Find Your Grail

 

                                                                 Find your Grail

                                                               Preamble.

    The last five years have been pretty crappy, for most of us.  On a personal level, I had to leave my Littleton job, fleeing to Aurora right before Covid. Then Covid shut everything down, but I was able to keep the theatre -the one I'd been hired to rebuild and reinvigorate after the death of the teacher--at least alive online. Then there was the Tik Tok Trash Your School Bathroom, and then the shooting.

    I should have left teaching after Littleton.

    I should have left teaching during Covid.

    I should have left teaching after the shooting.

    But I'm pretty dense and instead I stayed and the kids wrote a play about the shooting. Mayor Mike Coffman attended. The Counselors celebrated. Parents sobbed and thanked me. The new principal did not celebrate, in fact she was pissed. And...there I was again in a toxic environment with a target on my back. I would love to explain why my kids speaking truth to power upset this woman so much, but I simply cannot.

    I "should have left" many times. I tried...but the fact remains that I was north of 50 years old and nobody wanted me. I even applied for language arts jobs. If I got an interview, it was over as soon as they saw my greying hair. So I stayed. I couldn't afford to retire at only 50% of my salary in this economy. I stayed and hated every second, forced to defend myself and my department constantly.

    After a summer doing pony school and making some pretty intense discoveries about why my mental health was shot and why I, kryssi, was burned out, I made the decision that the 2024-2025 school year would be my last year teaching. One way or another, at the very least, I'd be out of Hinkley. Even if that meant I was shot---I'd be out.  I intended to retire in May of 2025, money be damned. I couldn't continue under the toxic, bullying circumstances.

        I wish this was a lighter preamble, but things were very dark. 

                                                    Joseph Campbell

    At some point in all of our educations, we've encountered our friend Joe and his Hero's Journey. I've taught it---very lightly, nothing in depth. I taught a ninth grade "combined" class with Gen Ed and Sped kids in it, so it was co-taught. We used Star Wars. Old Joe tells us everything is connected, and always has been. All religion, philosophy, human existence and our hero's journeys. All Connected. He also insists we all have a "bliss" we must find, which I've argued is mostly hooey. Finding your bliss is for entitled people with the income and support to explore everything they find interesting. The rest of us are just surviving. 

                                                            Andrew

    My friend from high school, Andrew Alexander, died on Wednesday. I had not seen him since the Lakewood Pow Pow in 2000. We'd just moved back up to Green mountain with the kids, and Andrew was living in the mountains somewhere "doing doors". I asked for an explanation, and he waved his arms and said "It's complicated, I make doors." Which wasn't complicated, but OK. As long as he's happy.

    Andrew was my bridesman in our wedding. We were in choir and theatre together, even though he was a year ahead. He went to CU as a Psych major---in 1983/84 I had A Lot of friends going to college as Psych majors--and I went up a few times to visit. In the late 1990's, after I'd returned from Houston, we reconnected. He was living with his friend Joe and we had dinners at their place/our place. Then he had a girlfriend for a while, who we also had over for dinner in our tiny house on Lincoln St. 

    But the event  I will dissect here is when I dressed him up as Frank N Furter at the 1982 Concert Choir Halloween Dance at Green Mountain High School.

                                                         Connecting

    This summer, I again worked at the pony school. Only this time, instead of subbing, I worked six weeks as the pony wrangler. I had kids between six and nine who were too old for preschool camp, who signed up to instead be "Mustangs" and wrangle the ponies.

    And again it had a profound effect on me.

    Since last year's pony gig, I have in fact left Hinkley. I believe working at the camp helped me clear my head and make a solid choice, even though the choice I made was to return to Hinkley in August. What I mean is something shifted in the universe when I said "I am leaving" that freed up opportunities for which I did not apply. 

    You heard me. They called me. Specifically a former Hink AP texted me one morning while I was sitting in the parking lot working up the energy to enter the building.

    I went back to Hink planning to do the entire year, then quit teaching in May.  I had no plans beyond getting out of teaching theatre. In September I was contacted, and everything changed...ish... I am still teaching theatre, but at Kennedy in DPS. This time I was hired to do a true rebuild of a department that has been dark for three years. In fact, they haven't had a musical in even longer---since 2018. The pressure is on, but the admin is a different animal than I've ever encountered: supportive, everything is about the kids first and the community second.  All in all, to sum up, in conclusion-these people really like me and believe I'm capable of rebuilding. I feel like Dorothy.

    So the epiphanies in pony school this year were different. Instead of "I hate theatre and teaching theatre and am done and bitter", I had questions: "What am I supposed to do now?" This was triggered by Trump's bullying, as some of my colleagues' spouses are federal employees, in addition to his posturing to defund us and put us all out of jobs--because AI isn't getting that accomplished nearly quickly enough. I had no idea why I'd be placed in this job to have the building close...but again, above my pay grade.

    Toward the end of summer, I started hearing "Find Your Grail" from Spamalot in the morning. I heard it in my head, to be clear, Tim Curry and Leslie Rodriguez were not singing to me in my own bedroom, or serenading me from the shower. It was in my head, a musical earworm. I had not listened to the sound track in a while, although Jim was playing it in June while painting the spare room. Usually I get morning music earworms if I'm directing a show. I haven't directed a musical in one hundred years, so that was not why the song was stuck. 

     It was stuck. It was not one morning. It was a week of mornings. Every morning I woke up with it in my head, and I would sing it on the way to pony school, and then hum during pony school. I don't hum unless I'm stressed, and then my song of choice is "The Phantom of the Opera".

    I started to wonder what was up. I listened to the entire soundtrack, enjoying a memory of myself and Jim Farrell dueting "The Song That Goes Like This", and figured I was pining for the Good Old Days, when I had a true team and loved my job.

    Then I heard that Andrew died. And I remembered dressing him up as Frank. I remembered bleaching his rat tail in his bathroom. I remembered his relentless tanning competition with a classmate one summer and how very dark brown he became. I never competed with these guys, as my pasty whiteness is almost transparent and burns the nanosecond I step outside.

    I remembered the details of building his costume, which I realized was the first time I had done so.

    Andrew was tall, and regardless of his age he was still male, so I couldn't just buy a corset at JC Penny. I had to buy an extra large one at Goodwill and dye it black in my mom's washing machine with RIT dye. I had to go to A Craft Store---a place I did not frequent---and buy strips of sequins that I then stitched onto the corset. I had to also purchase a white garter from Goodwill to be RIT'd, fishnet stockings from Fashion Bar and ladies silky underpants. We couldn't find any heels at the Goodwills in his size, so we had to acquiesce to his clogs, much to our disappointment. The wig we found was not great, so we decided to tease his hair and we did his makeup.

    He looked great. 

    I was so proud, I built a costume (ish) and people responded---mostly girls. He was kind of a hit at the dance. Mostly with girls.

    As I ruminated on how this made me feel...the connections sparked.

    Andrew dressed as Frank N Furter, played by Tim Curry who sang "Find Your Grail" in Spamalot..."Find Your Grail" is equal to Campbell's "Find Your Bliss".

    I like building. I don't like the spotlight, but I get grumpy when I am not acknowledged. Every show I hide saying "It's about the kids". I joke about stitching and sobbing downstairs at Littleton, but those were my happiest times. I love figuring out how to make something work without the proper budget or materials. I never had that opportunity at Hinkley, most of the costumes were pulls and borrows, but I still gave up planning time to put together the costume plots. I'm a shitty costumer, I am well aware that I am not an artist. But I enjoy it. I like building. I can always depend on a student with more ability than myself to see what I intended and make it beautiful.

    Wow, that ended quickly. 

    So my summer of "What am I supposed to do now?" ended with "You're doing it." It doesn't matter what the future of the building, the district or public education is-that's above my pay grade. I don't direct for trophies, so that pressure is nonexistent. I already ran a powerhouse high school theatre---Big Deal, there was a lot of toxic nastiness that went with that. I brought Hink back only to be disrespected and walked away from yet another toxic building... on my own terms. They didn't run me off, I left. Voluntarily. For my own mental health. When you work in an abusive building it's still an abusive relationship and nobody deserves that.

    All I can do is what I can do, and it turns out...I enjoy doing what I do. I just needed to be someplace where I was not under attack for doing it.

    Which I suppose is my bliss...I've found my grail...?

    Sure. Let's go with that.

   

   

Pony School July 2025

 

        Usually when I tout "That's Above My Pay Grade" or "Not My Circus Not My Monkeys" I'm kidding. Because I am the one running the theatre, and in general they are my monkeys and I'm the ringmaster. Yet I do yell this thesis when the district, or the principal, make a particularly bone headed decision by which I must abide. I abide, but I whine. A lot. I whine A Lot. Sometimes I scream. I've even yodeled. To No Avail. 

        But at summer pony school camp, it really is above my pay grade. I am a lowly employee, clocking in and out to execute someone else's lesson plans, tend to someone else's miniature horses and deal with entitlement and narcissism in camp kids that I will likely never see again: it really is ABOVE MY PAY GRADE.

        However...

        Pony Camp is three weeks --Monday through Thursday--in June and Monday through Thursday for three weeks in July. In June, we get Juneteenth off, so it's not really three full weeks in June. There are not off days in July, since they start after the fourth of July. The kids enroll for June or July, ostensibly, as vacations are a thing that can happen and booking a pony camp for three hours only four days a week doesn't help in the scheme of things.

        Some kids do both camps. My first "Above My Pay Grade" is noting that the camp curriculum is exactly the same both months. The science experiments are different, but the "in house" field trip from the aquarium is the same, and the curriculum still smacks of education, not camp. But I did what I was asked both rounds, even though I had several of the same kids both times. By the second week of July, they were becoming "bored" with the same routines. I would say don't let kids sign up twice, or make it more camp-y and less education-y, if it were not above my pay grade.

        I had two kids who were involuntarily enrolled both months.  By this I mean a parent enrolled them in the older camp because they had a sibling in the younger camp. One was the same kid, both times "Simon" was disinterested in anything that smelled like a pony or felt like work. He stood apart and shouted orders, held votes to support his agenda- ie: "Who wants to hear my story about spearfishing on a parasail?" He is nine, and clearly has no boundaries at home and  a lot of money. He even told us how rich he is. He insisted we call his Au Pair his Au Pair and not his babysitter or his nanny. 

        We were running behind getting the ponies saddled one morning. Simon stood against the fence, loudly doing nothing to help, and shouted "This is taking too long," to which I replied "Maybe if you helped instead of complained, we could get done more quickly." His response spiked my mohawk, a defense I store away for the summer. He said "That's rude, you hurt my feelings." I looked him dead in the face and said nothing, I let the 'hawk and glare communicate for me.

    So you know who Simon is as we go forward. Also, not my circus, not my monkey, so I have no fear of poking him with the 'hawk.

    For the most part, June went off without a hitch. I wasn't exhausted, the kids -with a few exceptions--like Simon---were smart and happy to be there. The ponies were getting fed and walked and loved. I learned that sharks are made of teeth as shark skin is actually made of mini shark teeth and learned to bridle and saddle miniature horses with swollen, arthritic hands and a foggy brain.

    July began quite differently.

    Many of the repeat campers had behavior issues-especially my kids, who took it upon themselves to open gates without an adult and run willy nilly across the stable as I stood, shocked, trying to comprehend what had happened. By week two, the ponies themselves were acting up. A kid was trapped against the fence when Trixie freaked out while getting sprayed for flies. Taz had been separated so he could receive special food, and the other ponies really hated that. They were already mad at him and Gretchen Weiners-ing him out of the lunchroom, and now all they could to was whinny at him from across the stable. Two kids were stepped on, largely because they simply do not listen and follow instructions. This was rampant in July--whether first time camper or repeat, these kids Do Not Listen. No matter how many times it's repeated (every morning) demonstrated (every day) or sternly spit out after they suffer the consequences of their willful disobedience. Or ignorance.

    Example "So you got stepped on. What did I say about crowding the gate? Do you remember I said 'don't crowd the gate'? What happened when you crowded the gate? You got stepped on, didn't you?" Then the one kid who listens piped up "I heard you, you say it every morning it's annoying." That's "Alissa". She was a repeat, turned nine on her last day and told me she was a writer the first day of camp in June. Alissa listens. I love Alissa. Be Like Alissa.

    It should be noted I changed these kids' names in the June post, and then forgot what I called them. So if the descriptions are the same, but the name is not, assume it's the same kid and the names have been changed more than once to protect the children. We must protect the children!

    Which brings me to my Trans Flag school shirt, which I wore a few times. "Commander Pride"+ trans flag=Kennedy High School. The shirt was unnoticed until the last day, when weirdly I had two teachers and the office human tell me they liked and appreciated it. Maybe it was because it was the last day, maybe it was because things have become aggressively more hateful in the world in one short month. No parents even noted it, or even a kid. Kids don't notice anything, and it's worse than ever. But that's another thought for another day. 

    By the second week the ponies were definitely showing signs of aggravation. Stepping on kids, bucking at each other, choosing to run instead of let a kid put their bridle on. But the worst was when Rocket freaked out on the pony wheel. We were all standing there, he was not left alone, but the ponies were all jumpy. They wouldn't be still on the wheel, and we think Rocket lifted his front leg to scratch at a fly, and in that instant the other ponies moved forward, so when he brought his leg back down it got tangled in the chain. Unfortunately, the short chain is attached to the bridle on one end, and the wheel on the other.

    Rocket roared up, trying to free himself. His eyes were wide and he whinnied mightily. He backed up against the fence, reared up once, then twice. Then he took a knee, he just stopped and kneeled, looking at us. It was amazing. I swear he knew he was stuck, and he knew if he just waited, a human would help. 

    Animals are perfect, and we underestimate them. A human issue caused his problem---chained to a pony wheel---and he knew a human would fix it.

    But Rocket's freak out, plus Trixie's, and the general pony unease had me contemplating the Yellowstone Caldera, and the asteroid and the knowledge that animals feel shifts that we do not.

    The kids had all been a bit disengaged as well, but simultaneously on the edge. I witnessed two meltdowns when kids were going to miss saddling the ponies----here is where I wonder why you enroll your kid in a three week camp knowing your vacation is the second week of camp, which the kid will miss--a kid who became angry that the others laughed when he said his dad was going to remove an app from his phone, parents who arrived chronically late for pick up---sorry, but 35 minutes late without a reason like traffic is not acceptable, please put down your phone and acknowledge me putting your kid in the car. Sigh. But the LuLu, the Big One, was Simon---a habitual bully and entitled SNOT--bullied four kids inside of twenty minutes. And then, the next camp day, burst into a squall when another kid jumped from a bench and said "Boo". I see you kid, you have the victim thing down pat. Hopefully someone above my pay grade intervenes before middle school.

    On Alissa's last day, Weds, she read the "Fatter Diplomas" that she and Elisa had written. They decided that the ponies were all deserving of acknowledgement for putting on more weight. Both girls were repeaters, and were present the first day when Taz' ribs were showing and he was being being bullied by Gretchen Wieners -who literally head butted him out of the trough -to being fed special breakfast and lunch separately from the others. They grazed Trixie and Orbit before we all left for the day. They were part of that, and it mattered to them, and they noted the change. So "Fatter Diplomas" were written for each pony. On her last day---her ninth birthday---Alissa unscrolled each diploma and read it directly to every pony. They were all "honored" and she even called out Orbit for being "elderly". I recorded each one and sent it to the school director. Because...not my circus, not my monkey, but the director should know these kids are capable of creative and respectful thought. I strung the Fatter scrolls together and hung them by the bridles.

    And the Last last Day, which was pretty chill --bread making with pony rides---until ten minutes before pickup, when my assistant and I looked out the window and saw the ponies by the playground.

    The ponies should not be by the playground. They should be in the corral.

    Well shit. That's on me, I did not latch the gate. The ponies are smart, and they just pushed their way out to all of the glorious green grazing they could want.

    And so...we managed to again repeat "Do not scream at or run at the ponies" and watch the consequences as the kids screamed and ran at the ponies.

    Rocket's response---Rocket is their leader---was to toss his mane and bellow "WOLVERINES" like Patrick Swayze as he charged straight toward them. It was glorious.

     Luckily I was able to herd the kids along the only real escape route, using their unhinged energy to block it and push the ponies back where we could at least rope them. My wonderful assistant got the treats and was able to get Patrick and the other Wolverines led to the corral, where I blocked them in. Once the ponies were wrangled and stowed, one kid said "That was the scariest thing I've ever seen."

    I just looked at him. "What is one of the primary rules of being a pony wrangler?"

     His eyes were wide. For a second I could see him processing his answer. Finally, he spoke. "Don't run or scream at the ponies."

    I said "Yes. And be nice until it's time not to be nice."

   Okay, I was mixing my Swayze references  but the kids are eight years old and never get me, anyway.

    It's fine. Not my circus, not my monkeys.

    I'm just the one training them.

    Scene.

    

Pony School June 2025

Pony School is three weeks in June and three in July. All names are fictional of course.

                                                        JUNE

    The schedule is the same both sessions: Monday/Weds 8-11, Tues/Thurs 8-11 and 12.00-3.00. M/W and T/Th kids are different kids, so I have three different groups. Same will happen in July ( I assume).

    I assume many things about the schedule because in my four hours of training on site, nothing about the schedule, the iPad, Brightwheel, snacks, location of snacks or extra towels or how the schedule will be different when there's an in house field trip was covered. I found out the first day that I actually only have kids am M/W, she didn't have enough enrollment for two sessions M/W, but never told me. My contract says M-Th 7.30-3.30 but cool, I'll leave early M/W. That's just information that I may have needed to plan my life, but no worries.

    We are The Mustangs. We pony wrangle. Which is great on a regular day, but we have two water days and one in house field trip from the aquarium each session. We also had a surprise fire department visit the last day that nobody knew anything about. I will not go into details about lack of communication regarding the schedule changes because it's summer, and I just wanna pet ponies.

    The ponies are Taz the "pinto" with appaloosa spots, Orbit the pinto without spots, Trixie who is brown with a lighter mane, Rocket who is Trixie brown but has spots on his back "like racing stripes", and Sky who is grey and has one blue eye. His rhyme is "Sky Sky with one blue eye". I think Oribit is everyone's mom except for Taz. They bully Taz. Taz is my favorite.        This will not do. 

There is a fat black pig "Edgar Alan Pig" that everyone calls Poe, and the new live goats, who are not christened yet but likely will be S'more ( black, brown and white) and Butterscotch (mostly white, light brown splotches). The dead goats are not buried on the property, no matter what the children tell you.

    I work there because my sister works there. Well, first, I work there because I'm a teacher and need a summer job. Secondly, my sister works there. She's a teacher, and they needed subs last year so I stepped up. As we age, my sis Karie-her real name-and I look alarmingly similar and our gestures, sense of humor, cache of movie quotes and vocal timbers are almost exact. Back In The Day, Karie worked at the Ricks Center at DU as the art teacher, and the kids who would graduate from there and enroll at Littleton would spend the first month of theatre class gaping at me, eyes squinched, heads tilted, trying to work out that I was not, in fact, Miss Karie. This summer she's having surgery on her knee, so I said I'd help while she was out and ended up being Pony Queen. My crown is made of poo. 

    My classes are the smallest, mostly kids who've aged out of the preschool but love the ponies, or have younger siblings in camp. MW am has seven, T/Th am has five and I have three kids in T/Th pm. This lessens my anxiety regarding the iPad check in and checking ID's at pick up. Also, these kids get to use the adult bathroom which is A Very Big Deal.

                                        Week One-Intro and postcards

    Schedule debacles and lack of full training regarding "What in the heck it is you need me to do" notwithstanding, we managed to get the kids brushing, bridling, hooking out hooves, leading and saddling three of the five ponies. We have five, but two are not being ridden. I think due to health issues--again, communication. So they are bridled and lead and clipped into the circle for exercise, but nobody rides them. Taz is underweight due to the asshole other ponies not letting him near the trough. I witnessed this when Trixie literally backed into his head with her butt to push him away. In my head I heard Gretchen Wieners scream "You can't sit with us!"

      Our first moments in the pony school, at 7.30 am when we walked in the door, we were greeted by the school Director who stopped us in our tracks. Technically, I only had one foot over the thresh hold. We did not get a "Good morning" or "Welcome to summer session one". We got "I sent out a thread to the teachers and parents, but you aren't on it (summer teachers, I assume, as she looked at me) but the goats died. One died last week and the other was showing all the signs so we put her down on Saturday. 

    So don't tell the kids. The parents know, but if we tell the kids we'll get parents upset because they haven't had a conversation about death yet, so when they ask just say the goats are gone, unless it's a student whose been here a few years then they might want a rock to paint to commemorate the goats."

    Well, there you go. Welcome to pony school, day one kryssi.

    I blinked and immediately could not make Brightwheel (Just Another Evil Platform Nobody Really Needs) work to sign myself in or get my class list. So two decisions were made: 

    I will be checking everything on paper since nobody actually trained me on the iPad and Brightwheel, and I care not a lick about keeping the goat info from anyone. 

    It turned out the kids knew about the goats. Within thirty seconds of 40-ish children entering the school, the calls of "The goats are dead!" went up like a salute to the mocking jay. If the school director wanted to keep it a secret, maybe she should not have sent a text to the parents. Just a thought, but what do I know? Not my circus, not my monkeys and it's a summer gig.

    As The Mustangs were building kites, Tony was drawing a rocket on his bag. So flying was the topic at hand, and Tony decided to blurt out "Santa doesn't fly because he doesn't exist." Little Rosie, who is six, stopped mid fold to stare wide eyed at Tony. Panicked, I blurted out "The goats are dead!" which effectively ended the Santa conversation and brought forth the idea that kryssi might be off center.

    My teenage helper Steve was duly horrified that a child would tell another child that Santa is not real. He whispered "dang" quietly under his breath, then told me that's how he found out. Not today, but when he was a kid. That'd be a much better story, wouldn't it?

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   Even though it 's camp, they have science, craft, indoor play time and outdoor play time. My first week I was given four different schedules for The Mustangs to follow each day, due to an in house field trip and water day and what appears to be poor planning.

    During inside play time, I was hanging with Rosie when she looked up at me, squinching her eyes and tilting her head. I know that look. I smiled and waited for it. 

    "Are you Miss Karie?" 

    Now, I had many choices in this moment. As it happens, at six she's the youngest Mustang and had just found out there is not a Santa Claus from a loud mouth eight year old. So messing with her was not a kind choice. I said "Nope. Remember my name? I'm kryssi?"    

    Tilt. Squinch.

    "I'm her sister," I continued. "She's getting her knee fixed. Remember how she walked last year?"

    Like the image had flipped a switch in her, she leapt up, stiffened both of her legs like a zombie, and took a few steps. It was an impressive impression of Miss Karie's lock step. 

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    As the girls were crafting, Kim kept pounding her stickers into the paper. Kylie, who is a self proclaimed writer at age seven, quietly stated "You have severe emotional problems". She didn't even look up. It was hilarious. As we progressed I learned that Kylie does this a lot, under her breath, not looking up. Nobody gets her. But I do.

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    Our craft was building a kite with a paper sandwich bag and yarn. Ted put the bag in front of his chest and said "It's a bra." Everyone laughed and Kevin stated matter of factly  "Boys can wear bras, they're very comfortable. Like bathing suit tops." Kylie chimed in--again, without looking up, "My brother wears bras. He likes skirts too." I held my breath...and nothing more emerged. Poking holes, stringing yarn and cutting Gigi off from the glitter glue were more important. They just moved right along to the next topic, which was what kind of a pig is Poe? I didn't think about it again until just now, and I am delighted. Nobody was bullied. Nobody said "Boys don't...blah blah blah" or called names. It was a clear and simple exchange of information only, and happily less stressful than the Santa reveal.

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    Water day is the worst.

    It sounds fun, but it's when everybody's neuroses emerge. Forgot swim suit, forgot second set of clothes/towel/sunscreen/hat, too big to climb the slide, doesn't like to be splashed, wants to play in the water table alone, needs everyone to do what they want to do, foam footballs on the awning, we just got to the water and they have to go to the bathroom, the water bouncey slide attracts pincher bugs (we're on a farm, remember?). I just sit at the table and kick them back into play.

    I watched one of the new teachers feed Poe two popsicles. Unclear if those are on his diet. Not my problem. Not my pig. Not my circus. 

    Summer job. Pony school.

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    Tie Dye day.

    Every year they tie dye on the first day. It's their science class project.

    Not everybody knew it was going to be tie dye day. Including me. I refer you to my vague reference in the beginning to lack of communication.  It must have been on the phantom "text thread" that I am not on.

    So some kids didn't have a second shirt to wear to splash residual tie dye on whilst tie dying the primary target shirt with the school name emblazoned on the front.

    Shannon came unglued when she realized her shirt had been stained with tie dye. She literally stood at the classroom sink sobbing---I do mean sobbing--hitching, screaming, heaving only seven words "I just need it to come out." She was unglued. Unhinged. The word "conniption" comes to mind. The director had to intervene, and mom was called. I did nothing because it's summer camp, this is my summer job and Shannon had already shown me her anxiety tags and I knew this was coming. Not the tie dye meltdown exactly, but the anxiety spiral spike over something so small. Spoiler alert: she is also one who must have everyone play the same game she does, and takes the longest to finish any task, get in line or stay focused on her pony task. She'd rather chase the bunnies around the barn than anything and moves at the speed of global warming. Or to put it another way, she moves like she knows everyone is going to wait for her. Because clearly, at home, they are doing just that.

     I can see people very clearly and very quickly. This is why I have few friends, and why I struggle in education. I know who you are and how you're going to behave, and I've also already decided whether or not it's my problem.

    Summer camp. Summer job. Not My Problem.

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    Tony has stopped saying "We didn't get recess." He said it every day.

    You got recess. It's 90 degrees. You forgot.

    Also, you're in pony camp. Your whole day is recess, kid, be grateful your parents can afford to have you come do this.

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    Tony called Kylie color blind, and I pointed out that is impossible, as the color blind trait is male only. My teenage helper Steve had no idea. I taught him something.

__________________________________________________________________________

     Last year there were two goats and a glorious black pig named "Edgar Alan Pig" that everyone calls "Poe". Poe is free range, and the kids "discover" him grazing in the grass or the tall weeds daily and are delighted. Calls of "Poe!!!!!" ring out, much like "The Goats Are Dead!" This is their primary communication- screaming the names and state of the animals across the grass to one another. Shannon squeals "Bunny!" approximately 157 times a day.

    Paul, who has an Au Pair from Argentina that we all know about--he references her daily and gets upset if you refer to her as his "nanny", and also held a globe demanding that everyone state The Greatest Country only to be told they were wrong, it's Argentina--- she is maybe 20 and a I have other opinions about her, but Paul needs everyone to do what he wants All Of The Time. He says "OK, vote" but ignores the majority, constantly takes over on the playground and refuses to do any real work with the ponies. I honestly have no idea why here's there. But, he has written a song hailing Poe that everyone sings as they run through the grass every morning to greet the animals in the barn.

    Paul was standing in the stable not helping as we all brushed the ponies, and started "judging" who was getting more of their winter coat off of them. I said "So you're the boss?" and he said "Yes." I said  "Great," as I hooked poop and dirt out of Trixie's hoof "I'm the leader. Know the difference?" He shook his head and the school director, who happened to be in the stable with us, perked and said "Good comparison" and looked over at me. I appreciated her support, in any other situation I'd probably get fussed at for talking to a kid like an adult. I looked at Paul "Ask your dad about the difference, friend."

    Not my circus, not my problem.

    Summer job. Pony school.

   

    .                                                        Week Two

    It was a short week, only three days due to Juneteenth on Thursday the 19th, and the T/Th kids got jacked out of truly having pony school due to rain and threat of lightning on Tuesday and no school on Thursday. So M/Weds  and Tues am got to work the pony routine, and Tuesday pm had to stay in due to a nasty rain storm.

    But I was able to assign kids to rotating teams: We chose "Poop Patrol", "Bridle/Lead" and "Saddle"

    The bridle lead kids get to put those on and walk the ponies to their circle and clip them in. The saddle kids also brush and clean hooves. 

    Tony loves poop patrol. He asked to be assigned permanently. When we take apart the ponies after the rides, he gleefully runs down to the circle exclaiming "Did they leave me any treats?" He waves his "pitch fork" (it's a lightweight leaf rake) over his head like Thor and stomps to the farthest reaches of the stable to start scooping. Pure joy. Good for him. Kid has an early metaphorical understanding of life. If you're going to shovel shit, keep your head down and enjoy it. Though I find it unlikely, based on the neighborhood and cost of camp, that he will struggle in life. So the metaphor is for me. 

___________________________________________________________________________

    Science was home made ice cream: vanilla and half and half and sugar in a baggie, put into a larger baggie with ice and salt. Shake shake shake shake...keep shaking...and kids slammed the baggies on the table, which caused a hole in the smaller baggie and salt water to leak into their ice cream. I only had two kids get sick and Kevin declared that he's pretty sure he's allergic to food coloring and there was food coloring in the sparkles and he had a rash...He Was Fine. He is not allergic to food coloring. He's seven. I'll bet he couldn't even find his way home if left on the side of the road, why would he know what he's allergic to?

___________________________________________________________________________

    Kylie, who told me on the first day that she wants to be a writer, keeps saying magnificent, clever, beyond-her -years things that I can't write down because I can't use my cell phone (I use notes) and I can't physically scribe in a notebook without looking like a creeper. And I can't remember because my brain is oatmeal. Did I mention it's summer, 90 degrees and I've been teaching for 21 years. No. Capacity. To. Remember. Small .Things.

    Also summer job.  Pony. Camp.

___________________________________________________________________________

    Two new goats emerged on Monday. Ted took charge to write down a list of name suggestions from our class. One goat is black with white and brown spots, the other is white with light brown spots. "Butterscotch" was the #1 choice for the white and brown one, but a lot of debate went into the black one. "Storm", "Cloud" and "Lightning" (his white spot looks like a "Z") were highly debated as The Best Name. I think he should be "Satan", and the white one should be "Spawn Of". I did not have Ted write those down for me.

    The new pygmy goats---who sparked the shouted and unanswered question "Where are the other goats' bodies?"--are like dogs. They jump on the fence for pets, and crane their necks all the way back to their spines--which proves to me they are satanic--and stick out their tongues and bleat and are essentially puppies. Puppies from hell, but puppies. Super cute. When the kids entered the pen to play with them, Kevin sat down and learned why one does not sit down in a goat pen--he was overrun in seconds, his hair and ears and fingers all chewed upon, his high pitched giggle piercing the farm school.

    My teenage helper, Steve, had no idea goats had rectangular pupils. He looked right at them. They had to be pointed out. I taught him something.

    They were preliminarily named S'more and Butterscotch. They were not christened by the end of week three.

                                                            Week Three

    Monday

    Craft was a launch for harmless pom poms. Best Craft Yet. Cut up sections of pool noodle, tie off a balloon and cover one end, then tape it down. Pull the tied off end and POOF,  pom pom battle. 10/10 recommend. Reminded me of making blood packs with condoms. I am who I am.

    Teams went well, Shannon chased bunnies, Ted knows how to get the bridles and leads and loves doing so. Tony declared that he's never pet a pig but would not reach in to pet Poe. He'd hold his hand just inches away, completely capable of reaching Poe, and say "I've never pet a pig."

    "So pet him."

    "Maybe next time. I'm scared."

    Gigi was stepped on by Trixie. She said she was kicked, but when pressed for details she said "She picked up her foot and then kicked the top of my foot." Ok Gigi, let me call the director, get you an ice pack, have the director call your mom, fill out the paperwork and judge you because she didn't even step on you, really. She likely brushed your foot.

    And also-you were wearing crocs girl.

___________________________________________________________________________

     Waiting for parent pick up, Kevin looks at me and says "I forgot my water bottle."

    "Sucks to suck. How many times did I announce the list "Water bottles, hats, backpacks, sunscreen, craft, towel? Did you check your backpack?" Also, I watched him put it into his backpack. I'm the one who handed it to him and said "Put it in your backpack and don't forget."

    As the director moved to go look for his bottle back in the building- as it was clear kryssi was not going to do it-he dug into his backpack. "Oh, here it is!"

    Yep. 

___________________________________________________________________________________

   Last water day -we also had an in house "field trip" from the Arvada fire department.

    We only have two classes in the afternoon, so we combined with Miss L's preschoolers for water, in house fire department visit and science . So I had experience with the Littles on the last class of the last day. Miss L's second teacher is a sweet 19 year old kid Miss R. Here are their postcards:

    Fire Department--They did their presentation both Wednesday and Thursday, and both days we combined with the littles. I watched three grown men and one woman, genuinely attempting to communicate an important thesis -" If There Is A Fire Do Not Hide From Us We Are Not Scary"- over the litany of:

    "My dad has tools" 

    "My mom uses tools."

    *General screams as the fan is turned on.

    "My dad has a ladder."

    "Why would you need to cut someone out of a car?" ---that would be Tony.

    "I'm allowed to have scissors."

    "I'm not allowed to have scissors."

    "Ummm...um, um, um, um, um, um, um, um...I have a hat."

    "Take down the ladder!"

    "What are those hoses?"

    And Miss L and Miss R's constant "Shhh, friends, bubbles in your mouth."

    I did appreciate making the kids count to 90 as the firefighter pulled on his rig. Jose did it in 70 seconds. Lyle got held up due to the kids not counting at the appropriate pace---they were screaming through it, I kept saying "elephant" between each number but the littles had a mob mentality---so his count was 101. Still  quite impressive.

    Also our friend Malcolm, who is a spectrum kid that I know from last year, was allowed to hold the hose and spray his classmates. It was a great moment. He does not generally engage with others, he just likes his Mr. Potato Head and has a third teacher follow him around at camp. I was that third teacher last summer, so I have All The Feels for the kid.

    At Water Day:

   Malcolm was actually playing in the water and on the slide! He's changed a lot since last year,  it was a joy to see him engage. He delighted in a lady bug who landed on him. He ran to Miss L to get his photo taken with the insect. I watched him then throw the lady bug into the water jug and said "Hey, Mal, lady bugs can't swim..."

    Miss L yelled over to me "It's fine, he killed it already." Turns out he smashed it immediately after the photo was taken. Sigh. Two steps forward, one step back. 

   Erin stood at the edge of the playground, big blue eyes wide. She had one finger on her right nostril, and was trying to blow out of her left. Miss R looked at me, hopelessly. "She stuck a rock up her nose?"     

    "Are you asking me?" I squinted at her.

    "I think she stuck a rock up her nose."

    "Of course she did. Erin, is there a rock up your nose?

    "No."

    "So what were you trying to blow out of your nose?"

    Blue eyes blink, she shakes her head "no".

    "Erin, you're not in trouble, but if there's a rock up your nose girl, we gotta get it out."

    Blue eyes blink. Head shakes  "no" but she said "yes".

    So I escorted her in to have the director help her blow the pebble out of her snout.

    Because...not my circus, not my monkeys. 

    Summer Job. Pony camp.

___________________________________________________________________________

       All in all, to sum up, in conclusion, as I was leaving I said "See you after the fourth", and the director leapt up in front of me. All smiles and positive energy she says-

    "kryssi, you are lovely! I know I keep telling you, but truly. You're delightful."

    I stared at her. "Those are not adjectives that have ever been used to describe me. Ever. I'm mean."

    "You're lovely, very direct. It's good, you're great! Not mean---I know mean and you are not mean. You're just direct-it's great."

    Summer job. Pony camp.

    June installment---complete.

Glenn Cemetery Postcards

 

                                                        9 June 2025

    "Grief is weird" is a phrase I have heard a lot recently. I think it is being used to excuse some crappy behaviors, mine included.

    I suspect it's exacerbated by the country on fire and the joy of Dealing With Dad's Trailer and Dad's Car. There's also other stuff like lack of money and summer jobs and heat and hate and car issues and the shifting sand baseline of government hate for me and my children's simple existence.

    But I digress.

    Shocking.

    The original plan with my cousin, Lisa, was to simply combine scattering dad with her mom, dad's sister, who had passed two years ago. Lisa and I and my sister were in agreement to simply driving out with immediate family and scattering. Quietly. No pomp and circumstance. No headstone. No service. Plain and simple, like the farm and the cemetery itself. 

    All we had to do was have Genoa, Harp and their partners meet my cousin and I at the house at 9 am. Drive to Virginia and Bob's to meet my sister and Ed, and caravan to the Glenn Cemetery with dad's ashes.

    I did not sleep well, and got up at 6. Lisa got up at 8.20. At 8.45 she wanted to go get coffee at Dutch Brothers. On a Saturday. Being in an altered state and not wanting to cause more conflict, I did the complete opposite of what I would have- had my brain been working. I said "Sure".

    The trip put us behind schedule. 

    Please remember I am a theatre kid: An hour early is on time, half hour is late and on "time" is fired. Translated to early is on time, on time is late and late is fired.

    So Anxiety Party of One was joined by unwanted friends.

    I love Lisa. And she moves at the speed of global warming. Two things can be true. She always has been both slow to move and chatty---a lethal combo when trying to leave any event. Or house. It's never been an issue until Saturday, when suddenly I couldn't imagine how she functions and I got frustrated. She kept saying "It's a Wyckofff thing" and I responded every time with "I am a Wyckoff, so no, this is not a Wyckoff thing." I am not social, I hate family gatherings. I love the people, but I don't chat.

    We were heading back to the house from Dutch Brothers, and Lisa slowed down at the various garage sales cooing "Ooooh, what do they have there?"
.     I snapped "No, we have a time table."

    Of course she has to use the bathroom when we get to the house. I came in right behind her and she was at the top of the stairs chatting up G and H and their partners. I waved my arms and used my director-fussing-to-chatters-in-the -wings  "Lisa! Seriously? Move. We're going."

     The Wyckoffs are notoriously social. It is not a trait I share. I am aggressively introverted. That's why I'm in theatre----give me a script and I'll analyze and delve and create and perform another person with great googley glee. But make me attend a neighborhood cookie exchange and I'll sit in the corner with a glass of wine and scare away humans attempting to connect with me by spewing highly controversial political and social news items.

    I have no social skills.

    I yell. I direct. I project, I teach. I analyze. I discuss politics, religion and history in depth.

    I do not small talk. I do not chat. I do not "visit".

    The Wyckofffs talk, chat and Dear God Do They Visit.

    This has never been an issue, just a fact. My dad wasn't particularly chatty, he liked to listen to people visiting. I think that's what I inherited. I'm the audience in my own real life and do my talking, chatting,  and visiting in my work. I watched my Uncle Reggie at their homestead gathering and he does the same thing. I mean, he's probably 85 and has hearing aids, so it may be contingent on opportunity. His son Josh is the same quiet way at first, but if you give him an opening, he will absolutely chat you you up. 

    Case in point, we were sitting at the table outside on Saturday. I hadn't talked much, I'm listening. But I'm tracking two conversations, as everybody talks over each other. My cousins. All five talking at once. I remember when I was a kid, sitting at the table on the farm, listening to my grandparents talk at the same time, like two radio stations fighting over the same number on the dial. Then were were joined by my aunts and I had to get up and walk the property.

    Back to running late...

    We were late to Virginia and Bob's, and Bob---who is  in his 80's and functions like I do, meaning he has no patience for the "Wyckoff Visiting Trait" which means he hates lingering, chatting and visiting when it interferes with leaving on time. When we arrived, he stood at the bottom of the stairs with the door open. Because Lisa had to pee. He just rolled his eyes and stood with the door remaining open, glaring at Virginia who was chatting with Lisa.

    No judgement. Just facts.

    It's one hour and fifty five minutes to the graveyard in Genoa. We wagon trained, because someone somewhere said the country dirt roads were not on google. So we followed Virginia, who was raised on the farm. Bob was driving. Bob drives at the speed of his age---one MPH for every year of his life. Pedal to the metal. Impressively determined. Yet he would pull over when he got too far ahead for a turn.

    Road M, Road R, CR 2, turn left at the T section, turn right at the cow, look for the tree...we did this years ago for Bryon's memorial, and in 2010 for the 100 year celebration, which is A Very Big Deal. There is now a sign outside the homestead identifying it as a registered landmark.

    https://www.historycolorado.org/location/wyckoff-farm

    So we didn't even need to follow Virginia and Bob.

    We're all going because my Aunt Arlene -Lisa's mom, dad's sister- died two years ago and was cremated. Lisa was waiting to scatter her with her husband who passed last fall. I proposed we scatter them and dad on the same day, less travel stress on their remaining siblings. But that meant that Arlene's husband's family, Lisa's family, my cousin Josh and his dad Reggie...and suddenly my idea of just chucking dad's remains over the cemetery fence had been hijacked. Also there was a headstone he would not have wanted that caused a lot of angst among his daughters. But that doesn't matter.

    My Uncle Bob. 

    My Uncle Bob Jaramillo has been a sassy Latino fixture my entire life. He has said a lot of very funny things that would be considered racist today, yet they are part of my imprint of the man. He and my dad were besties. They were the  central two of their Old Man's Club. Breakfast Queen on Wednesdays, brunch on Fridays, bowling back in the day, driving to Wyoming so my barber brother in law could cut their hair. Hooligans.

     You are lucky if you get one best friend in this life. I know Bob was my dad's. And I suspect he was Bob's.

    Bob knew my dad for who he was, and he knew he was too kind and occasionally taken advantage of. Bob looked out for him and understood him as only a best friend could. After dad died, we found a receipt for a paint job on his vinyl Town Car roof, clearly the work of someone who had swindled my dad. Because why would anyone paint a vinyl roof? Bob said "I told him not to do that, shit, Gary, you're an old man whaddya need a new paint job for?" Dad was both easily duped due his kindness, and slipping mentally the last few years. The news of the paint job seemed to send a knife into Bob's heart.

    Bob stood at the gravesite as we scattered dad's ashes. He clung to the edge as my brother in law buried a few ashes. As he did so, Bob reached down-leaning on his cane- and took a rock and placed it on the gravestone. He stood stoic. When Todd patted the final dirt, Bob saluted as they do in Honor Guard---Bob was not in honor guard.  But Bob knew how much it meant to my dad, and he was determined to honor him. It was too much. I still tear up thinking about it.

    Uncle Bob is the sassiest, Judgeist  man I know. I never even considered he had a heart. He was hit by a car (he is 82 years old) in January, and is still using a cane, but drove 80 MPH out to the cemetery. He hobbled over to us after we scattered dad from the cremation box.

    "Gimme that box, " he croaked.

    I tried to hand the empty box to him, but he indicated the wanted it on the ground. I obliged.

    He knocked at it with his cane. "Dammit, Gary, it was your turn to pay." He looked up at me. "It's not fair. I want to beat the shit out of that box."

    After almost everyone had left, my Uncle Bob stood staring at the gravestone. His wide brimmed black hat, black coat and cane cutting a stunning portrait of grief.

    You're lucky if you get one best friend in this life. My dad was the luckiest man I know.

    I can't write any more.

   Maybe later...

   

 The chicken coop

old wheat silo

                                                              sign on the door
    

                                                                 My Uncle Bob
    

  

Act 2, Scene : 3 Dad's Car

 

                                                        5 June 2025

        For deeply psychological reasons that are becoming increasingly evident, I really needed dad's car  "done" before the end of this school year. DPS ends 3 June.

       This district has two non student "check out days". I've only had one check out day in previous districts/buildings, so this seems extreme. They also make you strike your room and admin has to check it off. 

        And they give the last morning to breakfast and Year Pins--- here is your five, ten, fifteen, twenty year pin -- and they honor the retiree(s). The para has been in the district 20 years. The teacher  has 30 years in the district. they gave him a glass red apple. He gave a speech. Everyone listened. Some people cried.

        What planet is this?

        I was in Littleton 17 years. I received a pin the first week I worked there, and didn't let the door hit me in the ass on the way out.

        Hinkley did A Whole Thing with pins and years and retirees at the last awards of the year---but only that first year I was there, which was COVID. 

        But I digress. Or do I? Digression or part of my storytelling style; is it a digression or character development? Or regression?

        I couldn't get an appointment at the Taj Mahal (the Big Jeffco Offices in Golden) before the 19th, so I decided to sign up at a small Jeffco DMV in Arvada. Because the 19th was after the school year was over, and I needed to be done by 3 June.

        I have a physical title to the land yacht with my mom's name on it. My mom has signed the back, I have signed the back. I just need a clear title with MY name on it. Which the Arapahoe DMV would not do because I live in Jeffco.

        After check out, I loaded my last bag---including my coffee cups---into my trunk. Which is where I had put the key to dad's car and the title with my mom's name on it, signed over to me.

        I arrived at the DMV on 3 June at 12.45 for a 1 pm appointment. Immediately, the network comedy began when a teaspoon of coffee had spilled through my bag and onto the title. When I picked it up, the Apple Tag on dad's keys went off as well. The studio audience went  wild over the low hanging humor fruit.

        Nonplussed, I walked into the DMV. They do not have QR code scanners like the others, just humans to  do check in. This human was tied up with a couple who had paid for license plates that never arrived, and the human could not even find the order. So the security guard kindly said he'd check me in. 

        I gave him my name.

        He asked for my confirmation code. I showed him the email.

        He handed my phone back "This is for the 10th. Today is the 3rd."

        Blank faced, I took my phone back, leveled my voice, met his eyes with as much humor as I could muster and said "Of course it is. Okie."

        I did not cry. I was not flustered. I'm resolved now. This Is My Life.

        He said "Lemme do you a solid, we're slow," he punched a plastic machine and handed me a ticket number. "The folks with appointments will go first, but you'll get in."

        I was called inside of five minutes to clerk #8. I get that number a lot. 

        She was maybe 30, and wanted to know what was spilled on the title. Because...it matters? You're printing a new one, anyway. I said "Coffee" and she weirdly replied "Good, Ok, at least it's not baby food."

        HUH?!!!!! 

        You're looking right at me friend. I do not have a baby.

        She couldn't project through her plastic barrier very well, which was a me problem apparently, so I riveted my eyes to her for our entire exchange.

        "Is the car still gold?"

        What a weird question. Arapahoe county cared naught for the color.

        Also, when I signed the back to switch the title from mom, I dicked up writing the "9" in my address. Arapahoe county cared naught.

        Jeffco was bent about it and I had to sign a "Statement Of Not Fraud" explaining that I have terrible handwriting, but that does not make me a criminal.

        Then she charged me $7 for the new title, handed me the receipt and said "It will be mailed in two weeks."

        WTF? Is this because you don't have any blank titles on hand, or because I botched the "9" or because you're not authorized to print new titles?

        I just shrugged. I took my receipt and left.

        I did not have dad's car wrapped up before the end of the school year.

        But I have a receipt that says it's done. So Sunday we'll scatter his ashes, Monday I start at the pony school.

        Maybe they'll mail the new title and I can sell the car to my neighbor.

        Maybe OPM will mail me information on being the beneficiary for dad's post office retirement.

        Maybe the VA will mail information on mom being the beneficiary for dad's Navy retirement.

        Maybe monkeys will fly out of my butt.

                                Scene