In the Big Middle

We set the alarm now to go to the grocery store.  Being in the older more vulnerable group, it's easier when the store first opens.  Still, there are days when there are no bananas.  Forget about paper products and hand sanitizer.  Maybe someday.  Some day when the pandemic is over.
In Oregon, we are among the last few states where someone pumps gas for you.  No longer; any attempt to social distance will not be overlooked.

Some folks are hyper concerned, while others could step up their game and get with the program.  Still, others are simply confused.  It's not uncommon now to push your grocery cart down an aisle only to find someone heading in your direction and turned around and suddenly felt the need not to pass.

On days when the weather permits, I walk around the long block where I live just to get some exercise.  It takes about 7 minutes for a brisk walk.  It totals 608 steps.  Occasionally I walk around twice.  Often, I see nothing but an occasional dog walker.
We're in the big middle of the Covid-19 pandemic and life as we came to depend on is in limbo.  There is some hope today that our favorite pizza place might re-open for take-out only service.  That's wonderful news in light of the fact that everything else in the neighborhood is closed.  Closed until...nobody knows.  No more sushi, no bagels or Matzo ball soup; no tacos or bowls with chips or tortillas.  The grass-fed beef burgers and brunch specials have disappeared for now.
In the last 20 or years or so I have a birthday ritual.  Coming in early April, my birthday always triggered some much-anticipated activities.  I will not watch the Giants and Dodgers play for keeps.  I will not buy my 2020 fishing license...yet.  I will not have only 3 weeks to wait for the Kentucky Derby.
My music jam group will not meet on Friday afternoons until further notice.  My harmonicas will sit the next few months out.  But the blues will go on and I will survive.

Quarantine Blues

cBLGreene 2020

Pandemic is on I can't go out no more,
the pandemic is on I can't go out no more,
Had to rise at dawn just to go to the grocery store.

Went down to the market, not much on the shelf,
I went down to the market but not much on the shelf,
No food or TP, I'm worried about my health.

They closed the library, closed the public schools,
Closed the library, closed the public schools,
Shut up the restaurants, locked all the bars tight too.

Got the quarantine blues, I'm home all by myself,
Got those quarantine blues, home all by myself.
Stock market goin' crazy, but I never did have much wealth.

Called up my baby, said honey let's have some fun,
Called my woman, said baby let's have some fun,
She said no way mister, 6 feet's as close as you can come.

Forever in My Mind

*It's mid-March and the country is self-quarantining.  Schools restaurants, bars, movie theaters are closed.  There is no baseball or basketball on the horizon.  The Kentucky Derby has been postponed from the first Saturday in May to the first one in September.  Strange days indeed.  Life is anything but normal right now.
I just wanted to note that here before we go on.

Psychologists tell us that memory is tied to emotion.  That stands to reason.  We remember best what we are emotionally involved with and what affects us emotionally the most.  Ask someone what their first memory is and you might find that some folks have a very specific memory from the first few years of their life, while others can't retrieve anything until about the age of 5.  Big differences there.
I can recall being in a crib with my sister in another one across the room.  We are only a year apart, so this must have been when we were about 2-3 years of age.

I've been told that I have a better than average memory.  I'm not sure that is true, rather I seem to remember some things that many of my peers can't.  At a recent reunion with my VISTA colleagues from 50 years ago, I was told that I have the best memory of anyone there.  So, why would that be?  Let me venture a guess.  Throughout my life, I have made a conscious decision to remember some things that I deemed either important or significant.  In the case of frightening experiences, I had no choice.  Like the time a friend of mine and I were confronted by a straight razor toting guy on a starry night who had mistaken us for two other guys.  The gleam of that blade in the moonlight will forever be etched in my brain.  Fear motivates.
But what I recall even more clearly is taking the time to remember some specific events or instances that I felt needed special attention.
In the Spring of 1967, I went with a good friend to a show at Bido Lito's, a popular music club in Hollywood.  I was about 1 month into my Junior year of college and we went to see a group called LOVE, featuring Arthur Lee.  Good show, but except for their pop hit called "My Little Red Book," I  don't recall much more.  EXCEPT...while leaving the club, we exited on a spiral staircase.  It was a slow-moving crawl from the bottom floor up to the street level.  As we exited, ascending the staircase, I noticed a few flyers on the wall.  Most were of coming attractions.  Among them was a simple message on one which read, "Coming next week, a new group: The Doors.  Yes, I saw that.
Among the other things I've locked away are less profound or meaningful things, but, at the time, rather significant.  Case in point.  One atypically cold winter in Southern California in the teenage days of my life, I went out for a walk on Christmas Eve.  I noticed that every house on my street, all 13 on each side of the block had colorful holiday decorations glowing.  I could see my breath in the 35-degree temperature and soon began to squint blurring the color that surrounded me. I decided right then on the spot to put that image in my mind forever.  Done.
The brilliant writer Alice Walker reminded me once that to remember is literally to re-member.  Put the pieces (members) back together.  When things get broken, we do well to re-member, to put the pieces back together.

Accustomed

"The first thing you want to do is to get a Sears catalog."   That's what she told me.  Her name was Pat, as I recall, and she had been teaching ESL for the past couple of years at a local night school. I knew Pat from my graduate teaching program.  The one we both had just completed.  Pat was off to Europe with her family and offered me her classes for the summer of 1973.  Having never taught ESL, I took her advice and quickly procured a Sears catalog.  It was all about the pictures.  The catalog would provide endless illustrated vocabulary lessons.  Beginning ESL was square one.  Lots of vocabulary building, recitation, and learning verb tenses.

Being my first paying teaching job, and having no solid prospects for the Fall, I was eager to make a good impression.  I knew how to teach an English class but this was going to be a bigger challenge because my students were not fluid English speakers.
That class was about as diverse as it comes.  I had Hispanic women from 18 to 45.  Many recent immigrant Asian families.  One Chinese family that included a child as young as 10 and the grandmother in her 70s.  A group of young Middle Eastern men, and various language learners from all over the world.  Despite their lack of English skills, I first gave the class a little diagnostic test.  Some could answer the questions written in English fairly well.  Others got help from a classmate and attempted to answer as best they could.  Their returned questionnaires had very light penciled in notes in various languages in the margins.
On the evening of the second meeting of my class, the advanced ESL teacher told me that most of the Middle Eastern men did not belong in the class.
"They have more skills than they are showing you, they just want to be in our class because there are young women there."
That might explain one of these guys' answer to the question, "What do you like to do in your spare time?"   I Like to maka the love. was his response.  Three of my students were pulled from Beginning to Advanced the next day.
The Sears catalog served me well, as did large newspaper ads, especially those from grocery stores.
That was a memorable beginning to my teaching career.  We managed to have some memorable and humorous discussions that semester.  Two anecdotes stand out.  The first involves a Korean man of about 45.  He always carried with his classroom materials a Steno pad.  I never saw him use the pad in class, but it was always with him.  One day I asked him about it.  His answer was astonishing.  He was about to go to the DMV for his driver's permit.  On the pad, he had translated the entire vehicle code into Korean.  His expectation was to score 100%.
Another time that stands out is the evening that we were told to end our classes after the first hour.  It was a particularly warm evening and the old school building had received a new coat of paint earlier in the day.  The windows had been sealed shut and the temperature inside the building was most uncomfortable. Turning out the lights was not an option, so the Principal had ordered all faculty to end their classes for the evening after the first hour.
I did my best to explain this to my class.  They nodded, but nobody moved.
"You may now all go home, class is over for this evening because of the heat."  They nodded again.  I retreated to my desk.  I gathered my things together and announced again to the class that we were done for the evening.  Nobody moved.  I went out into the hallway to a nearby drinking fountain.  As soon as I stepped out the door they all rose and packed up and departed.  I later learned that in most of their countries it was a custom not to leave the classroom until the teacher leaves.  Hardly the custom here in the USA.