Things
A few things about Farmer H that bother me:
*****************************************************
He roots around in the bed and messes up my pillows before I get there. Then he denies it, even though I have to remove his hand and arm from the middle of my pillows before I climb into bed, lest I have a Princess and the Pea moment, and have to write a fairy tale called Hillbilly Mom and the Hidden Arm.
*****************************************************
He has no common sense. Not a lick. When it came to sense, he got the short end of the stick. Sorry. I heard Trisha Yearwood's "She's in Love With the Boy" on the radio last night, and I have those lyrics stuck in my head.
Exhibit A for lack of sense: returning my keys last night. I gave Farmer H my school keys (the ones that don't work once every ten years) to lock up my room when he left. The Pony and I cut out a bit early. Upon arriving home, Farmer H traipsed into the living room, stood between me and the TV, and dangled my keys on their stretchy lime-green telephone-cord-looking keychain right in front of my face.
A more sensible man might have, oh, I don't know...put them in my purse with my car keys. Not Farmer H. He declared the HE didn't know what I wanted him to do with them. But apparently he assumed that I wanted them swinging in front of my face like a bad exercise in hypnotism by a hypnotist who got the short end of the stick when it came to hypnotizing techniques.
******************************************************
He set the alarm for 4:30 a.m. in order to wake up the #1 son for a practice robot tournament. The #1 son had to leave by 6:30. That meant an hour and a half of Farmer H whacking the snooze button every 10 minutes.
******************************************************
Last night, I threw in a load of laundry so #1 would have the jeans he wanted to wear this morning. That was around 9:00 p.m. I do that all the time. I wash a load of clothes, and put them in the dryer as I go to bed. It's my routine during the week. No need for Farmer H to worry his pretty little head about it. But no. Last night, he hollered down to my basement lair that he had put those clothes in the dryer for me. Which is a scary event, what with Farmer H not knowing what setting I use on the dryer for those items, or what items I might have included that I would NOT subject to the dryer, but would hang to dry. The boys are lucky they are not running around today looking like Mango on SNL. When quizzed on his aberrant behavior, Farmer H replied, "I was just being nice."
******************************************************
Funny how a man who doesn't know what to do with a set of keys knows the ins and outs of the Mansion's laundry room.
*****************************************************
He roots around in the bed and messes up my pillows before I get there. Then he denies it, even though I have to remove his hand and arm from the middle of my pillows before I climb into bed, lest I have a Princess and the Pea moment, and have to write a fairy tale called Hillbilly Mom and the Hidden Arm.
*****************************************************
He has no common sense. Not a lick. When it came to sense, he got the short end of the stick. Sorry. I heard Trisha Yearwood's "She's in Love With the Boy" on the radio last night, and I have those lyrics stuck in my head.
Exhibit A for lack of sense: returning my keys last night. I gave Farmer H my school keys (the ones that don't work once every ten years) to lock up my room when he left. The Pony and I cut out a bit early. Upon arriving home, Farmer H traipsed into the living room, stood between me and the TV, and dangled my keys on their stretchy lime-green telephone-cord-looking keychain right in front of my face.
A more sensible man might have, oh, I don't know...put them in my purse with my car keys. Not Farmer H. He declared the HE didn't know what I wanted him to do with them. But apparently he assumed that I wanted them swinging in front of my face like a bad exercise in hypnotism by a hypnotist who got the short end of the stick when it came to hypnotizing techniques.
******************************************************
He set the alarm for 4:30 a.m. in order to wake up the #1 son for a practice robot tournament. The #1 son had to leave by 6:30. That meant an hour and a half of Farmer H whacking the snooze button every 10 minutes.
******************************************************
Last night, I threw in a load of laundry so #1 would have the jeans he wanted to wear this morning. That was around 9:00 p.m. I do that all the time. I wash a load of clothes, and put them in the dryer as I go to bed. It's my routine during the week. No need for Farmer H to worry his pretty little head about it. But no. Last night, he hollered down to my basement lair that he had put those clothes in the dryer for me. Which is a scary event, what with Farmer H not knowing what setting I use on the dryer for those items, or what items I might have included that I would NOT subject to the dryer, but would hang to dry. The boys are lucky they are not running around today looking like Mango on SNL. When quizzed on his aberrant behavior, Farmer H replied, "I was just being nice."
******************************************************
Funny how a man who doesn't know what to do with a set of keys knows the ins and outs of the Mansion's laundry room.
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