Pardon the Interruption, Excuse the Accusation

Every teacher knows about interruptions.  They come with the territory.  Usually it's the sudden variety like an announcement, or the classroom door swinging open for a late arrival, a note for a student, or some sort of summons that just couldn't wait until the class arrived at a crucial juncture in a well-planned lesson.
Teachers complain, they ignore, the whine, and they emote, but as sure as yearly layoff notices come by the end of March, classes will be interrupted.
Sometimes the interruptions are memorable.  Two stand out for me in the scope of 34 years.  The first occurred on a quiet afternoon just before my last class for the day ended.  In that two minutes when books are returned or stored away, backpacks are re-packed, and conversions turn casual, I calmly strolled over to my classroom door to open it before the period ending bell rang.  I would often stand by the doorway as classes changed to say farewell to one group and check out the happenings outside before the next group took their seats.  On this day, my seniors were quietly chatting when I approached the door.  I got it about halfway open when an ominous figure appeared.
     Close the door now!
A SWAT team member in full regalia was barking orders to me.
Heads popped up as I locked the door.
"I think I just got dissed," I told the class.
"That's the biggest gun I ever saw," said a squeaky adolescent male.
Short after this initial shock, an announcement blared to the entire school.  An armed suspect in a robbery was loose, possibly on our campus.  We were to await further instructions.
It was a long afternoon.  After about 3 hours, the threat ended and everyone walked out unharmed, if not drained.  No suspect emerged, and the robbery was solved within a week.  Fortunately I had a few lightweight videos on dream interpretation that my students liked to get us through.  Many were late for their after-school jobs.  Missed rides, a shattered sense of security, and new knowledge of our
vulnerability remained.

II.
Twenty years earlier, near the end of my first morning class, the door opens.  All eyes turn left.  We instantly recognize our Principal.  A collective thought remains invisible: "Somebody's in trouble."
It's too late in the class period for an observation, so something is definitely up.  The class turns silent. He walks toward me and I move to a corner of the room simultaneously.
"I hate to do this now," he says.  But I've got to get these out before the end of the day, so I had no choice."
He hands me a white envelope.  It's layoff season and I am on the bottom of the pole.  I expect this, just not this way.  He smiles and leaves.
"What was that about," says Kevin, still not sure that someone, perhaps even himself, is not in trouble.
"It's not about you guys," I reply.  "It's for me."  The lesson is over and only four minutes remain.  Backpacks emerge, lunch is just minutes away.  I open the envelope and see a legal looking document.  I scan the page and see the hearing date and that I will have the right to attend.  It's not my first time.  Before I replace the notice in it's envelope I notice the title of the document.
     Notice of Accusation
So that's what they call these things.  A small smile forms at the corners of my mouth.
Kevin again, "What's that paper say?"
"It's a notice of Accusation; at least that what it says"
Kevin persists: "What are you being accused of?"
Of wanting my job.  Period ends.

Home of the Blues

The thunder and lightning storms stopped.  The flooding abated.  A cooling breeze settled over the city of Austin, Texas.  People came out of hiding an onto the main drags.  Parts of Austin resemble Bourbon Street where music streams from adjacent bars and clubs.  In one block you can go from down in the alley blues to traditional country.  Barkers assist.  Many choices, many chances.
So, we ambled on down to "The Home of the Blues," Antone's.
On this particular night we awaited the arrival of Miss Lavelle, an 89 year old blues singer who has a local following and who has been treating Austin's music scene with her humor and soul for decades.
We got a beer and a table and wondered about food.  Anton'e has a bar, but no kitchen.  There is a little record/souvenir shop in the front of the building that sometimes sells poor-boy sandwiches.  None remained on this night.  But, when a kindly older woman arrived on the scene, something else became apparent.

When Miss Lavelle appears, there is a pot luck.  People bring fried chicken, salads, mac and cheese, and other homemade dishes.  It all goes on the end of the bar.  First Miss Lavelle makes her selections from the array of food. When she is done eating, anyone else can.  That's how it is; always was,always will be.
In a bright Coral dress, Miss Lavelle goes for a piece of chicken and a few other small amounts.  She smiles, and then invites others to partake.  Her burnt orange wig is parted down the middle and on that part, in the middle of her forehead rests a large broach.  Looks and shines like diamonds but I don't think so.
The show starts at 7:00 and the call and response of a love fest ignites the first set she performs.  There is a personal blues about growing up poor in Mississippi, there are a few classics from a huge blues/soul catalog, and a surprise or two.  Like the request to do Van Morrison's "Into the Mystic," which she does with all the ease and grace of everything sung so far.

We stayed for two sets.  A rumor floated over the scene that Miss Lavelle had gone outside into the alley behind the club for a little "refreshment" and encouragement.  Who knows, she's the real deal, all she needs to do is eat first, and she's ready to do it all over again.

50 Photos

Fifty years is at least half a life
     more than half the decades we were apart,
Our images remain locked inside our 20s
     those people will forever reside there.

Humidity and cheap beer,
     heat and cheaper wine,
wear a hat with curled edges,
     it serves as camo for the mind,

For the first time we had nowhere to be,
     no due dates, calendars, or curfews
to limit the time we craved

103 degree days ended deep into the night
     they became 95 degree days that begun
deep into the early hours

I regret very little but wish I'd spent more time with my hosts
     Lost in this biblical purgatory,
where ashes stained my boots and hymns swirled in the still air,
     I carved icons from swollen hands, bronze fingers that held
a kitten with care, and ice that gave life to everything.

Once I carried a watermelon to the pews
     of a church that welcomed anyone who could find
the threshold, anyone who could lift a voice,

Five decades have covered the raw earth,
     the sheltered village, and the souls of overgrown
cemeteries,
The photographs have done their job.