60 Years Are Too Many: The Goats Are Dead

  19 June

    My Facebook memories-which are how I track my life since my brain is gone-tell me that last Juneteenth was a Thursday, so we didn't have pony school. But I was reminded of a pony school story that insists on being repeated.

    In June of 2025, my second summer of pony school, we had been told at the beginning of summer meeting that the goats had died. There were two goats who were elderly and got sick. There was also a missing pony, Aspen, but I think she was just tmean and "moved to a different farm".  She'd been relieved of her duties long before the school year began,but the two goats had been present through the end of the school year and had literally just died days before. So many of the kids would notice the lack of caprines in the pen. 

    It's also important to note that the vet who put the goats down is a pony school parent. Many of the kids had already heard rumors. Just because they're in preschool, doesn't mean they're stupid. But it does mean that they will share whatever information they have with the group the moment they all descend on the farm.

    The director decided the best choice was to not tell the children unless they asked. Her logic was that many parents aren't ready for death conversations, and it's not on us to have them.

    On a preschool farm. Where---I'd wager a guess--many animals have died.

    But hey, gratefully, I Am Not In Charge. I love that journey for me.

    So on Day One of pony school, there were fifty-ish five and unders, and a handfull of six through eight year olds who were the Mustangs--the pony wranglers. The Mustangs were my kids, so I focused on them.

    As we were all crammed into the entrance after lawn check in, the call went up. 

    It was like the Mockingjay call from District 12. Hands waving and scattered, small voices stage whispering "The goats are dead! The goats are dead!"

    I laughed out loud. Because what did the director think was going to happen? And the look on her face said it all: panic. She hurridly pretended she didn't hear the kids and parced them into their rooms.

    So we herded the kids into their classrooms, mine went out to the ponies, and I assume the other poor teachers had to explain that the goats were in fact dead to wide eyed pony school campers. Welcome to summer camp! We're going to ride ponies and pet Poe the Pig and the goats died, but don't ask about it. Today's craft is a suncatcher, pay attention.

    I had five kids--the oldest was eight, the youngest was six. Being the Rule Following White Girl that I am, I did not address the dead goats. The kids took care of it themselves.They stood looking at the empty goat pen and devised their own explanations: the goats were sick, they were old, they fell down, they are buried under the barn. My only contribution was to tell them that we would not be digging under the barn to find the bodies. The kids were not just fine but hilarioius, I didn't need to call a school psychologist. We moved to care for the ponies and they forgot about the goats.

    Later we were in the classroom drawing, and one of the eight year olds was drawing  a rocket ship with what looked like Santa riding along. I asked if that was Santa and he replied plainly and loudly, like I was an idiot, "There is no Santa. Everyone knows that."

    The six year old did not know that. 

    Her eyes widened, and she looked to me. She looked at the adult in the room, expecting the truth. The truth about the goats, the truth about Santa. I panicked--we can't talk about death, there was a Whole Meeting, but what am I supposed to do about Santa? So I looked her straight in the eye and responsed:

    "The goats are dead!"

__________________________________________________________________________

    June 2026 week two at pony school has been "uneventful".

    Instead of the wonderful, older Mustangs who can function, I have eighteen three to five year olds who cannot. They do not say funny and clever things. They do not pontificate on the burial customs of farm animals. Several are barely verbal. I have five kids across two classes who are speech delayed. One clearly knows what she is talking about, I just don't understand what she's saying. She's in speech therapy, and her mom came to camp this week, so I watched her interact with her child and got a few ideas. It's not sign language--there is a kid with hearing aids with whom I use that mode. I told his mom-who is a para at camp- that I know just enough sign language to be dangerous. She mistook my signing as an indication that I Know Sign Language. The speech therapy tools are more about gestures to remind her to use her tongue, open her mouth fully and feel where the words are. It's super cool.

    But delays are not why I don't love these classes. I can do delays, I've had kids on IEP's for centuries, I can adapt. It's their age. 

    They aren't funny.

    That's it. I spend my three hours every morning chasing, repeating, hand holding, sunscreening, schlepping up and down on and off the ponies, cleaning the tables constantly because craft is messy and snack is messy and differentiated for allergies and sanitizing blocks and yesterday was bread day which is a fun day if you're six and misery with eighteen three year olds who cannot hold their pan of bread in both hands and sit quietly for five minutes waiting for their parents;trampled bread, dropped bread, the call of "Bread Down!" going out like "Clean up on Aisle Nine!", the auctioning off of forgotten water bottles, sun hats and weirdly a pair of socks that nobody seems to remember removing from their feet-it's endless.

    Preschool teachers are angels.

    And yet...every day I am acutely aware that I am sixty, and I cannot retire from teaching and pay my mortgage, so I'll need a job with insurance and...I could do this. Teaching preschool could be my retirement.

    I'm done with high school theatre after this year. Enough.4e3 ccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccc

    That was Houston stopping by, stomping across the keyboard while I let the dogs in.

    I can't sub: no insurance.

    I can't work part time in a school district: no insurance.

    So I'd have to find a non-public/private/charter situation who do not participate in pera so I can get my big 53% of my salary as retirement, and work doing Something Else that has insurance attached.

    While I'd be OK clerking at King Soopers, I am not OK working at Starbucks. I need a low cognitive load with zero leadership responsibility.

    Like preschool teacher.

    Which is physically demanding, but cognatively just about right and I'm only in charge of my class. BoooohhYA, no building a department, dealing with renovations and misfiring tech, sudent absences, etc. 

    I'd love to work from home. My cousin works for Progressive as a trainer. I'm not interested in training people, I'll just take phone calls, watch videos of accidents and fill out forms. I know the shitty side---having to deny a claim because the leak that flooded your house was pre-existing, watching the parking lot video of you backing directly into the other car as I listen to you name call and insist You Didn't Do It through my headset, knowing the blood on the bumper was not from a deer and passing the info on to the police--I've heard some doozies.  

    And I'd get to work from home.

    My Cuz makes as much as I do as a trainer/supervisor working from home.

    If you would pay me $50k a year and offer insurance I'd do data entry from home. Sounds Great. I like my house, I hate leaving it and I'm 60. I'd love to retire but that is not a reality for me.

    I'd also teach preschool at a farm preschool, where the kids can ride and pet ponies, feed goats and a pot bellied pig named Pigger Alan Poe.

    Sigh.

    Scene.

        

60 Years Are Too Many: I Passed The Thing

 16 June 2026

    I'm listening to Short History of British Punk. Recommend.

    Today at Pony School:

    * A four year old needed to list/name all of her stuffies. Their names are outstanding, reflecting the depth of intellect of her household. My favorite was an Octopus named Socrates.

    * I remembered most of their names without having to look at name tags. M/W I have three boys who look exactly alike, and yesterday I was able to differentiate them.On T/Th it's the girls who look the same. Because all small white children look exactly the same. I said what I said. I had the same issue at Littleton with teenaged white boys sporting the exact same blonde buzz cuts with a Jersey handle up front and they were all named Jake or Jack. 

    I also got home to the email that I passed the stupid district thing. Whether I passed or they just decided after three tries they were tired of reading I dunno and I don't care. It was a distraction I guess. Now I need something else.

    I am not well, mentally.

    The cruelty of this country is getting to me and I refuse to look away. Even though there is nothing I can do to stop it. Send the comet please, hit reset, do what you gotta do but please blow up this experiment and let God sort us out. All the Pretti Good people, children, and those desperately doing the right thing are tired. We're ready to go. I'm not interested in trying to change minds. I'm not interested in "holding out" until the midterms. 

    People are dying.

    They're being killed, by lack of healthcare, concentration camp incarceration...by cruelty.

    Cruelty.

    A specific human trait.

    While dolphins are ass hole rapists, nature doesn't deliberately refuse help to her inhabitants. They lack the science and skill to help the three legged wolf, but they try. They keep the sick and old in the middle of pack for protection. Whales raise the children together.

    We're the only ones that attack one another because we hate.

    We are the only ones that are cruel.

    And I can't watch it anymore.

    Scene.

60 Years Are Too Many: Racism, District PD's and Preschoolers

 15 June

    No one of taste needs to repeat what was said last night after the UFC fight.

    No one of intellect is surprised.

    Which is why it is heartbreaking.

    Also he's now investigating Gavin Newsom.

    I hate it here.

    Which is why I guess I am grateful  that the district PD I have been assigned has gone sideways, causing a New And Exciting Distraction. 

    All who know me know the motorcycle accident in 2015 seriously snapped my brain synapses. Like permanently. They do not reattach after the age of 50. So since then, the brain fog, in ability to remember names ---I'm  a TEACHER---or names of a thing I'm looking at, let alone lines, is frustrating. I'm not old, this is not because I'm 60. It's because I wrecked my motocycle and landed head first, skidding 30 feet on the left side of my body. That's also why I have a limp, but I digress.

    The point is that things like reading comprehension have become a struggle bus.

    I've adapted, but this particular PD was a bitch.

    It's The Latest And Greatest manifesto on forcing culturally responsive equality in the classroom.

    Because nobody is teaching equitably, I guess. Or some suits at the district without real job descriptions got jumpy and needed something to do.

    It's hours of video and journaling and reading and all saying The Same Thing that everyone already knows. Kids Learn Differently, So Adapt.

    I know. Shocking.

    Their culture, language, religion, history all inform how they learn. 

    So does their emotional state, autism, Down Syndrome, disabilities, Tik Tok and Snapchat addictions.

    After wasting hours of my life I will never get back, I learned my mistake was to lead my answers with MI/S kids -special needs-and ELL-English Language Learners. Because it seemed to me, the whole thing was about inclusion, and those populations are the two I have the largest number, so I led with them and how I include them.

    I submitted my answers,and was chastized for focusing on only MI/S adaptations. The grader's tone was "That's nice, but there are other kids."

    OK, so I rewrote my answer to include ELL.

    Again, I Did Not Pass the class. She wants me to be more ...wordy...about All Kids. This time she said not to include MI/S or ELL. Talk about all kids and how I teach in a culturally responsive way. Because, as she pointed out, there's a lot of culture in theatre...

    I had no idea. Really? 

    And how come I'm not forcing kids to talk about social injustice? She was really hot on social injustice. 

    Ummmm...because it's not in my content to force the issue? It comes up naturally in scene work and play reading later, but stage combat is taught the third week of class. Which is where my Spanish speakers create scenes about being pulled over by the police, police brutality and ICE. Isn't that a social injustice issue? We don't TALK about it, and I do not PLAN for it. It's not my lesson plan, and no, I'm not going to create a lesson plan about it just because they shared their personal experiences. Want to know why?

    I Am Not A Counselor. I am not qualified, it is not my job.

    I have been give one slide per question to use as my answer. In some cases, there are three parts to the answer, all on one slide. And I'm supposed to choose one unit, which I decided was stage combat.

    I was being precise and to the point, but that was wrong.

    I expanded the second time, but that was also wrong.

    So I added slides and literally took every vocab word they gave me and added What I Do To Support That Word in class, which sounded very much like I teach everybody the same and do not differentiate for anyone. 

    So I'm quite pissed at this point, largely because I read the questions and I answered them deliberately pointing out how flexible theatre is, only to be told I don't force kids to talk about their personal lives enough.

    By the time I got to the third edit, I knew I wasn't "doing it right', but she kept telling me I was vague and wanting me to add "social injustice" when I do not do lessons on social injustice.

    I came home today exhausted. I've written five pages of responses that had to be edited to three slides---to which I added two more---and I know I Did Not Pass. Because I cannot grasp what it is I'm being asked to do. If I understood, I'd just make something up. But I can't make up that I deliberately create lessons about domestic abuse because a kid is abused and created a scene about the abuse. That's for counseling to deal with, not for me to dig farther.

    I have been teaching theatre for 23 years. I teach Spanish speakers, Swahili,  Tongan, Maori and Chinese speakers. I teach LGBTQ kids, black kids, brown kids, autistic kids, kids in wheelchairs, blind kids, severe needs kids. I teach them all equally, I adapt to each one and I can't pass a class on culturally responsive teaching because I do not use their personal lives directly in my lesson plans, or force them to talk about social injustice?

    I call Bullshit, Hal.

    I just spent a week struggling with feedback that was supposed to be precise but kept telling ME I was vague. I wasn't vague, you just don't want to know what I do for my kids.  I wasn't vague, I told you specifically how I adapt to get MI/S kids on stage and involved, and how I communicate with MLL kids. I  wrote in paragraphs, and then in bullet points that had to be edited down for the slide but was not In Depth Enough. I went back to the slideshow class to pull specific vocab to attach to What I Do and I have concluded that if I don't pass, and somehow this effects my employment, then my employment ends here.

    I repeat this mantra constantly: If you wanna know how I teach, come watch me teach.

    We in the performing arts do All Of The Things---adapt, differentiate, counsel, feed, listen support, lather, rinse repeat---but we do not base our lessons on these things. We still have to teach our content. Music is music. Words are words. We can discuss how they impact you, but a lesson on Why Mozart Is Just Like You is not a real thing. I have way too much PTSD about the plays I taught in Litteton being "triggers" for the kids, I will not be forcing personal issues  into a lesson plan. I supposed I could say I teach Fences to every class, but I don't. Ugh. What Do They Want?

    I can't even lie and make something up that fits what they want, because as soon as I think I know, I go back and read the feedback and I'm not creating lessons to specifically reflect a kid's personal life. I think I know what they mean, and it's not authentic. Teach Fences for the one black kid in class. There are no spanish plays that I am aware of that are appropriate for high school students. I think I know what they mean---let the autistic kid tell his story in a scene with non autistic kids--but, that assumes that they want to.

    I did write a version of this: they tell their stories in scenes. I force nothing, I'm just there to allow it to happen and teach them how to structure a story and project. They give feedback in a circle, and share their lives and cultures in two speeches in the fall.

    If I'm not mistaken, and clearly I am---re: snapped synapses---they want me to forcibly ask a kid about their personal life and then build an entire lesson around that kid's experiences. I can't even lie about doing that because I can tell you right now it would fail. They have to reveal in their own time. They have to trust the class and trust me. I get it---I've had kids from Kazitstan and Moldovia do speeches about their countries. But I didn't then do an entire lesson on the theatre of their country. I didn't see that it was necessary. It means more to them to share it and have it recieved--and then have a scene partner suggest their culture or personal life is included in the scene. It's about them connecting, not me forcing the connection.

    I get it-force the white kids to learn about the other kids. I do show and tell in high school for precisely this reason.

    I disagree that I should then build an entire lesson on each diverse student's culture. That's not inclusive, that's intrusive.

    I could lie. I could make something up.

    I don't want to. 

    If this is where culturally resposive teaching and equity is going, I'm out.

     I don't know where I'd go, because preschool is not my jam. At least summer camp. It's too many kids with limited ability to communicate their legion needs.

    It wasn't even that hot today and I'm wiped out. The late bloomer talkers are also wanderers and have no interest in doing what the other kids are doing.

    I dunno man...we'll see. I clearly am not understanding the assignment.

    Scene.

60 Years Are Too Many: Politics and Pony School

 

    11 June 2026

        Tomorrow is my dad's "heavenly" birthday.

        I see that UFC on the White House lawn is going Thunderdome.

        Medicaid and social security are now "entitlements" according to Mike Johnson.

        Voter rolls are being purged, but I-A Colorado Female-received my primary voting ballot in the mail. I am mailing it today.

        I exploded a severely overpressured bag of vanilla wafers all over the Cracker Jack room in front of eighteen under five year old Bears.

        I told a four year old to suck it up when it became clear she was maniuplating my teaching assistant by playing helpless and I intervened. Nope. Not on my watch.

        I feel every second of 80 years old at 11 am daily. Walking on uneven ground and standing for three hours-even at 30 I would have struggled. The three summers I've worked at the pony school I've noticed. I'm on my feet all day teaching and directing at the high school, but I'm moving. I can sit down in an adult sized chair if I want. Literally preschool is standing in one area helping with craft, then standing waiting for potty and handwashing, standing on the playground (concrete or gravel), standing at science (uneven ground) the barn (uneven) the field (uneven). Every year I'm exhausted and say "remember not to do that again" and yet I do. Because money.

        I need to commit to spelling out or using numbers. What's the rule again? Spell out one through nine and use numbers for double didgits? Did I make that up or is it real? Also, how do you spell didgit? Didgit? It doesn't look right. Because it isn't! Digit? I have always added the second "D" but I could not tell you why.

        Also I have a sudden need to own my car. I'll have to double payments, but if I do I can pay it off by December.

        I am going to do the same math with the house. It has been tugging at me for two years, and now it's unrelenting. Need to own car and house.

        Why is Trump so determined to destroy Iran? At the cost of our own economy and lives. Admittedly I've always been a fan of leaving the middle east alone unless they Do Something To Us directly. He started this, and I have no idea why. Even if they did have a nuke--which I guess they could?---it can't reach us. We're being run by a bully and his toxic hypermasculine, racist sychophants. Because that's who America Has Always Been. Not George Carlin-George Bush. Not Mr. Rogers-Mr. Reagan. Entitled trolls who want revenge for not being chosen for kickball.

        Dogs want out again. I need to locate a fourth pair of shoes for today. Nothing is working, and I'm arriving home barely able to walk. 

        Because...I'm 60.

        Scene.

60 Years Are Too Many: Pony School

 

    9 June 2026

    I just typed the date and realized my dad's birthday is this weekend. Which explains why facebook popped the memory of us in Genoa spreading his ashes. 

    Duly Noted: Post Forthcoming

    So first two days of pony school, let's set it up.

    Summer camp is three weeks in June and three weeks in July. Pony rides, crafts, science, copious amounts of outdoor play time, petting goats and a grunty pig with at least one water day---A Big Deal, a castle water feature and general spraying shenannegins. They also have in house field trips; IE the aquarium sends a volunteer to teach the kids about the ocean with shark teeth as a prop, or the Arvada fire department, or the bread maker-neither of whom have the cool shark teeth but still, super cool.

    The sessions are 8 am -11 am and noon to 3 pm four days a week (Fridays off). There are four classrooms. The regular campers are age 3-5, and the Mustangs (the pony kids) are 6-10. At least in theory, I think the oldest last year was eight. Mathmatically, there can be eighty kids in the camp at one time, but I find that to be an insane posit. Generally the Mustangs are a small group of four to six kids, and the three camper classes are about 15 kids each. There is one teacher and an assistant in each class, with additional staff to manage science,snack and craft. There is no indepenent lesson planning: it's summer camp. It's all planned, teachers just show up and wrangle kids. Sounds great, huh?

    This is my third summer at the school. In 2024 I dipped in to sub. I was not the lead teacher, I was just helping out. My sister works there full time -she is my contact. It was fine, I just followed the lead teacher (who was my sister) and did what I was told. I monitored potty breaks, handwashing, cleaned the tables three times (at least) each session and lifted  children onto the ponies. There was one spectrum kid who needed one -on-one and I was The One. I liked the drive a Whole Very Lot, as I was still at Hinkley and driving through an honest-to-god Aurora shit show daily to arrive at a building that was also an Aurora shit show. So driving from Lakewood to Arvada along highway 93 to help preschool children ride ponies and create crafts was like heaven. Fresh air, no traffic, no homeless encampment and only thirty minutes. I was almost as excited about the drive as I was the job. That drive helped me solidify my need to leave Hinkley. Which I did.

     Last year they asked if I would be the pony wrangler. Duh. Yes, please. I was as "full time" as one can be at camp, with both AM and PM classes, both very small. I think I had seven kids in the morning sessions and five in the afternoons. Great kids, really happy to be there and excited to work with the ponies. 

      This year the director called to ask if I could "help out". I assumed she meant with the ponies, but she said she actually needed an AM lead teacher. For preschool.

      I'll let you think about that.

      I am not the person I would call to work in preschool. Firstly, I cannot cuss at them. Secondly, I cannot cuss at them. But I'm a nice guy and I do love the pony school, so I said sure. Then she asked if I'd also do two PM days a week with the Mustangs. Sure. I'm happy to help and dang I do love those ponies. How hard can preschool be? I saw it when I was wrangling the ponies, and I subbed. I also raised two children. It should be second nature. I've been teaching high school for twenty three years. I can do this. Right?

       Today was day two and here are the things I have to say:

       I am not a preschool teacher.

       Even in a pony school camp. I am only AM, and have different kids M/W and T/TH. I have eighteen kids under the age of five in each class. Just me and my delightful twenty year old, blue haired assistant who is learning as she goes. She was a barista, no preschool experience. Well...I'll leave that decision to your discernment. One could argue working with the public as a barista is akin to wrangling preschoolers.

      The AM Mustang teacher asked me on Monday if I was married to doing the afternoon two days a week. I said "I thought she needed the help, I'm not married to anything." Turns out this beautiful person, a teacher during the regular school year at the pony school, had meant to take the summer off. Because teaching preschool is hard and she wanted a break. But then finances dictated differently, and she agreed to be the part time pony wrangler, then sat down again with a budget. Long story short (Too Late)I happily gave her my two days so she can feed herself, and tried not to let on how delighted I was to let it go. Last summer was great---the first summer I didn't direct a summer musical pop up---but physically exhausting. I'm much older now---I'm SIXTY if you missed it---and I don't think I could have done preschool mornings with pony afternoons. 

    I have eighteen kids in each class. Here's Tuesday's breakdown:

        * Four children aged three have never been outside of their house. No social skills, no concept of paying attention to their surroundings. They each should have their own attendant because they wander off, toddle away- quietly tunneling under the barn in search of a barn cat an older child told them existed, or following children in another class onto the wrong playground, or back into the building, or trying to get into the goat pen-or walk around trailing a jump rope behind them and paying no heed to "girls" bathroom and "boys" bathroom.  Me too friend, but for a different reason.

        * Two children are definitely spectrum even though they are four years old. Which just means additional support is needed from myself and my lovely assistant.

        *Two children (a different two) have speech delays and cannot be understood. They are sweet, engaged, positive and chatty. I just have no idea what they are saying.

        * One of the four "newbies" to preschool cried  95% of the morning.

        * One other newbie got her underwear wet under her dress on the slide. We'd been outside for five minutes. It took ten minutes to change her and we had to write up an incident report.

    You are smart people who read the first paragraph. There are two adults in this classroom with these kids.

    So after two days, I have declared this entire experiment Not Sustainable and made sure the director was aware. One of the other spectrum kids in another class had a full meltdown after he was stopped from throwing rocks at the cars waiting to pick up kids. I watched one of the new teachers try to get him to sit in a chair, he was all arms and legs and screaming and her face let me know that while she may be new to this preschool, she is not new to preschool. I had to walk The Weeper (the one who cried most of the morning) directly past The Rock Throwing Consequences to get to the pickup line. She stopped cold and stared at them, I had to practically pick her up to move her along.     

    I am grateful that the other teacher wanted to take all the Mustang classes. Those kids are clearly about as young as I can manage, but after two days, we can reasonably conclude that I Am Not A Preschool Teacher, and doing AM preschool and then ponies may have been a Bridge Too Far. Dude. I don't have time to look at everyone's craft and oooh and ahhhh at your skill because I'm trying to help everyone create their craft and direct those done early to get out puzzles only, no toys, no don't go outside, no you can't go to the bathroom alone, no we're not going outside yet, please put this on the drying rack, thank you for helping, please put your backpack back in your cubby, no you can't take your babies outside with you they'll get lost, cry all you want the answer is still no, yes I know you want your mom...etcetera etcetera etcetera ad nauseam.

      I am not judging anyone but myself. Three year olds have to learn somewhere, that's valid. A summer pony school camp sounds like a great way to get them socialized. It actually is.

     It's just not my jam. Not my ice cream flavor. I like the ponies and I like the older kids who want to wrangle the ponies. Just like I only like high schoolers who like theatre. Same thing.

    And these aren't behaviors. The kid throwing rocks at the cars is a behavior, and a different kid was doing the same thing last summer. Been there, done that.

     These kids are just new. They're new humans. If they see a bunny, they run after it regardless of the terrain. If they don't want to paint they don't want to paint. The Little Weeper wouldn't go into the barn because it was too scary. Which is great when ten of them are already in the barn and seven are outside the barn playing on bouncey balls and she's clutching your hand refusing to move in any direction. Or when one of them needs artistic affirmation or to tally the number of cats in their household, all of them must speak up simultaneously to contribute, while the dog owners discover they must speak louder to be heard. My high school voice does not change for preschool or even the elementary pony wranglers, and I sound mean. I'm told that is why they like me...unsure how that makes sense.

    Luckily,  I am never shy to ask for help, and today I sat down after class with the office manager and said "I know she (the director) loves feedback. Are you ready?" 

     She was ready.

    Turns out it was pretty obvious things were not going well. The part time office/craft person and other part time office/floater person will be around Thursday to help wrangle my T/Th class, as it was evident building wide that the balance was off and it had nothing to do with my classroom management. It's like the class balances in high school, all the behaviors always end up in the same class. How did all of the New To Preschool kids end up in my class?

     All in all, to sum up, in conclusion: the last two days have been a rough week.

        

    My coffee mug---featured in the blog outside/inside, my pink pony club hat--which I think one of my children bought as a child in Steamboat--posed with a gifted "gem". The "gems" are scattered over the playground for the kids to mine and discover. 

60 Years Are Too Many: Buena Vista

      5 June 2026

        Jim and I generally get out of the house at least once a year, on our anniversary. Or therabouts, depending on school calendars.  Sometimes twice a year, birthdays and anniversary.

        Usually we just do an overnight within an hour's drive. But this year, we went to Buena Vista. We've never been to Buena Vista before, but a new hotel opened who does business with Jim's company.

        So it was an excuse. Or a reason.

        Colorado mountain towns all look pretty much the same. Even the infected tourist traps like Breck and Steamboat have a similar footprint. It was just blown apart by commerce.

        So it was no surprise when we arrived at the outskirts of Buena Vista to find a few small, old ranches, a dilapidated hotel and a Dollar Store.  It could have been outside of Ouray, or Delta, or Durango or Trinidad.     

        Main Street contained six coffee shops and two or three bakeries (that I counted). Super cute mountain town. Every town has the abandoned movie theatre still standing with their dusty marquee. This one is The Pearl. It may be under renovations currently, it may have stalled out while being renovated, but it is not open. 

        There is still a brew pub up there, Eddyline, who have their brewery and pub on the west outskirts of town---it's great, they have a giant grain processor---and also pizza and burgers. Then they have a restaurant on the south end of Main Street that does not have pizza, but they do have burgers and their brew. I mention this because it seems brew pubs have been closing rapidly in Colorado over the last few years. It's also possible that there are still plenty of them, breweries and pubs, and we just don't go to them any more. When Great Frontier sold to Old 121 we stopped patronizing all pubs. I would love to say why, but it is less likely that we stopped because I screamed about mergers and more likely that the timing just matched up with us being over brew pubs.

        The proprieter at Eddyline sufficiently skunk faced me when I asked if they had Coors Light. I'd just gotten off of the electric bike and wasn't truly firing on all cylinders. I knew where I was, I knew they didn't have Coors Light. I am unsure if some dark nugget in my brain sent a message that said "Be funny, ask for Coors" and I didn't process but instead just spoke, or I just honestly wondered. Either way, he responded appropriately and I didn't indicate that I was kidding. It was fine. He asked a few minutes later if he'd responded appropriately, giving me a chance to pretend I had set him up and let him off the hook. I just said "Yep, that was solid".

        Jim rented two electric bikes for a few hours. We bought one for Genoa at Christmas--a smaller version --it is very light,folds, and works getting them to work and back. These were nothing like that. They weighed 75 pounds each. All of the controls on the handlbars are black. I struggled. They're also tall and my knees do not fully bend, and my hip freezes and my thumbs don't work and my eyes have always been a struggle. Not just because I'm 60---it's the mileage, not the years.

        I thought about Writing A Whole Thing about the electric bikes but bullet points are best.

        *Why do they make controls black on black? Even at 23 I couldn't see how to control anything like that.

        *I am 60. It's been a minute since I mentioned that. Due to my unfamiliairity with the bike and the physical exhertion that caused a pounding headache as I actually pedaled uphill, I did not enjoy the first part of the ride. In fact, I stopped fully thinking I was having a heart attack.

        * I switched bikes with Jim, who understood how it worked but did not show me. But as soon as I pulled over, the throttle turned itself off, and there I was again pedaling. 

        * A mile or so later, after abandoning the canyon road trail, we tooled through town and Jim was able to show me where my throttle was. That's when it clicked that it was turning off every time I stopped. Electric bikes are a lot more fun when the electric part is engaged. Otherwise you're just pumping pedals on 75 pounds of metal.

        * When we returned, the proprieter checked the bike and said I had pedaled 93 percent of the time.

        We walked from the bike rental to the pub, sat at the bar and I asked if they had Coors Light.

        Scene.

        

60 Years Are Too Many: 2025-2026 Theatre Postcards.

 

    3 June 2026

        A few outstanding moments from this school year, downloading from my brain between jobs.

                                                   * Dishes

        We rehearsed Mamma Mia during choir classes. That was the only way to get the show up, I had to literally kidnap three choirs. Good thing the choir teacher agreed. Or maybe it was her idea. It probably was. I think it was her idea.

        So one tech week day in second period, we had nothing to really clean up vocally or with choreo as a group. I worked with one or two actors, and then we sat around the blue table. It used to be the black table we sat around for Odd Couple. Once it was brought on stage it stayed all year. Anyway, I said "If you're bored, we need to do dishes".  

        I'm used to having to teach kids skills that are unfamilair: I'm teaching theatre. But also things like dialing a rotary phone and rolling paper into a typewriter. Generational stuff. However, on this day, I discovered Not All Kids know how to do dishes.

        Two girls were voluntold, one tall, one short-perfect comic duo. They were supposed to simply wash the plastic glassware. There is a paint sink in the shop, and a bottle of blue Ajax dish soap, and a dish cloth and paper towels sitting right on the counter next to the faucet.

        First, they loaded the tray of glasses back to the shop. One returned. "What do I wash them with?"

        "The dish soap on the sink."

        She exits.

        She returns, holding the blue bottle of Ajax dish soap.

        "This?" she asks. She then pronounces is "AH-Jax".

        There is much laughter.

        She exits.

        She returns with her partner behind, holding a tray with wet glasses.

        "You washed them?"

        " Yes."

        "With what?"

        "Water."

        "What about the AH JAX?"

        "Um....we were supposed to use that too?"

        We wave them away.

        The same one returns. "Do we have like paper towels?"

        "Yes, they're on the edge of the sink. So is the dish towel we're using. For the glasses only, nothing else."

        One returns with the glasses.  They are still wet. "Did you dry them?"

        Blank look.

        "Did you wash with the towel and soap around the rims?"

         Blank look.

        "That's where the germs are. Do it again."

        One of the boys at the table can barely contain himself. "I do dishes, I vacuum, I have chores. What is going on?"
           

         The taller girl reenters holding the dish soap in one hand and the dish cloth in the other.

         "I have chores. I vacuum. I do the dishes, they're in a machine. I put them in the dishwasher. Nobody washes dishes like this, why would I know how?"

        "I know how," replies the boy, smiling.

          The choir teacher cannot, at this point, even remotely keep it together. She's been laughing since the first re-entry. I have a prop crew chief who would have washed the dishes during sixth period. It's his job. But we were trying to keep choir kids engaged. So I got to say it:

        "Never send a choir kid to do a techie's job".

             

                                               * Forgetting Lines

        This is generational. All kids struggle with lines, however this group has had their frontal lobes impacted by phones and chrome books, tik tok and snapchat, AI and texting. Their attention span is the length of a tik tok. I do make them read entire plays aloud in class---and when forced, they do it and they actually seem to enjoy it--which is only one small step.

        How do you learn lines when your attention span is thirty seconds?

        I don't have an answer. But I do have a story about what happens when they go up on their lines.

        They panic.

        There isn't any awareness of "This is my job, how embarassing that I've forgotten", it's "OK, stop, wait, I'll remember, hold on...." That was fun. So I spent most of Odd Couple teaching baseline skills-which was expected. I expected to do this, the theatre has been dark for years. What I didn't expect was the complete lack of self awareness on stage. Going up on my lines in front of an audience is a nightmare. Christopher Durang wrote a whole play about it, and these kids expect everyone to wait while they think of it.

        We do improv in class to prevent this, but remember this is their first acting class, ever, and their first show, ever, so we had a lot of obstacles.

        Then the opposite happened with a choir kid on the musical. When she went up on her lyrics, she broke down crying.

        There is a middle ground there, guys: it's called improv.

        So after getting two shows mounted this year---according to faculty, Chalk Beat and the Denver Post we're talking a decade since the last musical--I now have a few kids who know how to do this. Only two of which can get Theatre 3 in their scheule next year, so we have to do the musical after school. With new kids, not in class. Lather, Rinse, Repeat.

                            * learning to manage different personalities

            Doing both shows this year was very much like my father described being "taught" to swim in the navy.

            They threw you overboard, and if you did not drown, you were in the navy.

            My kids in theatre class and the choir kids have had exposure to dealing with different personalites.  Even though there are moments when I have to say "That's just L", there are other moments when I have to intervene. Like when a kid tells another kid to their face that they aren't dedicated enough to be president of Thespians. I lit him up pretty fast. This is the same kid who literally bossed the choir teacher off the stage when she was fixing notes with the cast because he wanted to start a set change. Nope. Sorry buddy. 

            I've worked with plenty of spectrum kids, and as we know I have an actual Peer to Peer theatre, which is essentially Unified Theatre. I can read the difference between "different brain processing" and "learned asshole". His was the later category, and while everyone did their best to deal with it, it was still a struggle. 

            It'd be fine if I wasn't building everything from scratch and running low on patience as I have to scaffold every tech and actor moment. I became a micromanager, which I hate. I like to build collaboratives--which I am doing, I just have to micromanage the behaviors and safety and design and "how to talk to actors" and "how to talk to tech" and "we're all working on the same show stop being butt hurt" first.

            "L" left his post at the traveler because he had screwed up a previous set change. He literally disappeared and nobody could find him. Total brain lock meltdown.

            "A" told ensemble members they were kicked out of the show for not attending reheasals. Neither myself or the choir director said any such thing.

            "S" missed an entrance because she was in the parking lot sobbing. She had a toothache and was tired.

            That is not a complete list, believe me. Multiply that by eighteen kids. We had five that were pretty solid, but even they started to crack.

                                       * The Best Costume Human Ever

        One of the reasons I said yes to Mamma Mia was the ease of the costumes.  For the most part, we had stuff upstairs and kids could bring it from home. Simple khaki pants if you work on the island, tourist clothes/party dress and wedding clothes. The catch is those ABBA costumes. Those I do not have in the shop.

         I found some crappy ones on Amazon just to get a feel for prices. I tried Disguises---I will always shop Disguises as I'm a rabid supporter of local businesses--however they were struggling with their communication skills. So I called my friend Rachel who was Annelle to my Ouiser years ago. She has her own costume shop, and she rents and loans and is magnificent. She saved me on Christmas Carol at Hinkley because everything in that shop was a size six and my actors were not. 

        The opposite issue was present with Mamma Mia; my Dynamos were all size twos and under. And one was very short. 

        Without missing beat, Rachel pulled not just size appropriate and adjustable Dynamos, but also three matching Disco Duds for the three dads in the show, and additional sparkles and capes and tops. So Great.

        I am so blessed.

                                                   *Great Parents

        When I arrived last January, I had a parent who took photos at our Cabaret, and made Thespian water bottles for the new inductees with their names on them.

        This year, a mom volunteered to do the alterations for the Dynamo costumes. I can alter-ish, but if someone else wants to do it I'm happy to hand it over. It was so thoughtful of her, and she was just thrilled to have her daughter in a musical. Most of these kids/parents never thought they'd get to be in a show when they enrolled.

        I have parents who smile and rejoice at how far the kids have grown since the first cabaret in February 2025. Of course it's...three kids who are still around,but I'll take it.

         I'll take it.

         Scene.