Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
The rest of us.
June 19, Bangor.
Something strange happened to my eyes this morning, out of the blue, and froze me in fear.
We were driving around looking for a grocery store in the little town of Bangor when suddenly a ring of bright serrated lights appeared in my vision, slightly to the right, and wouldn't go away, like a film between my eyes and the world, the ring growing bigger and bigger and finally disappearing but leaving my right eye weak and stretched.
This is my worst fear: everything is going on as normally as it can, you get up every morning and deal with what comes the way you've always done, and then suddenly, you don't know why or how, there is something wrong with you, some disease is there in you that you didn't know even existed, or it is a too well-known one, and your life as you know it is over. From then on you belong to the ill, the battling, that vast congregation that moves invisible among the rest of us blind jesters, bearing their suffering unsung and quiet, or sometimes a shuffle or a cough, an ambulance siren in the night, bearing on with their weight as best they can, mostly, comfortably invisible to the rest of us in our cocoon of self-confidence and lightness, our fool's paradise.
The ring had faded but left a fiery scar on my psyche.
Something strange happened to my eyes this morning, out of the blue, and froze me in fear.
We were driving around looking for a grocery store in the little town of Bangor when suddenly a ring of bright serrated lights appeared in my vision, slightly to the right, and wouldn't go away, like a film between my eyes and the world, the ring growing bigger and bigger and finally disappearing but leaving my right eye weak and stretched.
This is my worst fear: everything is going on as normally as it can, you get up every morning and deal with what comes the way you've always done, and then suddenly, you don't know why or how, there is something wrong with you, some disease is there in you that you didn't know even existed, or it is a too well-known one, and your life as you know it is over. From then on you belong to the ill, the battling, that vast congregation that moves invisible among the rest of us blind jesters, bearing their suffering unsung and quiet, or sometimes a shuffle or a cough, an ambulance siren in the night, bearing on with their weight as best they can, mostly, comfortably invisible to the rest of us in our cocoon of self-confidence and lightness, our fool's paradise.
The ring had faded but left a fiery scar on my psyche.
Monday, June 18, 2012
Courtney.
June 18, Oxford.
Courtney has been with us from the day after I came back from my interview with the Rhode Island Teaching Fellows and it has been so good to have her around. She is leaving tomorrow. She found work at the Clyde Beaty and Cole Brothers circus as a show girl and aerialist.
Courtney has been with us from the day after I came back from my interview with the Rhode Island Teaching Fellows and it has been so good to have her around. She is leaving tomorrow. She found work at the Clyde Beaty and Cole Brothers circus as a show girl and aerialist.
The Delara Duo.
Sara and Delena are doing an aerial act this year, billed as "The Delara Duo."
Sunday, June 17, 2012
A great place.
June 16, Carteret.
Great lot, what looks like a great place to live, with public offices, even a fitness center in the city hall building, a library, the post office, and brand new baseball fields and children's park all within a single well-kept and congenial area, where we are parked.
Lots of Sikh Indians, and African-American families mingling at the games all day long
Great lot, what looks like a great place to live, with public offices, even a fitness center in the city hall building, a library, the post office, and brand new baseball fields and children's park all within a single well-kept and congenial area, where we are parked.
Lots of Sikh Indians, and African-American families mingling at the games all day long
Night move.
June 15, Carteret.
We moved last night to avoid northern New Jersey traffic, and there so much of it on the turnpike at one in the morning I'm glad we did.
We moved last night to avoid northern New Jersey traffic, and there so much of it on the turnpike at one in the morning I'm glad we did.
Thursday, June 14, 2012
Survival.
June 14, Lakehurst.
There was an accident on Route 9 this morning, a state trooper directed us to a u-turn and we had to find our way to the Parkway, and there scramble to get the exact change at the toll: nothing ever goes as planned in the circus and you constantly have to think on your feet.
I was thinking about this later on, and what I would take from my experience living at the circus that could help me make it at my new job, or even get that new job in the first place. Thinking on your feet, responding well to challenges, not to mention interacting with a wide variety of people from all walks of life came to mind, but the most valuable skill no doubt the overall flexibility that circus life requires as a basic survival skill, making do no matter what the odds, no water maybe, or no electricity, oceans of mud one day, too-tight lot the other, treacherous routes always, because the show goes on, the road is long and change is all you can be certain of.
There was an accident on Route 9 this morning, a state trooper directed us to a u-turn and we had to find our way to the Parkway, and there scramble to get the exact change at the toll: nothing ever goes as planned in the circus and you constantly have to think on your feet.
I was thinking about this later on, and what I would take from my experience living at the circus that could help me make it at my new job, or even get that new job in the first place. Thinking on your feet, responding well to challenges, not to mention interacting with a wide variety of people from all walks of life came to mind, but the most valuable skill no doubt the overall flexibility that circus life requires as a basic survival skill, making do no matter what the odds, no water maybe, or no electricity, oceans of mud one day, too-tight lot the other, treacherous routes always, because the show goes on, the road is long and change is all you can be certain of.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Ahead.
June 13, West Creek.
So the end is near.
All of this, my work, my life, for all those exhilarating years.
By the end of this month I'll be entering what is called pre-service training in Providence with the Rhode Island Teaching Fellows, a national program that recruits highly qualified individuals and trains them to be teachers who help close the achievement gap by excelling in high-need schools in America.
I am excited, and utterly scared about the prospect.
I am awed by the expectations and the challenges ahead, not just in this my new job, but in this new life, my life in the circus abruptly over before it started again, this life of constant challenges and endless flow but they are challenges and wild ebbs I know, this is the circus, this is home. Ahead lies an ocean of unknowns visited by storms I've never weathered, and the world I've left behind.
But the kids will go to a good school, the prospect of changing lives through education is as inspiring as it daunting, and we'll be back to wake up and smell the sawdust as often as we can.
So the end is near.
All of this, my work, my life, for all those exhilarating years.
By the end of this month I'll be entering what is called pre-service training in Providence with the Rhode Island Teaching Fellows, a national program that recruits highly qualified individuals and trains them to be teachers who help close the achievement gap by excelling in high-need schools in America.
I am excited, and utterly scared about the prospect.
I am awed by the expectations and the challenges ahead, not just in this my new job, but in this new life, my life in the circus abruptly over before it started again, this life of constant challenges and endless flow but they are challenges and wild ebbs I know, this is the circus, this is home. Ahead lies an ocean of unknowns visited by storms I've never weathered, and the world I've left behind.
But the kids will go to a good school, the prospect of changing lives through education is as inspiring as it daunting, and we'll be back to wake up and smell the sawdust as often as we can.
Monday, June 11, 2012
Going fishing.
June 10, Carneys Point.
The day at Mary Ellen's with the kids, the gods and going fishing for the first time for Dylan and Nicolas, just across the street to a small pond but they love it all the same, it's hot suddenly but we're spending a perfect summer afternoon.
The day at Mary Ellen's with the kids, the gods and going fishing for the first time for Dylan and Nicolas, just across the street to a small pond but they love it all the same, it's hot suddenly but we're spending a perfect summer afternoon.
Insane.
June 8, New Freedom.
I'm off to Chester, Pennsylvania, to take two national teacher content knowledge exams, the last in a series of hoops I've had to jump through in rapid sequence since we flew back from France almost two weeks ago and had the surprise to see Fridman there to help us drive the motor all the way to Providence from the back woods of West Virginia to interview for the chance to secure a position as a Rhode Island Teaching Fellow, a selective, highly competitive federally-affiliated program to recruit professional to teach in high-need urban schools around the nation, jumping back into the car the second the interview event was over to drive right back to meet the circus in Hancock, the whole two weeks an insane non-stop race filled with everything from roadside hurdles to two-day cramming of a phone directory-size book, two weeks jumping in and out of the circus I've barely rejoined after five months time abroad and away from my life, my home.
I'm spending the night at my friend Mary Ellen's on Wilmington, a short drive to Chester, an eternity form the circus again.
It's good to be home, if only I were there long enough to see it.
I'm off to Chester, Pennsylvania, to take two national teacher content knowledge exams, the last in a series of hoops I've had to jump through in rapid sequence since we flew back from France almost two weeks ago and had the surprise to see Fridman there to help us drive the motor all the way to Providence from the back woods of West Virginia to interview for the chance to secure a position as a Rhode Island Teaching Fellow, a selective, highly competitive federally-affiliated program to recruit professional to teach in high-need urban schools around the nation, jumping back into the car the second the interview event was over to drive right back to meet the circus in Hancock, the whole two weeks an insane non-stop race filled with everything from roadside hurdles to two-day cramming of a phone directory-size book, two weeks jumping in and out of the circus I've barely rejoined after five months time abroad and away from my life, my home.
I'm spending the night at my friend Mary Ellen's on Wilmington, a short drive to Chester, an eternity form the circus again.
It's good to be home, if only I were there long enough to see it.
Saturday, May 26, 2012
Thursday, May 17, 2012
May 17, Saint-Ismier.
Today is a holiday in France (another one of those Christianity-based holiday religiously honored as a day off in the most non-religious country in the world) and we drove to the Vercors mountains and to the town of Villard-de-Lans, where I spent most my childhood summers. It was the last stop for my brother Patrick, who died there another summer almost twenty years ago.
We hiked a short trail, had lunch at the café we always went to, walked the streets we always walked and where I remember a perfect childhood bliss, and everything looked exactly the same, the same shops, the same atmosphere, and not even a new building around to spoil the scenery, breathtaking, the town looks as pastoral and postcard-perfect as it did thirty years ago, and it was resplendent in the spring light.
Today is a holiday in France (another one of those Christianity-based holiday religiously honored as a day off in the most non-religious country in the world) and we drove to the Vercors mountains and to the town of Villard-de-Lans, where I spent most my childhood summers. It was the last stop for my brother Patrick, who died there another summer almost twenty years ago.
We hiked a short trail, had lunch at the café we always went to, walked the streets we always walked and where I remember a perfect childhood bliss, and everything looked exactly the same, the same shops, the same atmosphere, and not even a new building around to spoil the scenery, breathtaking, the town looks as pastoral and postcard-perfect as it did thirty years ago, and it was resplendent in the spring light.
Tuesday, May 08, 2012
It's Hollande.
May 6, Saint-Ismier.
Joy then, in spite of all the years gone by, in spite of time, and doubts.
Memories of so long ago, 1981 and the arrival of Mitterand, a breath of fresh air, and I was improbably young then, and we moved to Paris shortly after, out of the miasma of decrepit sun-seekers to the electric youth of Paris, in time with what felt like the much-needed renewal of the country, so long in the hands of the right, so stagnant and old, a breath of fresh air with the first Socialist president, thirty years later and in spite of all the disillusions and the distance, in spite of such a different world and such a different life, joy still, and pride in this country that is not quite my own anymore now, pride for electing a new Socialist president and choosing a new hope.
And I can almost taste that vibrancy again, the youth, the electric hope, on the eve of going back to the U.S. and starting life anew on my own.
Joy then, in spite of all the years gone by, in spite of time, and doubts.
Memories of so long ago, 1981 and the arrival of Mitterand, a breath of fresh air, and I was improbably young then, and we moved to Paris shortly after, out of the miasma of decrepit sun-seekers to the electric youth of Paris, in time with what felt like the much-needed renewal of the country, so long in the hands of the right, so stagnant and old, a breath of fresh air with the first Socialist president, thirty years later and in spite of all the disillusions and the distance, in spite of such a different world and such a different life, joy still, and pride in this country that is not quite my own anymore now, pride for electing a new Socialist president and choosing a new hope.
And I can almost taste that vibrancy again, the youth, the electric hope, on the eve of going back to the U.S. and starting life anew on my own.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Thursday, April 19, 2012
There'll always be Paris.
April 19, Paris.
Paris holiday, with kids and Mom, five days filled to the brim with wonders, the Eiffel Tower, a so-French puppet called Guignol, the science discoveries at Parc de la Villette, crossing the city by boat, five days almost marred by the cold and rain but not quite.
Paris holiday, with kids and Mom, five days filled to the brim with wonders, the Eiffel Tower, a so-French puppet called Guignol, the science discoveries at Parc de la Villette, crossing the city by boat, five days almost marred by the cold and rain but not quite.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Things left in the park (Easter stroll.)
April 9, Saint-Ismier.
Nicolas turned five and we had a party with Jules and Augustin et les autres, since Gaspard couldn't make it.
Easter came and went and we had an egg hunt in the house, the first in an actual house, maybe the reason gilded memories of my childhood came rushing back. I didn't grow up in a circus, but maybe I wished I did. The long Easter week end came and went and we headed for a park and threw stones in a pond.
Monday, March 26, 2012
Fanny's gone.
March 23, Saint-Ismier.
Today was Fanny's last with us.
Fanny was Nicolas' teacher and I loved her as much as he did. She had been substituting for six months and was supposed to come back each Friday to provide a crucial continuity for the kids, but was yanked at the last minute, this afternoon, because the French Education Ministry lacks replacement teachers after years of cutbacks in hiring. She has endured twelve years of this and still remains a great teacher. I'll miss her.
Waiting for spring.
March 18, Saint-Ismier.
It has turned summery, all of a sudden, and it has made life easier, but time still yawns and the days are long, sometimes, even when the kids make them fly, and I long for the companion of my road, and for the road.
We go for walks in the sunny breeze, and Dylan adopts a beetle and sets it down gently back in its post after taking it for a ride, time to listen to a dreadlocked donkey bray, and Nicolas says he's too loud.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Last day on the slopes.
February 26, Saint-Ismier.
Cold, cold still but we can see the end of it, and the snow is wet, and the sleighs slide reluctantly down the slope, the energy is gone.
The sun chased the clouds, and the kids watched.
Monday, February 20, 2012
Southern escapade.
February 19, Saint-Ismier.
An escapade to the South, to Nice and my friend Isabelle, to Avignon and the grandiose austerity of the Popes' Palace, breathtaking (more so because on the day we arrived the city was in the grips of the Mistral, a wind from the North that rules over the Rhone region of France with painful force,) back to the garrigue around Pont du Gard for a hike among thyme and rosemary and the benevolent olive trees that reigned with loveliness and legend over my childhood, on to the village of Grignan with its castle and its tortuous streets.
An escapade, with the kids and my parenting demons, Dylan and I like rams, and I am not sure which needs to learn more, but we had fun, the three of us, listening to swinging French children songs, Hélène Bohy and her sailors, swear words under my breath at each missed turn on the road, but we have time, what do we care.
Monday, February 13, 2012
Monday, February 06, 2012
The kids.
February 6, Saint-Ismier.
A month of school has passed, and my fears about Nicolas not developing right have dissolved as he goes a' skipping into class each morning jumping up to the sweet fabulous Fanny, his teacher, with a resounding Bonjour! and she tells me he's learning just fine. Dylan is in demanding first grade and still catching up but he's doing it so fast his teacher says she can see smoke coming out of his ears. We work at home every day; he's endearingly eager to learn, and likes math best.
The week ends go just as fast. Yesterday we went out to the movies to see Le Tableau, a gorgeous intelligent trip through painting, had a smorgasbord of a lunch with Dylan's new fancy, sauerkraut, did school, ran out to a meadow up the road from my mother's house where we go sleighing every day it seems since I finally bought the kids a sleigh on Wednesday, then came home to a kid painting session before munching on fresh bread and cheese for dinner and the usual protracted reading time before bed.
I don't have a minute to spare with them, they're two free electrons bouncing up my walls and if it is exhausting most of the time, it is also damn lucky as can be. If I wasn't profoundly agnostic I'd say we're blessed.
Winter.
February 6, Saint-Ismier.
It snowed here in the Alps last week, before a Siberian cold descended upon the country, breaking records not seen for decades. Finally a sleigh for the kids, and we're out on a pasture above my mother's house every day it seems.
I had forgotten how much I enjoy winter, when it's white and sunny and stepping outside slaps you in the face.
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