60 Years Are Too Many: The Least Of You

 29 June 2026

               Matthew 25:40 "What you do for the least of you, you do for me." I -ished that but I'm not wrong.

        This is a line from a parable. As a kid being fed the Bible twice on Sundays and on Wednesday nights, I came to appreciate the parables. Even at a young age I understood what they were, and Immma sucker for a metaphor. Also, I was a child, and they teach Jesus in Sunday school downstairs, who is nice and kind and full of lovely stories. Upstairs in church they teach God who is mad absolutely all of the time because nobody does what he says. There is also that whole "jealous God" thing that is open for interpretation.

        Since God was always yelling I didn't hear much of what he said. But I heard Jesus, who did not yell at all, he just told nice stories, so I follow his advice.

         To Be Very Clear: I am not a Christian. I do not attend church. Read the above paragraph as to how often I was forced to attend church and the reason is clear. I do like parts of the Bible, and I took a class called "The Bible As Literature" in college that was pretty cool, cause I discovered parts they never taught in church.  Church doesn't work for me, even as an adult. I researched Judiaism but had no interest in converting. I did the same with Buddism. And for a minute I practiced Transendentalism because it made a ton of sense and was close to what I think the tribal ideals were. Mix that up with some Joseph Campbell and the Greeks with a dash of inherited intuition and the unwanted ability to chat with the dead and...here I am.

        Jesus' parables line up with a lot of other stories "out there". I didn't make that up, but I also don't have the energy to teach this morning. Look it up. So do a lot of the God wrath stories. Zeus is up there having tantrums daily, and can't keep it in his pants. Part of the appeal of Budda is his lack of rage meltdowns.

        Historically, the Matthew passage has been used  in reference to the unhoused, the poor, the "less fortunate". It should be a pillar of Christian action, as it is easily expanded to war refugees, immigrants,folks just down on their luck, children and special needs.

        That's the one that sticks with me, and the one on my mind this morning.    

        Cutting programs in schools for special needs children, under a regime waving a Christian Nationalist flag, horrifying. The same regime is cutting free lunch for kids, medicare and medicaid and education. Everything American society put in place to support "the least of you" is being ripped apart.

        Occasionally I toddle down rabbit holes. Sometimes it's accidental, I follow a thread that should have all like minded people responding. Other times bots or just rotten humans stab theie evil thoughts into the thread. I was not on a thread regarding special needs education, specifically when I saw the post. Bots and rotten people struggle with a throughline. 

        The one I stumbled on yelled that "Special needs kids have their own special school to go to. They shouldn't disrupt the learning of other students." That's paraphrased. It's not a new thought. And I'm here to confess that 26 years ago, it was my thought.

        First, I want to point out that those "special schools" are few and far between. Only a handful are fully funded public schools with specialized staff. Others are for profit. Which means parents have to pay. In 1975 they passed the law stating that sped students must be allowed in public schools, however they were separated out in their own center classrooms and not integrated into the general ed population. By 1990 the IDEA act made them more visible and here we are. Do the research, it's really disheartening. Just being deaf or blind could land you in an asylum. 

        Like all government programs inflicted on public schools (notice I won't talk about NCLB), they were forced without financial support or teacher training. Awesome. So it went poorly, largely because people are horrible. Parents don't want their kids "left behind" because the teacher has to accomodate special needs...but your kid is already behind and -technically your kid is special needs-because you do not read to them at night or support their education. Instead, your kid is a bully. Your kid acts out and at 14 is reading at a third grade level. This means extra time with the teacher is needed, even though you did not ask for additional services. But your kid is taking time away from "regular" kids. And here we are.

        Instead of getting in your own way, Belial, take a breath. Look at your own life. At some point somebody---your mom, dad, an Aunt or Uncle, a church friend, a teacher--fed you when you were hungry. They showed you kindess when you needed a hand. If you were truly abused one hundred percent of your life, you would not be mad about sped kids in your class because you know how it feels to be "othered". 

        We aren't born cruel. We learn to fear the other. The face of the other depends on who raised us. It can be black folks. It can be Catholics, Jews, Muslims. It can be immigrants.

        It can be kids in wheelchairs.

        All of these others are victims of unfounded hatred because they are perceived to steal from us. Steal our jobs, use up valuable resources.

        OK, I just wrote myself into a dark hole. Hold on, I need to find my way out.

        I think I'm equating kids who refuse to learn and are therefore behind with sped kids, because they both need additional attention and support. The difference is the first type of kid is disruptive and rude and doesn't want to learn. The second kid desperately wants to learn and to be included. They both require extra attention in school, but the sped kid is the one you're mad about.

        You're not mad that Josh flips his table at the end of every class, refuses to sit down or stop talking, holding an entire class hostage. Your defense is that he's fine at home, the teacher is failing at classroom management. But the same teacher has kids with IEP's who need additional support but are not deliberately disruptive, and that's when you get involved. Seriously?

        Removing funding for support is not stopping imaginary fraud. 

        The funding is not siphoned off of the gen ed kids, it's separate. It's funded that way on purpose. Because people like you, Belial, exist. 

        I love the argument that the USA is great because there are no accomodations in any other country for special needs students. At the same time, the same people pounding their chests with pride are advocating for the dismantling of the public school system and defunding special needs support.

        You aren't getting any of that money, friend. You're being played. And rather than see it for what it is, which means accepting you've been duped, you double down. You don't even have kids in a public school, but you doubled down. They're going to dismantle public education, slap higher price tags on private schools that they control and pump out non critically thinking Bible babblers who equate cruelty with patriotism. But hey---those special needs kids aren't getting "special" treatment any more, so you win.

        And what you did for the least of you, you did for Jesus. Which is support cruelty.

        That was the point of all his parables: Be Cruel Constantly. Fuck Humanity. Hate Everyone Who Looks, Believes Or Acts differently than you. Blessed be he who detains, murders, defunds and deports. 

        Scene.

        

60 Years Are Too Many: Dinner Revelations

     28 June 2026

        I went to dinner at the home of my high school lang arts teacher last night.

       How I got there is the first part of the story.

       I don't leave my house, generally, unless I'm being paid. That means I leave to go to work. I like my house. I like sitting in the living room and reading. I like sitting here in the dining room and writing, even if it's garbage. I spend my time outside of my house teaching and mitigating social relationships between preschoolers, for which I am paid.

        I deliberately keep my friend circle small. My friends from high school recently moved back from Texas, and they are relentlessly positive, active people who leave their house. I respect that, and that's not who I am. I have to be bullied out.

        They received an invite to the Starkey home for dinner, and somehow Jim and I were also invited. Jim begged off, as he was not one of their students, and is even more awkward than I am. He's not rude, he's just awkward and age has made us both homebodies. The choice caused some friction, but we've been together for 100 years, and we got over it. Also, the A/C died yesterday and he actually did have to stay home to talk to the A/C people. It's currently 78 degrees in my house. Sleeping last night was a bit rough, but it's a first world problem so keep it in perspective. They can't make a house call until Tuesday. Yay.

        I agreed to attend, even though I tried desperately to prove that I had not been invited in the first place. This is a me issue, compounded by being left out of social gatherings in my youth. I literally argued with Mike that I was not invited, so why was I going? And what time? And where to they even live, I have no address---if I was invited I'd have an address, ipso facto: not invited.

        Clearly, the fact that it was a friend from high school attending a dinner hosted by my high school teacher exacerbated my already severe social anxiety issues. Issues that I am not interested in working through, because that would mean I have to leave my house and talk to people and not get paid to do so.

        I have no idea how to hold a conversastion. I know how to teach and build community and a collaborative theatre. That is not having a conversation.

        I feel like I used to know how, because I could talk with people posessed of different viewpoints than my own, and we would both be reasonable. 

        Society decided we don't do that any more, and since I like being alone, anyway, I became OK with that. 

        However, these are like minded people. We all share the similar histories and philosphies.

        I got over myself and decided to just go. It would be good to see the Starkeys and spend time with them and Mike and Melinda, and I likely wouldn't have to worry about my conversational shortcomings as they are all pro level conversationalists.

        So part two of the story; I attended and all my fears were unfounded. I was welcomed. I enjoyed listening to their stories about their kids, about teaching---I learned she taught for 44 years. This seems impossible, I know, but when she retired from teaching high school after 33 years, she then "taught" as a TIR mentor at Metro for 11 years.

        And she's still the kindest human I know. Not angry. How does the relentless BS not make someone bitter and angry? The system was screwed when she was teaching, yet she still believes one person with a heart can make a difference. 

        While she talked my mind wandered a bit, as it does...

         I have been dismantling the BS at Littleton, piece by piece. I can track when it started, I accept my role in my own demise but that's not at the core. The core is I lost my heart. I stopped believing I was making any positive difference at all. I left there completely angry and hateful and panicked over paying my mortgage. Again--you've seen this thread in my life: money dictates my every move.

        Working at Hinkley was of course, an entirely different set of district and building BS issues, but I held on. And even though they didn't give me my years, I still made $10k more than I had at Littleton. I worked through Covid. I forced myself into what mattered, what was right for the kids and held on as long as I could. I argue it transformed me in many ways. If money was truly what I loved, I would have stayed. So I got that going for me.

        Now I'm rebuilding a department in what may be a fool's errand, but I'm doing it with my full heart, and $8k less a year because DPS did not give me my years.

        K. Starkey knew I cared, even when I'd given up hope. I was perplexed by her relentless love until it broke through last night. 

        She was my teacher.

        It's that simple.

        Good teachers see you. They see your heart.

        I have former students who I will never forget, and I hold in my heart even as we are no longer in contact. I saw their hearts. I know they will always do the right thing.

        The right thing is never the easy thing.

        The right thing cannot be done if you have no heart.

        That was a pretty big takeaway. Yes, I used that word, be grateful I didn't tell you we're going to unpack my thesis together, jigsawing small group work and then writing our findings on sticky notes to be placed on pieces of butcher paper stuck to the library walls, each with a word at the top like "Deliverables", "Learning Objectives" and "Student Facing Color Schemes".

          Ok, that was for teachers.They get it. Hi guys! Thanks for reading. Love you.

          Am I on part 3? "Actually listening". When Kathy talked about mentoring a teacher in Aurora who had been called out for teaching a "full book"--The Red Pony--her heartbreak was palpable. She was shocked that any district would punish a teacher for assigning a book--a book they were reading in class. 

        I taught in Aurora and am well aware of that strategy---they use Study Sync which pulls excerpts from novels, and lang arts teachers are to use those. Not full novels.

        Gratefully, I am not a lang arts teacher, and I have proudly forced freshmen to read The Odd Couple, Romeo and Juliet and The Crucible for many years. My mid level kids read The Misanthrope and A Servant of Two Masters. I honestly haven't taught Hamlet in a minute, but I hope to get to him with my upper level kids next year.

        Here's my experience: they read. They listen and follow along because we read in class and I can see you with my eyeballs and I know if you're following along. My kid with a sixth grade reading level held on through Theatre 2 this year and performed in the Odd Couple! Granted, my behaviors are not as severe as the core classes, so it's "easier" for me to force the reading issue. If you don't want to read, I don't make you---but you must follow along. And I learned that many of the kids who do not want to read are actually very good readers once they're pushed into doing it. They just don't want to.

        So my limited research suggests that Aurora has stopped reading novels because the kids don't want to.

        They're using "teach to the test" as an excuse, because the kids clearly only read a few paragraphs for the SAT. But aren't you teaching them to cheat, and cheating them yourself? 

        Of course you are, because people who like to read don't always know it immediately, and if they read they might discover the world around them and become curious about other cultures and history and we can't have that.

        There's a lot to unpack there that is not relevent right now, so we'll table that discussion for the next facultry meeting.

        Where was I?

        Dinner. Was lovely. I'm glad I went. I'm glad my friends gave me a ride. I enjoyed talking with them about the horrors of math en route to the Starkey homestead. I am unsure how I even have them as friends, as my conversation skills amount to occasional explosions of internal thoughts that should not be spoken, let alone spoken around people who are listening. They seem unfazed.

        So thank you Mike and Melinda. Thank you Kathy and Jim for your gracious hospitality and engaging stories and stunning artwork. 

        Scene.

        

     

60 Years Are Too Many: Teaching

 27 June 2026

    While stupidity reigns and I finished The Stand, here I go writing again.

    Because Trump posted on Truth social that he "hardly ever poops his pants", and people just yell and nobody listens. And they're doing baptisms on the national mall.  Christian Nationalism is doing its damndest to destroy our country.

    So.

    Way back in 2002, I had decided to start subbing. I worked at my alma matter GMHS in theatre for Barb-who had taken over when Bud retired-and lang arts for Kathy Starkey. Kathy had been my lang arts teacher Back In The Day. I subbed elsewhere but they are not part of this story.

    But subbing doesn't come with insurance benefits, so I decided I'd try to teach. My children were in kindie and second grade when I made the decision. I loved staying at home, but we had moved and expenses were increasing. The why is not important, nor a question educators like to answer in faculty meetings. This is how. My pontification is not passive, it's active.

    I had my BA and sub license, and I had worked in enough buildings to know high school was my jam. Either lang arts or theatre was good with me. But I didn't have my teaching license. So I did some research and learned about the TIR program at Metro. The catch was you had to get hired as a teacher in a building first, and then you could enter the program. It was the only way around the horrible and financially impossible student teaching requirement. Nobody should work for free---ever. But here we are.

    These were the early years of desktops and limited internet. I found two theatre openings in two buildings, Littleton and Ponderosa. Ponderosa's online application required a teaching license number just to apply, with no way to contact HR or ask questions. I had no such number because I did not have my license. Littleton did not require the license number, and the application could be printed and snail mailed to HR.

    And that's how that happened.

    It was much more difficult, but it's fine. Not the point of the story.

   This story is about the teachers who circled back into my life more than once, qualifying them collectively as "how I became a teacher". Their active resurgences and relentless conviction are the how.

                                                      Peter Melbach

    Melbach was my high school history teacher. One of the smartest humans I've ever met. He told the truth, he taught real history and he held us accountable. Because of him I understand colonialism, El Salvador in the 1980's, I can identify countries on a map and knew about the Red Scare and the real definition of communism. Many of the people writing about politics today are history professors who, rightfully, are losing their shit.

    I flunked his class when I left my world map project on a bus during a concert choir tour. He essentially said "Thank sucks". I never forgot my homework again. That would have been about 1982, my sophomore year.

    In 1999 I was attempting to launch my own theatre company, raise two children and worked at My Brother's Bar in Denver. Melbach was a semi regular there, I think he lived near by. Because I assume I am invisible, or at least not memorable, I did not initiate any contact outside of delivering his beer. But he recognized me and we struck up a few brief exchanges over the year and a half. Most of them centered around his thesis "When are you going to become a teacher?"

     "I don't want to be a teacher."

    "You are, I've always known it. You've always been a teacher. Let me know when you figure it out."

    In 2012 while I was at the Boettcher---wait, you may not know what a Boettcher Scholarship is. Students in Colorado apply for the scholarship, which pays 100% of their tuition and housing for four years at any Colorado university. Students who are awarded the scholarship "share" their Boettcher with one of their teachers. It's usually an IB teacher, AP math or science teacher, as those are the kids who generally win. Occasionally it's an elective teacher-say choir from a Cherry Creek School. It is rarely a theatre teacher. The teacher receives $1,000 for their department and attends the ceremony. It is a very generous prize.

    My theatre student had been awarded the Boettcher and chose to share it with me. So I was at The Thing at the Botanic Gardens. We were all seated as our students read words about us and presented us with a plaque.     

    Guess whose name was read?

    Peter Melbach.

    So I hunted him down and smiled grandly. My husband Jim compared it to Spicoli and Mr. Hand meeting years later. If you don't know the reference, trust that I looked like an idiot grinning at Melbach.

    He said "Hey, you're a teacher!"

    I sighed and smiled. Dammit, he called it.

    I awkwardly replied "And I have a Boettcher, just like you." Because I had no idea how to respond. "Yes" would have been a reasonable response, but no. I had to say something idiotic.

    He shrugged, "It's my fifth one."

    Of course it is.

    And of course he fell into a casual conversation with me like we were...colleagues. He told me about the book he wanted to write, and that he was going to retire. Just like I was a regular person. Not a waiter, not a student. A regular person worthy of conversation.

    We had a lovely chat, took a photo and I haven't seen him since.

    My Boettcher is on the wall downstairs. I walk past it daily and smile.

                                                        Steve Meinenger

    Meinenger was my high school choir teacher at GMHS. He smoked in the choir office with the band teacher, a story that blows kids' minds these days. He retired from teaching but his legacy in Denver high school choral music is massive. The choir and band teachers at Littleton knew Meinenger. He was all over CHSSA and an All State Judge, and probably All State President, and he worked in some way the the music program at Metro and possibly UNC. For all I know he invented educational music. He's a Very Big Deal.

    In or around 2011, Littleton's band teacher crossed the hall to 146 (backstage/my classroom) to confirm that I'd attended GMHS and that Meinenger had been my choir teacher. I had no idea why he was asking. 

    Turns out Meinenger in his Very Big Deal status was going to be in our building to work with the band teacher On A Thing. The band teacher, Don, said "I have an idea". He was always full of ideas, a delightful light hearted prankster-y and relentlessly positive man- I frequently hated him. Why are you happy, stop it. I try to destroy those people regularly.

    I really am that miserable. 

    And I digress.

    Anyway, he said "I'm going to pretend you're a problem, like we can't work together at all, and ask him to come meet you and give me advice." This was the opposite of true, as we worked well together and I only had to poke him in the eye with my mohawk once.

        "Why?" I honestly had no idea why this was a good plan.
        "It'll be funny. He'll meet you and remember you and it will be a reunion."
        "That's a big assumption. He's had thousands of students, I haven't seen him since high school. There is no reason to believe he will remember me."
        "Seriously?" He stopped and an entire monologue silently crossed his face. "He'll remember you."

    So on the assigned day, he brought Meinenger across the hall to "meet" me. He opened the door and ushered him in. Meinenger was looking at Don-who is at least six feet tall- the whole time, he didn't look up at me until Don was finished talking. He said "This is Mrs. Martin, our theatre teacher." Then, in an exaggerated and unsuccessful stage whisper, "The one I told you about. We're having problems with her."

      Meinenger looked up at me. He always had to look up due to his short stature-not unlike a gnome-but he seemed to have shrunk. His ice blue eyes peered at me through his squinty face. His blonde hair had turned grey. I just looked at him and smiled. In my head I was running through all of the ways to introduce myself and remind him who I am and explain that Don thought this would be funny.  

      It took him three seconds of eye contact before he said "Wyckoff, you got old!" and started cackling. 

    Yep. He remembered me.

                                                        Bud Simmons

    Bud was my high school theatre teacher. I've written of him often. Not just because he was as mean as a snake, but because in so many ways he shaped how I teach. And there's the whole "opened the door to theatre" part of it too, but whatever. Nobody cares. Nothing happens, nobody comes.

    Bud and his wife Janet communicated with me primarily through emails. I had not seen him with my eyeballs in years by the time I directed my first musical The Pirates of Penzance at Littleton in 2009. I do not recall inviting him directly, which feeds the mystical idea that he Just Knew and showed up. I did not know he was coming, and completely melted down when I saw him. I couldn't speak, I just jabbered and drooled, much to the amusement of the music director who had a front row seat to the show titled "Kmart Comes Apart" at the lobby doors. Act One was the blubbering moron talking to the short, skinny old man.

    When Bud finally went in to take his seat, Farrell asked me-through a tight smile- what was going on. I think his exact words were "What the heck was that?" I sobbed "My dad is here", and then immediately blubbered that he's not my dad dad, he's my theatre dad but ya he was like my dad and his opinion is everything to me and I can't believe he's here and I have no idea what I'm doing pardon me I have to throw up." Farrell watched the opening scene in Act 2 of "Kmart Comes Apart" and then smartly walked away. Act 2 was emerging as a boring derivitive repetition of Act 1.

    I paced the lobby the entire show and have no memory of seeing Bud at intermission. I will put money on me hiding. That tracks.

    After the show, Bud found me and crushed my bones with his hug. I couldn't speak. He smiled and said "You know, they aren't supposed to walk and talk at the same time," with that crazy predator smile and those mirthfilled eyes.

     I shot back, "Did you just give me a note old man?" I was again physically crushed with a hug, this time the last of my tears were squeezed from me.

                                                            Kathy Starkey

    Kathy was my creative writing teacher at Green Mountain. I also had her for 10th regular lang arts- Big Chiefs were our journals. And when I started subbing, she started calling. She was teaching AP( or at least some higher level) at the time, and I loved subbing her classes. They were smart kids but not assholes about being smart. I subbed for a year, and then she retired the following year when I started at Littleton.

    The TIR program has you take classes on Monday nights while you're teaching during the day for year one, and year two you are assigned a mentor teacher who gets you across the finish line. This teacher does observations, checks boxes in paperwork and makes sure your license application is in the clear.

    The summer after year one, when my Monday night teacher was "Stu" who apparently was a former colleague of another Littleton lang arts teacher so I was double supported, I received a phone call from Kathy Starkey.

    She asked if I knew why she was calling. Since it was A) summer and B) she had retired, I was at a loss. She said plainly "I am a mentor teacher at Metro now, through the TIR. Sweetheart, you've been assigned to me." She laughed, "I'm your teacher mentor!"

    I'll let that one settle. That's the biggest slam dunk true "sign" a person could ever encounter. The rest of the connections are supporting cast to this main character. When I have doubts---and I Have Doubts---about becoming a teacher, I remember how this happened. Who else has a story like this in their world? 

    I consider these all "HOW" not "WHY". Why is introspective, how is a verb. I encountered real moments, had in person conversations and impressive connections were made. That's not why I teach. I answered that question already: health insurance. These exchanges are how it came to pass. Because without these touchstones, I do not believe I would have followed through at all.

    This post was likely triggered by a dinner invite from K.Starkey via my high school friend Mike. I do not have a "come to my house for dinner" relationship with ...many people. But certainly not my high school lang arts teacher and TIR mentor. I assume I was invited as an afterthought, or an accident. You read my previous words, you know I choose to be invisible whenever possible and assume that tactic is working. I get dysregulated when I am unexpectedly seen. It troubles me, and my go to is that it was a mistake. I do not do curtain speeches and our final candle moments are only structured by me, I rarely speak. I cannot function without a script and I do not like to be the center of attention.

    You can stop making that face. If you know me, you know it's true. I was an actor so I could Be Somebody Else. And I need a script. If I'm comfortable at home in a social situation, I will stage manage, absolutely. But I won't perform. I've always been awkward and stand offish. Which some people would call "shy" and others would call "rude". Depends on the people watching. I leave it open to their interpretation because frankly, I have no idea which one is correct.

    But that's another story.

    Two and a half decades after I started subbing, I'm still teaching. I don't know "why", but I can tell you "how"; I decided to follow the signs that told me to teach.

    Scene.

60 Years Are Too Many: The Off Ramp

 

    26 June 2026

        The other afternoon on NPR they had an Oceanographer. I think from Washington State.

        The topic was climate change. The question, paraphrased loosely here, was "Is it too late ( to stop, slow down, DO SOMETHING)?"

        He was clearly in front of a live audience, and I suspect he was in California, because he answered "Look, if you miss your exit, do you just keep driving to LA?"

        He went on to clarify that the smart oceanographer people have a way to help lower the rising temperature of the ocean, and the details were above my education grade. But I liked his thesis.

        Just because you missed your off ramp, you don't just keep driving straight. There's another off ramp. Take that one.

        Apply this to the current "political" climate. In quotes because it's not about politics, or even parties at this point. It's split between right and wrong. Cruelty and empathy. Misinformation and education.

        You're smart, you don't need me to further pontificate on that point.

        My point is that our choices in life are never without an exit ramp.

        Our parents lives and careers were very much a two lane highway to retirement with no exits. One career, 30 years, retire, collect retirement and social security. Cost of living dictated that was possible. Gosh, you may even get to buy a Winnebago and see the country.

        We tried that.   

        It didn't work, and gratefully we noted the off ramps. Some of us took them sooner than later. Some of us are still scared to commit to exiting. 

        Our children are not only well versed in these ramps, they will exit and re-enter the highway looking for a different off ramp, or tool through town in the business loop. They are much more adventurous and brave than we were. 

        Well...me. Than I was.

        Capitalism killed my joy and all I see are dollar signs around everything. How much does it cost? I can't afford this or that or these. I hear Princess Lea in my head "If money is what you love, then that's what you'll receive." 

        I don't love it. How can I love what I don't have?

        I just want to live debt free.

        Own my house. My car. Help my children.

        But I don't dare say anything, because a Boomer will just attack me for not working hard enough. For not saving my money.

        A horrible human or a bot commented on a thread "The only people whining about how things are right now are the losers failing at life." Again: the cruelty is so loud right now.

         That supports my argument. It's always about money.

        I didn't sell a company and make money that I could then invest.

        My cousin is doing great, she's thrifty and learned how to invest what very little she had, she learned from her mom. So when her mom died, there was a significant amount for her and her surviving brother to then invest. I'm not mad at her. She works her ass off. As did her mom.

        I'm mad at me. 

        Did I miss an exit that would have taught me how to invest even though I had nothing to invest?

        I met with an investment guy once who straight up told me I had nothing but my house, which I could use for its equity. He couldn't understand why I had no real savings, or retirement or a portfolio. He seemed to miss the fact of the recession, when Jim lost his job and was unemployed for two years and we had to cash in his retirement to save the house.

        I felt so stupid.

        At 60 the only off ramp I see is death. Nothing is going to get any easier and I'm not inheriting money, nor do I have any to invest.

        Scene.

60 Years Are Too Many: June Pony School

     26 June 2026

        My friend Andrew died a year ago.

       Sometimes you don't tag an event until you see the date in writing.

       I felt him around a few months ago. I assumed it was becuase that's when he "knew" his diagnoses was terminal, or when he started to feel poorly.

        ANYWAY.

        Pony School 2026

        I did not post daily as I had hoped. Turns out 60 is old and I would come home very tired.

        Also, I chose to pick up The Stand again and I was reading instead of writing. Which I say is perfectly reasonable.

        In addition, plain preschool pony camp is not nearly as entertaining as wrangling the ponies was.

        Our characters this year have not changed too much. The Director was here week one and then went on vacation, so AL was running things in the office with Improv Office Mananger. The elder teacher Jeep was doing science instead of teaching a class. Ree is a newer teacher, Crochet Headbands is a new co teacher, Smurf is my co teacher and Mines was promoted to lead teacher the second week when they fired Mean Words. The Mormon Bros are both there. The oldest was on his mission last year and his brother was my co Mustang teacher. The older is back and caring for the ponies with the Mustangs and Cowboy Boots, and his younger bro is doing afternoon ponies and is primarily a floater. And the office floater/co teacher Piper who I am naming after her dog that she talks about constantly always greets me with a big smile, a story about her dog and that she's going to the pool after work. She's been there a few years, she's in her early 20's.

        I don't want to use real names, and I get bored with initials. So they get descriptors. Like teaching "sign" names to my Peer to Peer students, we take an element of the person in the name. IE Val is the letter "V" in sign, but you rotate  the V in a circle to indicate movement: Val doesn't sit still. I am the letter "K"  pressed to your mouth because I talk a lot.This is me doing that in writing, I got tired of weird initials. 

        I laid out the strucutre in the first pony blog. We have 17 kids on M/W AM and 18 on T/Th AM.

        One kid did not return the second week. Both Smurf and I had refused to allow her four year old manipulation schemes to work. "Tuck my towel around my feet, my hands are holding the top of the towel", stuff like that. After three requests---because other kids had also made such requests---we exchanged glances and I said-as the Designated Bad Cop- "You can do this yourself, dear. You do not need our help."

        She did not return Monday. I cannot say why. But if I was to hazard a guess, it would be that she was not used to being told "no" and did not like it.    

        Smurf is a 20 year old former barista and current bakery employee doing what they all do in 2026; working more than one job to pay her half of the rent. She is a friend of the director's daughter. Many people are friends of the director's kids or the director. If you own a pony school and have a community, this is what it looks like. We have high school helpers from Arvada West constantly, many who are associated with either the family or the church or both.

         I love these teenagers, they are crazy respectful, positive, thoughtful and it's good for my brain to be called "kryssi" by high schoolers. It takes a mintue to adjust, but I like it. Even when I'm being called out for putting a kid's helmet on backwards. The Older Bro was directly behind me, and his deep voice said "Uh, kryssi...this doesn't look right." I laughed and the kid made a face, because he knew it was backwards, but an adult put it on that way so he wasn't going to say anything. This week, the same kid told me his helmet was on backwards. I had put in on properly but did so from behind while he was seated on the bench, so he took the moment to mess with me. He's four. It was awesome.

        Smurf has blue hair, patience, an open face and kind voice. She's the perfect Good Cop to my Bad Cop. I like working with her alot. We have a few siblings in our room, and one grandparent made sure to stop me at pickup and say "Tell the young lady with blue hair how much the kids love her. They talk about her all day after camp." I relayed the message and Smurf touched her heart and honestly teared up. She works with the general public at the bakery, I understand how much this moment meant to her. It was likely the kindest thing she'd heard in days.

        This week, instead of calling them 'Bears', which they are (there are Mustangs, Rangers and A Third I've Forgotten)I started calling them "Bananas In Pajamas". Because it rhymes and I'm 60 and losing my mind, so things must rhyme.

        See?

        I mean it! Anybody want a peanut?

        I made some notations:

        *Three and four year olds are wearing sweatshirts from Martha's Vineyard, Hoodies from Disney and even Paris, ball caps from NASA and Hawaii. Crochet Headband was wearing her T Shirt from BUCEES.

        * Older Bro was sitting in the office as the kids were getting picked up. He was humming the opening bass riff from "Smoke on the Water". He is maybe 21 years old at best. I stopped cold. "Dude, how do you even know that song?"

        He smiled "How old do you think I am?"
        
        "Not 60."

        Apparently that was an hilarious response as the Office Folx and Bro's laughter followed me back into the classroom.

        * The beginning of week two I was greeted by Improv telling me Mean Words had been fired. I didn't know her but by sight, and I have zero interest in any adult drama, thanks. But Improv is very much Drama Based, and this was (apparently) a doozie. My response was "Who is Mean Words?"  I was pretty sure I knew, but I felt like passive aggressively sending an "I Don't Care" vibe so I didn't have to say it outloud. I honestly could care less, I stopped moving only because she was blocking my way, and I started pushing past her within seconds of her breathless news delivery. I have shaving cream, glue and food coloring I need to mix for craft, thanks for the news flash. As I walked to my room, Mines emerged from the other room she co taught with Mean Words, and I smiled at her and said "I heard you've been promoted" she shrugged and smiled "Ya, I guess so." That's all you need to do, no drama necessary. 

       * A mama bunny had her babies within 20 feet of the pony ring. It was discovered too late to move the den very far, so an experienced team led by Improv moved them another 10 feet, put a cardboard box with a door cut out over the den, and an orange traffic cone on top. This was on a Wednesday, so the true relocation didn't take place until Friday when there were not students. I don't know where the den moved, but mama bunny has been very busy digging holes around the tricycle track.

        * A barn cat in training was added. Apparently there is a regular teacher who adopts and fosters cats. One had a litter a year or so ago, and she felt one of them would do well as a barn cat. So he's being trained. He has a cage in the barn to adapt him to the smells, they walk him around on a leash so he knows the area. I'm unsure if they've had a barn cat previously, but this was a new approach to me. On my grandparents' farm, barn cats were born in the barn. You know: Barn Cats.

        * Smurf had a small group of bug minded girls who would stop at every spider on the playground, pointing out colors and number of legs. They found a grasshopper they named "Jewel" and I made them move him back to the grass before they inadvertently murdered him. A roly poly was also found, but he had long since stopped roly polying. Smurf looked at the kids and said "He's a goner", and the girl who had relocated Jewel asked if she could move him to the grass with Jewel. "He'll be happier there," she said.  I agreed. Nobody should die on the playground and be left to the shuffle and stomp of preschool herds. 

        * The pony named Rocket was put into time out for two days. He bit Older Bro. It wasn't like he nibbled his hand while being fed, he walked over and chomped on his thigh. All the ponies were off the last week, Older Bro got stomped on a few times as well, and Taz dug in and refused to move more than once. While the Bears were riding, a breeze blew a plastic tub lid off of the tub and the three ponies on the ring all startled. Which is pretty terrifying if you are four and riding on the back of what is a horse to you. And we cancelled pony rides once for wind--they are truly skittish---and yesterday for mud puddles and rain.

        * The kids discovered that Smurf will play tag with them. One boy caught her, and declared "I'm the fastest like a cheetah because I ate my rasperries this morning".

        * One girl did not wear her swimsuit under her clothes for the last water day. Which is fine, I told her she could splash and go home wet. She went straight to the wading pool and took off her clothes. By the time I got to her, she was pulling off her unders. "My goodness, dear, let's put your clothes back on, ok? You can splash in your clothes." She redressed--pants inside out, shirt inside out and backwards---then ran banshee  screaming with joy to the edge of the water tower with an empty bucket. I explained why her clothes were inside out and backwards when her grandma arrived to pick her up, because I don't want the police involved. Grandma brushed it of "Ya, she does that."

        * The last water day on Wednesday was epic, behaviors and meltdowns everywhere. By week three they start to let you see who they really are. One kid was already on the struggle bus when the water tower ladder collapsed, and the dogpile of kids landed on her since she was on the bottom rung. So Much Screaming. Nothing broken except her spirit. Once she calmed down, she returned only to have a kid "touch" her on her leg, which resulted in another meldown. I called AL at that point and sent her to the office. This kid also did not wear her swimsuit under her clothes as directed, so additional time had to be carved out so she could change.

        * A Kid was having a rough day with behaviors. It was the last Weds, so they weren't wearing name tags. I called her the wrong name all day--no wonder she didn't stop jumping on the pony umbrella stand. I even said "I've asked you wrong name repeatedly to stop." Older Bro had to correct me, because the child whose name I was using was standing next to me, looking up at me like "What?" That was not an "I'm 60" moment; I was fully 80 years old. Dear Lord.

        * The name tag thing; yes, I'm 60. But I struggle with names for a cornucopia of reasons. Firstly, teaching for 23 years means several hundred students whose names and faces are ultimately archetypes. Nobody is truly unique, just own it. I know you if you spent two to four years in my department. I make up names all the time for high school kids becuase their name is the same as someone who looked nothing like them years ago, or yesterday, but they look like a different kid and I have to differentiate. It's fine, the kids kinda dig it. At Hinkley there were a small group who called me "Bob" for the same reason I renamed them. 

        These kids are three and four years old, the same height, hair color and frequently, same colored shirt. So yes. I struggle. If their personalities are not strongly differentiated, like a few who are relentlessly quiet, I cannot remember their names. I remember the name of the kid who is three and never stood in line. Whenever we went outside, he made a beeline for the playhouse. That's how I learned his name. Three others were there all four days, easy to remember. The one who clung to her dad every morning--her name was easy to learn. There were two little bittie blondes who wore princess dresses that I mixed up constantly. It's not the names themselves---they are truly unique. Parents are really digging into old names. It's attaching the name to the kid. The director wants constant name to face in the Brightwheel app, but I refuse to put more apps on my phone, so I made Smurf do it. Which is also why I struggled with names. It's not like when I was at Littleton and every blonde boy was Jake and I had three Brittneys.   

        I made noise about not returning in July. I want my summer, but I said I'd help. It's not like I work in a coal mine. It's preschool. And I'm a nice guy, and they clearly need my help.

        I just won't do it next year.

        I mean it.

        Anobody want a peanut?

        Scene.

60 Years Are Too Many: Frazzle

 20 June 2026

        "Democrats and republicans are two cheeks of the same butt." -Parkrose Permaculture

        Let's discover today's thoughts together. I have no thesis going in.

       The rental car smells like sweat socks and BO. How is that possible? They detail these things, and they didn't notice becuse it didn't smell like smoke? Dude.

        First I awknowledge my privilege. My oldest wants to borrow my car for a camping trip. Theirs won't make the trip, and they can't afford pay it off or fix it, in addition they also cannot afford health insurance, which is not relevent to cars but relevent to life. They are a successful hairdresser who is booked solid, makes too much money to qualify for medicaid and not enough to pay for inflated cost poor insurance coverage on the exchanges. They are the example of how our society is murdering an entire generation. But I digress. Or do I? I have no opening statement.

        My privilege is that Jim and I have the means, through his job, to rent cars when needed. So G can take mine, I'll take the rental and he'll take the corvette. Because we're also short his Subaru which has an oil change date on Monday, so he has to take the corvette. So Much Privilege.

        But not enough to make my child's car or insurance payments. I have to have a car because I have to work over the summer to sustain my privilege.

        Meanwhile the newly uncovered, true "deep state" of millionaires are planning their yearly retreat outside of Dublin, and our POS governor is on the guest list. Since he pardoned Trump's election fraud lackey---again, the left are frauds?---we all knew something was up. I'll put money on this group, led by Thiel, being the true Epsteiners that Trump was trying to protect.

        Good thing I didn't like Polis in the first place.   

        He may be Epstein class, but he's gay so I'm pretty confused. 

        Good thing I cast my ballot in the primaries so the next guy should Do Better.

        Right after he was elected to office the DPS teachers went on strike. His response was to...do nothing...for way too long. Immediately I knew he was a fraud. Any governor worth a box of crayons would immediately jump in and begin to mediate, and a smart one would side with the teachers.    

        I would say "but I digress" but I did not begin with a thesis.

        We're driving out to Genoa today, to the Glen Cemetery. I have unrelenting anxiety. The kind I get when something big is coming.

        And there it is. Jim decided not to come with us to the cemetery. For reasons that are selfish, period.

          More to come...

        

        

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 mean 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 60-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 hilarious, 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.