The Adventures of a Tiny Teacher #2

Ants. Yes, ants. That's what caused me to be late to my second day of work as a professional teacher.

Allow me to explain:

When I relocated to rural Texas, there was nothing (I mean nothing) to rent due to the oil boom. (Imagine roughneck oil men making more than I do as a teacher! Gasp!) My parents graciously allowed me to use their RV until I found something else.

As my parents helped me park the RV and set up, none of us anticipated  these words from the park host:

"Now, when ya go to use the commode in your RV, just put the paper to the side in a little waste basket and carry it out with you next time ya leave." The RV Park Host noticed my shock and rattled off an explanation, "Now, up here we use a septic tank, not city waste or nothing. In fact, our pipes have to go up the hill to the cow pasture and it sprays the water out. It's the kind that sprays out the goo and since it has to go up hill and all, we don't use toilet paper so it won't clog."

I had unknowingly signed up to pass on my right to flush toilet paper for an indefinite amount of time (most likely months) and have a tiny waste basket next to the toilet (that would barely flush with any water) to contain my toilet paper with unmentionable things attached to it.

Well, by the grace of God, I sucked it up. However, I decided, however, to outwit the system. Each morning before I left for work, I would rest that awful plastic bag on the top step of the RV so I could grab it on the way out.

That particular morning, I grabbed the bag and put it in the passenger seat of my SUV to toss out at the dumpster as I left the park. I forgot. How I could forget THAT, I'll never know.

Well, I drove to Sonic to pick up my Diet Coke my teaching survival essential. After I paid and sat my drink into the cup holder, I glanced over and noticed the awful plastic bag. I decided I would not throw it away at Sonic because the thought just sounded gross. I put my hand on the bag as a reminder to turn back to the RV park when ouch! Then another one! Then another one!

My hand, the bag, the passenger seat were covered in ants! I grabbed it and shoved it into the trashcan at Sonic. Mental picture: Me grabbing the bag, pulling across me to the trashcan, quick push in and release only to find that, yes, I was covered in ants. I pulled my car to the side springing out and shaking off my clothes while pounding hundreds of ants onto my seat cushions, then brushing away the dead.

However, there's just something about ant bites that stay with you long after they damage has been done.

As I tried to teach my class that morning, I noticed I kept backing up the chalk board (yes, chalk board) and trying to sneak in a scratch. Sensing that something was not right, my most perceptive student spoke up in his broken English. "Are you okay?" I turned into a cherry tomato and began to unravel my morning in an animated story.

Again, that student said "It's okay, Ms. S. Sometimes you just gotta scratch" and so I did.

I laughed, they laughed, and we moved on; I did, however, visit the nurse to get some Caladryl.

Food for Thought: Students will respond to our response; it's okay to be genuine when life hands you the unexpected because we are teaching them an appropriate response.

The Adventures of a Tiny Teacher #1

It was early December. I was living in my parents RV. The weather had reached seventeen degrees Fahrenheit. The propane had run out in the night (no wonder I was so cold and couldn’t pull myself from the covers) and the water had frozen in the water hose.

I stared at my overnight bag, half-packed from the weekend before, I thought "Ok, I'll call Kelly and run over to her place to take a shower. No, I've got to be at school in twenty minutes. I'll grab the bag and get ready at school. Why? It's not like you're going to have a shower there?" I pulled on my nicest outfit I had packed. A wool plaid, black and white dress to be paired with a black turtle neck which I layered over my PJs because there was no way I was pulling any clothing off my body in those temperatures, put on my nicest pair of boots (the only ones tall enough to hide my PJ pant legs), donned my bright red dress coat, did the best I could with my hair and left for school.

I craved the feeling of heat in my car. I had a 7 minute drive and knew only the last two would have any amount of remote heat. I felt sick and prayed that I wouldn't get anymore nauseous than I already was. The smell of fertilizer plants and cow feed in the morning always made me queasy; the violent cold wasn’t helping either.

Upon arriving, I felt immediate warmth of the hallway. Then I went to my classroom only to be greeted with bitter cold. The heater for my side of the hallway did not work. I'll handle this. By mid-morning, I was debating if I would feign illness, rent a hotel room for the day/night to get warm, or if I would be moving my classes to the library. I froze. My children worked with coats, scarves, hats, gloves. We were cold. In small groups, we would hover around my table underneath which I had placed a small space heater. I was not sure if I could have one, but at this point, I decided begging for forgiveness was favorable to asking for permission.

On the way to work that morning, I had texted a friend from church to see which men in the church worked in a nearby town to see if they could help me. My friend responded with a list of names. I proceeded to text or call each family. I was greeted with the same message. "He's not working today; He's sleeping; etc." Essentially, the answer was no, please do this on your own. I smiled back tears and pretended it was no big deal. I couldn't help but feel that if those ladies or their daughters had been living in an RV for months and had run out of propane and weren't strong enough to lift the propane bottle that somebody would help them out. I had never felt more alone. I wanted to screech out my frustration, but opted to err on the safe side.

When my lunch break arrived, I left campus with notice to the secretary that I might be gone my conference as well. I silently wondered if the heater in my classroom still wasn't working that afternoon, if I would be bursting into the old country song “Take This Job and Shove It." Reminding myself that you should never think angry thoughts or they could manifest when very inconvenient, I drove back to the RV for one last try. No luck.

As I was driving back into town feeling like an epic failure, I called my brother. I couldn't call my daddy. As much as I knew my daddy loved me, I knew there would be a million questions asked and I didn't really feel like answering them and definitely didn't have the time. Besides, it would require a vacation day and at least six hours of travel for him to come to my rescue. I knew he would do it, but would be troubled at the situation. By the time he got there, the only place in town that sold propane would be closed. My brother on the other hand could listen to me cry, feel sorry for me, then tell me to suck it up and do it. He gave simple instructions, “Find an Aggie and hold the ol’ Aggie Network over them.”

I tried to think who locally was an Aggie. I recalled a visit with the lady who had the frame shop; her husband and boy(s) were Aggies. Surely, they could help me. I walked in and tried to calmly tell her my story. I paused midway because I was about to lose it. I am usually quite stoic when I am frustrated, but the cold was getting to me, and the fact that I had five hours (four of which would be spent at my freezing work place) to resolve it or I would be sleeping in the cold again was sorely grating at my nerves.

I asked if her husband or sons would be willing to help me; I would pay them to take care of it. I wasn’t asking for a handout. She nodded sympathetically and referred me to someone in town who she thought might do a favor for someone. (Are you kidding me? A favor? It’s not a favor when I’m willing to hand you green backs.) I left the store in search of the business she had suggested.

I located the building in town and opened my door. As I put my feet down, I felt the all too familiar feeling. Gravel. I was in $400 leather Vanelli boots and here I was about to go traipsing through an oil and gas warehouse and would have to walk in gravel. As I carefully walked through the gravel, the cold stinging my face, I glanced around to see if Ashton Kutcher’s Punked show was around because it really couldn’t get any more absurd.

As I climbed the huge homemade stairs, I yelled with all the fake confidence I could muster “Hello! I’m looking for John! Is anyone here?” I found my way to an office of sorts and began to explain (plead) my case. Fortunately, the man working there took pity on me and said that he would take care of it.

He agreed to help, I handed him my keys to the RV. What could he possibly take of value at this point?

I returned to school just in time to pick my students up for recess. I chatted casually with the teachers. I finally let my curiosity emerge. I asked “What do y’all know about ol John that works out at ________?” The teachers quickly informed me he was married, that I should look elsewhere, and that it was none of my business. I simply replied, “Well, I just handed him the keys to my RV; it better be my business.”

At the end of the school day, I stopped by the business, paid the tab, and profusely thanked them for the assistance.

While it’s somewhat of an anti-climactic ending, I still can’t help myself from wondering if that really happened. It sounds like a terrible dream, but it was my reality.