The terror of a new trail

I realize that today is a time for terror, for ghoulies and ghosties to wander the streets scaring each other while students restricted to quarantine hunker down for an all-day horror movie fest, but the things that terrify me this weekend have nothing to do with Halloween. First Sunday at our new churches! Dashing from one service to another, trying to learn names of people whose faces remain half hidden under masks, standing around at a reception where someone is bound to be overtaken by the urge to hug! I just don't know if I have what it takes to do all this again.

But today I'll distract myself with work--drafts to read, annotated bibliographies to grade, classes to prep. To start the day off right, though, we set out early this morning for a hike along the Pine Ridge Trail at Lake Katharine. With morning temps below freezing we had to bundle up a bit, but this is probably the last weekend to see fall colors before the rest of the leaves fall down so we thought we'd better take a look before it was too late.

We've had a lot of rain this week so we could hear the waterfall long before we got near it, and the creeks were all above their banks where a few weeks ago they were nearly dry. But the trail was not at all bad and the woods were aglow with sudden shocks of yellow and orange. We saw a few deer but mostly had the place to ourselves. In a few weeks the woods will be full of hunters and then we'll be well into winter weather, so who knows when we'll be out on that trail again? 

Tomorrow we set out on a new kind of adventure--getting to know a whole new congregation, finding out way through unfamiliar territory toward unexpected friendships. An unknown trail may look scary, but one day it will feel as familiar as the trails I love so much at Lake Katharine. The only way to get to know them is to take that first terrifying step forward.

When mythical beasts come to class

Early this week a student complained because new pandemic restrictions have shut down all campus Halloween parties and Where am I supposed to wear my costume? 

"Wear it to class," I said, which is why this morning Mothman is sitting in the middle of my composition class. For those outside the southeastern Ohio/West Virginia area, Mothman is the local version of Bigfoot with collapsing bridges. Well, if Bigfoot suffered from collapsing bridges it would be a case for a podiatrist specializing in cryptozoology--a cryptopodiatrist?--but in Mothman's case, we're talking about the kind of bridge you drive over, unless Mothman is present, in which case the bridge collapses and you drive straight into the Ohio River.

But I digress. As mentioned, I have Mothman sitting in class alongside a student dressed in a red flannel shirt and cowboy hat and boots. And jeans, of course. I told my students they could wear costumes as long as they don't distract from learning, so yes, pants are being worn. He may have a six-shooter squirreled away somewhere but if so it would have to be fake as we are a strictly non-gun-totin' campus.

I brought goody bags full of candy for all my students today because apparently the pandemic has traumatized us all right back to second grade. I thought about dressing as the Semicolon Fairy and waving my magic wand to sprinkle semicolons over all my students' drafts, but the steep decline in semicolon usage in recent years has sent the Semicolon Fairy into a downward spiral. One of these days the semicolon will be a mythical beast just like Mothman, and at that point maybe she'll return to my class at Halloween. 

Meanwhile, I've got drafts to read. I wonder whether Mothman knows how to use a semicolon?

Standing in the way of dangerous behavior

I love to sit in a room full of students all tap-tap-tapping away at their laptop computers, audibly and visibly making progress on the drafts coming due in the next couple of days. The sound is soothing, and when they ask questions or show me their work, I take comfort in the assurance that good has been done here.

But yesterday it was difficult to transition between the roiling mass of chaos outside the classroom and the soothing sound of progress within. For a few days I'd been trying to deal with a simmering problem that came to a full rolling boil just before class. Within a few minutes I had to shift out of my angry-professor-pounding-her-fist-on-the-desk persona to the prof who inspires her students to produce the soothing sounds of disciplined brain-work. A few deep breaths are not enough to ease that transition.

I can't get too specific about the problem except to say that a student wanted to do something dangerous and I was obstinately standing in the way. How dangerous? No big deal in normal times, but the kind of thing that could put lots of people at risk in the middle of a pandemic. We have more than 100 students in quarantine and more than 30 positive cases of the virus on campus right now, so the Powers That Be have shut down all group events for two weeks in an attempt to put a damper on the recent sudden spike in cases, all of which have been traced to unsanctioned social events, athletic practices, and off-campus travel--and this student wanted to travel across the country to fulfill a non-emergency need that they could have fulfilled right here in town and then return to the classroom without quarantining.

The student insisted that I was the only professor who had a problem with this plan, but I found that hard to believe--and I was right. Within a few hours I was immersed in an angry chain of e-mails involving professors, Student Life staff, an associate provost, and two vice presidents. In the end the provost wrote an email that quashed the student's plan and reminded me, in case I'd forgotten, that our administration is serious about controlling the virus--and they've got my back, which will be helpful if the student wants all our heads on a platter.

So now that the PTBs have turned down the heat on that simmering pot of student-induced angst, I'm free to listen to the soothing sounds of students at work and relish the results that will come rolling in over the next couple of days. In a battle between irresponsibility and discipline, discipline wins--this time.

Where's that hug repellent when I need some?

If necessity is the mother of invention, this pandemic must be mothering all sorts of innovative products. Here, for whoever wants it, is my latest idea for a product that could make someone very wealthy: hug repellent.

That's right: we need a handy spray-on product that will keep potential huggers at a safe distance, something that makes us look diseased (spray-on oozing lesions!) or smell so putrid people won't want to come near us with a ten-foot pole.

The problem, of course, is that a stinky spray won't work against people whose sense of smell is compromised, like Covid sufferers and the elderly. Let's not forget that many people's sense of smell diminishes as they age, which means that stinky hug repellent would not have helped me yesterday when a bunch of sweet old church ladies kept sneaking up behind me to give me hugs.

It's not that I'm particularly lovable; I'm just attached to their beloved pastor, who is leaving to take up a different pulpit. After our socially distanced church service yesterday, we went to a farewell brunch where tables were spread far apart and people sat in family groups to maintain social distance. It's impossible to wear a mask while eating so there I sat entirely unprotected while one sweet little old church lady after another crept up behind me to throw her arms around my shoulders and put her face right up next to mine. I love these people and I will miss them immensely, but I'm just not used to that kind of public contact these days so it took every ounce of self-control not to jump up and scream We're in a pandemic! Step away from the table!

Hug repellent might have worked on a few of them, but lacking that, I have to figure out a more effective method to discourage random hugs. The only solution I can think of is to be so thoroughly unlovable that no one will want to hug me at all. No more pleasant greetings! I'll have to master a surly sneer and practice tossing out angry epithets at every turn.

Meanwhile, someone had better get to work on manufacturing some hug repellent, because I'm just not up to snarling at sweet old church ladies.

  

New place to lay my head

Everyone who has ever moved houses knows that moment of despair when the thing you need most is not where you need it to be; for me that moment arrived last night when I was ready to collapse from exhaustion but realized that the bed was in one house while the pillows were in the other.

We’d be out of luck if this were a cross-country move, but fortunately we’re just moving our stuff a few miles, from a parsonage in the middle of Jackson to a rental house on a ridge in the woods a few miles outside of Jackson, with lots of help from a bunch of guys with pickup trucks trundling up the hill carrying our stuff.

Did I mention woods? My husband the social butterfly will miss having hordes of neighbors right outside the door, but next spring he’ll enjoy a much more extensive garden space out here in the country. Today I took a break from unpacking to go for a walk around the perimeter of the property, and within a few minutes I saw two pileated woodpeckers, a yellow-rumped warbler, and a whole host of red-bellied woodpeckers and eastern bluebirds. There’s a perfect spot for some birdfeeders out back by the deck, so I look forward to attracting colorful birds all winter long.

I’ve been sticking close to the house to unpack all the kitchen things, and despite my attempt to put things in sensible places, I know I’ll be struggling to find things for weeks and weeks. The kitchen is great—tons of counter space and really useful cabinetry, with drawers that pull out for ease of access to everything. Three bedrooms, two baths plus a third almost completed, and a spacious playroom downstairs for when the grandkids visit.

The entire interior needs painting and the deck needs some repair, but here’s the great thing: the owners are giving us a break on the rent if we help with the painting and repairs. Right now the walls are pockmarked with spackle and color samples, but once the paint arrives, we’ll have our work cut out for us. Painting walls can be soothing, especially when someone else has already taped up all the woodwork—my least favorite part of the task.

Right now I’m surrounded by boxes, the empty ones attesting to a very strenuous morning’s work and the full ones demanding attention, but my back wants a break. I can look out any window and see colorful leaves glowing in autumn woods begging for exploration, but for the moment I think I’ll just sit still and start to feel at home.

Back of the house

Sassafras!

Front of the house

View from the living room

 

Probed (probably)

The provost and I had just had our nasal cavities probed as part of our campus's coronavirus testing program, and yes, the test was just as horrible as I'd heard if not worse--a colleague said, "They stuck that Q-tip in so far it scraped against my brain." No fun at all, in other words, but the provost and I fell into conversation about how much this entire semester feels like no fun at all.  She said an unprecedented number of employees have admitted that they've come close to walking away for good, and it was good to know that I'm not the only one. The work we do is always challenging, but the extra challenges of teaching during a pandemic have been compounded by the absence of those meaningful moments that can make teaching such a joy.

Then we talked about my first-year students, who are working on a project that requires them to write a memo to the provost arguing for a particular change in the curriculum. She had met with the class on Zoom first thing this morning and was impressed by their questions and responses, and it's true that my students had been on their best behavior for their special guest but I also pointed out that one of them insists on spelling provost as probus, as if the provost were in the business of sticking Q-tips up our noses.

It's the pandemic, really, that's probing all of us, prodding to find our weak spots and pressing on us until we're off-balance and in danger of toppling. Which is one reason I gave my upper-level film class a break, cancelling this Friday's online discussion so they can focus on a larger assignment due next week. I've probed their brains enough to know that they have nothing to prove on this week's discussion topic, so let's lighten the load a little before we all fall down.

So we're still standing, for the moment. We may feel probed, picked-over, and pulverized, but as long as we're still standing, we can carry on. 

Probably.

When the virus hits close to home

How can this be happening when we're doing everything right is what I keep wanting to ask, but I don't know to whom to address the question--and besides, we're obviously not all doing everything right or we wouldn't be in the shape we're in.

Which, for most of us, is just fine. Even in the midst of a sudden spike in Covid cases on campus, most of us are still meeting classes face-to-face; with only two positive cases early in the semester followed by weeks and weeks of no new cases, we were starting to feel that maybe we'd get through the pandemic without too much disruption. Students were wearing masks, socially distancing, and washing hands, and the College did whatever it could to discourage students from leaving campus or assembling in large groups.

But somebody slipped somewhere, and last week the number of confirmed cases started climbing, with new student cases nearly every day and one employee infected as well. Now we're up to more than a dozen active cases and nearly 100 students quarantining because of close contact with infected classmates. Only five of my first-year composition students are still able to come to class, although one is nearing the end of his quarantine.

And the students who are still in class aren't particularly lively. Even my honors students looked stunned and listless this morning, as if they'd rather be doing absolutely anything else besides trying to discuss great literature in the middle of a pandemic.

Frankly, I'm with them. I don't really want to be here today at all--I want to drive two hours north to be with my daughter and son-in-law and three grandkids, who are all quarantining after my daughter tested positive for Covid last Friday. They're feeling okay--some runny noses and coughs, a little fatigue--and there's really not much I could do for them if I were there, but part of me wants to run off and give them all hugs and chicken soup and hope.

They did everything right too--even the grandkids wear masks, and they're all very careful about where they go and whom they encounter. My daughter hasn't been inside a store in a month. "We wash hands. We sanitize. We follow the science. We take precautions," she writes, and they're going to keep doing those things for a very good reason: "It stops with us. We got it. We won't spread it."

Which is why I'm fighting my motherly instincts and staying right here, even though here doesn't feel like a particularly safe place right now.

Windows in the woods

Along the Lakeview Trail at Lake Katharine early this morning, the woods were dark and quiet and fallen leaves covered the Lakeview Trail, sometimes obscuring the trail entirely. I had to look far ahead to find a clear sign of the trail, and sometimes an opening between the trees would open a window on a world of wonder: fog rising from the lake, fall colors reflecting in the water, curtains of yellow leaves glittering with frost. The mist made my lens fog up so I had to delete a lot of photos, but I won't soon forget the contrast between the dim, dark woods and the shimmering colors beyond.

 

A portal into a colorful world

Usually my road is just a road but for a few weeks every fall it's a portal into a world of beauty, where a breeze whispers through leaves so bright they seem to turn the woods to fire, where cedar waxwings by the dozens flock to tall treetops along the creek, where the shallow water reflects the red and orange and yellow leaves. A walk along my road was my reward for grading papers until my eyeballs wanted to burst, a welcome break that made me appreciate the privilege of living in such a lovely place. In a few weeks when the leaves fall and the woods look dark and dull, someone needs to remind me of this brief autumn moment when all I had to do was open my eyes to be surrounded by beauty.

Masking more than viruses

The other day a former student confessed that she used to be scared of me until one day in class when she suddenly realized that I was being sarcastic and not serious. It takes awhile sometimes to read people's faces, but how much more difficult it is now that we all have to keep our faces covered?

This, I think, may be one of the reasons it's so difficult to get students to engage in class discussions this semester, whether they're face-to-face or on Zoom. I've talked about this with many colleagues and heard many explanations: students are burned out because they've had no breaks, or all the online learning they've been doing has transformed them into passive learners, or they're just succumbing to our vast national pandemic-induced malaise. 

These reasons sound convincing but they fail to consider the impact of all the barriers we've erected between ourselves and our students. How much do masks hamper our ability to read faces? I know they disrupt my ability to learn names, but they do more than that: how can a student read the difference between "scary" and "sarcastic" if half of my face is covered? 

And then they're so far away--social distancing means I don't spend so much time wandering among the rows or visiting groups or just hanging out in student-rich environments. I'm not seeing students in the stands at sporting events or in the audience at plays or among the crowd at art shows because we're just not doing any of those things, and when I do see them outside of class, I'm not always certain I know who they are. 

In so many ways this semester feels like a failure but we've still got five more weeks to go. I don't know how I feel about that--and neither does anyone else, thanks to my mask.

Masks need to work a little harder

In the midst of class in a room so hot we had to open all the windows, remove all excess clothing, and fan ourselves with folders for 50 minutes, where the heat made us all feel sleepy and dopey and droopy and dull, I was adjusting my coffee-bean-print mask and wishing that it was made of real coffee beans because I really could have used a dose of caffeine about then, and that's when I had my brainstorm: caffeine-infused masks, delivering a jolt of alertness with every breath. I'd buy one!

Someone could make a mint on that idea, but that someone is not going to be me. First, because we have two new confirmed cases of the virus on campus (for a total of five over nine weeks--not bad!) and two of my students are quarantining because of close exposure to an infected student, which means I have to get back into the habit of teaching to a split audience in yet another class, and all this tech is wearing me out. Last Friday I finally figured out how to use a stylus to draw on the Zoom whiteboard on a laptop during a class where most of the students are present but a few are online, which means I can now produce incomprehensible drawings equally visible to both groups. I've mastered enough tech for one lifetime! I'm ready to give it a rest.

And tech is failing me in other ways too, because for some reason the card-readers on campus keep refusing to recognize my right to exist--sometimes. Our robot overlords intermittently permit me to enter my building, make photocopies, and pay for snacks at the cafe with my brand-new college ID, but then sometimes the card reader simply refuses to recognize my existence. Okay, so I can e-mail documents to the administrative assistant to print out for me, except she's working remotely half the time and sometimes I need my copies right now. Or I can call campus police to let me in the building whenever the card reader thumbs its nose at my right to enter, but maybe I don't have my phone with me and maybe the campus police have more important things to do. Or I could avoid buying snacks at the cafe, which is probably for the best but then what will I do with all the credits on my college ID? This is not helping my stress level.

And then there are some off-campus complications, like the need to move out of the parsonage in Jackson and move into an entirely different house and take care of all the annoying details  involved in moving (turning on utilities! measuring for curtains!) and then adjust to an entirely different group of parishioners whom I've never met but will have to get to know only on the weekends when I'm able to be over there, and by the way this is all happening while my husband is trying to replace his van before it falls to pieces in a heap on the highway. The people at the church we're leaving keep wanting to give me great big ol' hugs, which I appreciate except that hugs induce a pandemic-related stress response that even a coffee-bean-print mask can't negate. 

Come to think of it, forget the coffee beans: what I really need is a mask infused with Valium. Go ahead and invent one--I'll be too mellow to sue for my share of the profits.

 

 

True colors

A colleague I haven't seen in a while said to me today, "I see you've stopped coloring your hair," which is about on par with asking a woman when the baby's due without first confirming that she's actually pregnant. I haven't stopped coloring my hair because I never started! It's going gray because I'm getting old and stressed out and don't have time for a haircut--and the longer my hair gets, the more the gray shows. And I had my bangs pulled back today because I went out for a fall-color hike this morning and didn't want sweaty bangs hanging in my eyes. 

So yeah, I'm getting gray, but in other news, the woods outside are getting all kinds of exciting colors and the lake at Mountwood Park this morning was like a mirror. Frankly, I'd much rather look into that mirror than stare at my rapidly graying hair. When the trees stop coloring their leaves, that's when I'll start to worry.