December 6, 2010

I live on the Hardwick Common in an old bed and breakfast that is now used for staff housing.  If you go into the attic of the house on a stormy night, it is like being inside an old whaler bound out of New Bedford for Tahiti.  The wind and rain lash against the sides of the building outside, but inside, the high wooden rafters and vast space make you feel protected and invulnerable.

When I leave my second floor room and walk out onto the common, the enormous flag at the top of the creaking pole whips and cracks in the wind.  Across the common is this church, lit up at night like the Roman structures it emulates.  Living on the common elevates your senses; you think you are better than you are.  I needed this, this sense of being part of something noble and grand.  It reminds me of my time working at Old Sturbridge Village, wearing the long dress and apron, poking at the kitchen fire.  I'm part of the historic monuments.  Inside the B&B, I am the old crone in the apron, dragging my broom from room to room, checking on those young teachers and tsking over their glasses left dirty in the sink.  I wash them up in a jiffy. When the parents of said teachers come to visit, I'm sure they look at me with furrowed brow, something like:  there but for the grace of God, look at her living here with my youngster, and at her age, the old bat!  But the truth is, I love it there.  I have no bills.  It's toasty warm.  It's a kind of nursing home in the sense that I can eat at school and then walk back down the mile hill home to my bed.  I love my bed, which is lined up with the TV and VCR where I can fire up my latest Netflic and slurp tea and coffee. 

Those poor young teachers, boy,  I feel for them.  Were you ever new at teaching?  If not, you don't have a clue about what I'm to say.  But, man, all you do is worry, day and night, and overplan, and then throw everything out that you planned, or introduce three plans in one class period, hoping one will work.  I'm the sloe-eyed turtle in their midst, blinking my reptilian eye as they might frantically ask my advice about how to handle a difficult kid or approach to a lesson.  I always laugh and say, "It's fine!  Don't worry so much," and they go off unsatisfied, as they should, because I'm no help at all.  But there is no help for a first year teacher.  You just live through it.

 My stockings aren't wound around my ankles or knees, and I'm usually not in a housecoat, but I'm sure the residents of my house perceive me the way we used to perceive the 64 year olds at IBM.  Those Beamers always looked ready for the grave, covered with dust and cobwebs, limping down the long hallway.  They died on average three months after retirement; it's not surprising.  I have no such plans, if I ever do retire.