My good friend, Kate Amann (Chocolate Cake and Beer), was in from Scotland for the holidays. I haven’t seen her in person since 2006, so when the opportunity arose to visit her, I made the appropriate plans. I’d known about her trip since spring, and I made Dan sign on for the visit in summer. We didn’t really anticipate the decade’s biggest snowstorm to hit the weekend we were supposed to drive to Frederick, Maryland.
Life as a substitute teacher essentially involves a series of unpleasant experiences. Often, you’re offered a job by a 5:30 a.m. phone call. If you decide to take this job, you must then stumble out of bed to a school where you know virtually no one, and you must look professional upon arrival. Depending on who you are subbing for, you will find lesson plans. If you’re in for a high school teacher, odds are these lesson plans will be worksheets, quizzes or “continue working on such and such project.” If it’s middle school level, you may actually have to teach, or at least supervise them teaching themselves.
Depending on how the day goes, your afternoon might involve an energized trip to Wal-Mart or it may involve collapsing into bed and self-doubt. It depends on the school district, the students and your own resilience. Some days, I find myself doubting that this is the proper profession for me. I wonder if everything I’m doing is worth it, or I start looking at the want ads for “real jobs.” Other days, I’m fully confident that I’m making the right decision to continue my education and I’m grateful that I have the opportunity to gain varied classroom experiences.
There is one school district in particular that I dread seeing on my caller ID first thing in the morning. Continue reading
One of the benefits of dating Dan is his proximity to Longwood Gardens. The Gardens exist thanks to the Peirces, who took an interest in planting an array of trees on the land, and the du Pont family (aka those who amassed a fortune from the DuPont chemical company) for purchasing the land to preserve the trees. The place has amazing history going back to the late 1700s, but I won’t bore you with that, because this is mainly a picture post.
Dan’s been going to Longwood since he was a kid, but I only went for the first time when we started dating. I’ve seen the seasons change there this year, and it’s been a beautiful experience. Longwood at Christmas is something that draws in huge crowds. Usually, they have their fountains lit in addition to all the Christmas lights, but the temperature wasn’t cooperative during our visit. It was probably in the low 30s and it was breezy! Thankfully we spent some time in the conservatory where it was warmer, and Dan bought me a hot chocolate when we were back in the outdoors. All in all, it was another amazing experience and he walked away with some beautiful pictures.
So without further ado, the gallery…
I became a substitute teacher somewhat out of necessity. In a faltering economy, I couldn’t afford to move to a new location to find a job, and my college degree and I were wasting away at a local convenience store making less than $8/hour. Teaching had been my original intention in college, but I’d been sidetracked by publications. I was lucky to know a few people who had gone through a training program to obtain emergency teaching certification, and they encouraged me to check it out. While the main point of the program is to staff the local intermediate unit, which assists local schools (especially with special education), many who take the training become day-to-day subs in mainstream schools. The training takes a mere three days and focuses on information that is more suited to the IU. Most of “what to do” was up to me to learn.
My first day was terrifying and exhilarating. I’d managed to find a better-paying seasonal job to round out my summer; my last day was Labor Day. I was looking forward to taking a few weeks to prepare for subbing by cleaning and organizing. Instead, Tuesday, September 8, I woke up at 5:30 in the morning to a phone call. I agreed before I really understood what I was doing. That was just the beginning, I suppose. In retrospect, the first day was fairly plain. It was 7th grade language arts, and one period I had a co-teacher who took the reigns. The regular teacher’s plans were superb–she’d thought of a lot in advance. The 7th graders were only in their 2nd week of junior high, so they had no idea that I was not at all aware of what I was doing. At the end of the day, I felt confident I’d made the right choice in pursuing teaching as a career.
When I look back, I’m very happy that I accepted that early phone call. It let me train myself and get my feet wet without falling on my face. I learned how to follow a lesson plan, how to relate to students, and even how to deal with trying to find a school I’ve never seen. Since then, I’ve had numerous other learning experiences with subbing. It’s trial and error, and what one can accomplish in a day depends on the type of students the school in question has. The demographics vary, even in my small county, and the students are sometimes less receptive to a substitute depending on their grade level and their level in the education system. I hope to detail some of what I’ve learned here, and to write about the experiences—good, bad and in between—so that I might learn more from them as I reexamine what I’ve done.
Sunday morning came far too fast. We woke up to the smell of breakfast cooking, and when I emerged from the bathroom, my birthday presents were waiting for me on the bed. Dan, of course, did a fabulous job. He framed a picture of us before our He Said Beer / She Said Wine dinner and one of my favorite pictures that he took on one of our outings (and he got frames that were my style, too). He also got me the Dandy Warhols vinyl that I had drooled over–and it’s signed! The mix CD that came as part of my gift beat the mix I’d made him in August, but I wouldn’t know that until the drive home from his house that evening.
We celebrated Dan’s birthday at the beach, but for my birthday I wanted to do something special to me. Twenty-five being a symbolic age, I wanted to do something “grown up.” My idea was to rekindle my romance with the Eastern Shore and visit Washington College now that I’ve gained some distance from it. There was also supposed to be a music festival on campus (which never came to fruition). Little did I know when planning this trip, however, that Chestertown no longer felt like home to me. I’d felt it a bit on previous visits, like when I saw the new dorms for the first time. However, this visit was to a different campus. I recognized so few faces, and I’ve known for some time that the general make up of the student body has changed since I was there. Needless to say, after our 90 minute drive to town, I was nonplussed. After visiting a few friends and grabbing lunch at one of the restaurants I miss most, Procolino’s, Dan and I departed for Rock Hall, a town 20 minutes to the west and right on the bay. While debating where to stay when we originally planned this trip, we’d considered the hotels in Chestertown, but I ended up deciding on a whim that I wanted to stay at a bed and breakfast–one in particular. The Inn at Huntingfield Creek had a website that lured me in and promised relaxation and comfort, and I thought it would be close enough to Chestertown that we could go back and forth between the two with ease.
When we finally arrived at the bed and breakfast, I tried to shake the foul mood that Chestertown’s changes had caused. The long driveway led up to a beautiful house, and as we pulled into a parking space, the awkward kicked in. did we go in the front door? How do we announce ourselves? Questions even Google can’t answer always rush into my head at inopportune times; they make interacting in the real world difficult because while I’m really just petrified with fear over doing or saying the wrong thing, it often comes across as rudeness. Luckily, in this case, there were three dogs to announce our arrival and one of the innkeepers–Jim–was quick to intercept us and give us a tour. He greeted Dan as the “person who asked the most pre-stay questions ever.” In Dan’s defense, most of the questions were mine. I’d started having nerves about the trip as soon as I’d given my credit card information, and Dan swooped in to help ease my overactive imagination’s fears.
The property of the Inn at Huntingfield Creek was absolutely gorgeous even though our stay fell on the cusp of fall. The path to the dock was bordered by soybeans and sunflowers. The field of sunflowers–probably majestic in the summer–were going to seed. The leaves of the trees were threatening to change colors, and some crunched under our feet. Inside, our room looked just as it did online. We had a large bed an an antique bathtub. The blue was rich and gave the room a relaxing vibe. Since it was too early for dinner, we thought we’d take our books down to the bay to enjoy the sunset. We set out, Dan with his Nikon and me with Sedars and King in my purse. The walk took us through those fields and a wooded area before opening up to bay grasses. However, the Chesapeake was so happy to see us that it tried to come up to greet us; the water had cut off access to the dock, and mocked us by seeping up further as we stood there. We returned an hour later after settling for secluded chairs by the pond and the scene was worse. Fish swam in the path, and our shoes squished in the grass. The sunset was breathtaking, and it symbolized that we needed to grab food. At the advice of our innkeepers, we went to a local restaurant called Harbor Shack for dinner. My entrée was basic, but our appetizer was scrumptious. I wanted to give myself a facial with that crab dip! After dinner, we drove to the ice cream shop down town, debating its hours and where to park. A young girl scooped our Butterfinger cones and gave me a cup of water after overhearing me talking about needing to take a pill. she complimented the purse Kate bought me in New Zealand, prompting me to make awkward conversation.
I want to address the fact that this weekend will be my 25th birthday. I’ve been over analyzing it and trying to come to grips with the fact that I’ve been on Earth for a quarter of a century. But the life I live feels like an extended adolescence, and life is nothing like I thought it would be at 25. I feel slightly relieved, but I also feel like somewhat of a failure. I thought that I would have a stable, steady career; I thought that I would be married, possibly discussing the idea of children. Instead, I’m finally deciding to go back to school to get certified for education while substitute teaching. I’m barely able to comprehend that I’m in a relationship, let alone think about the m-word or miniature humans. Even though I’m not necessarily ready for these big life changes, I thought that by 25, I’d at least feel like an adult.
Perhaps the economy’s forced extended adolescence has my growth as a person stunted. It’s not that I don’t want to live on my own, to be able to have my own dinner parties or to own my own living room furniture. I do want these things; I just can’t figure out how to get form point A to B quickly enough, and I’m disappointed that it’s taken me this long to get anywhere close to establishing myself. But even some of my friends who have taken adult steps like getting married or establishing careers seem to live in a vacuum where age is nonexistent.
I’m hoping that my birthday weekend gives me some clarity on this. I wish I could offer further laments, but I can’t find the words to express what I’m feeling. In a way, I guess I am older; Dan and I are going to a bed and breakfast on the Eastern Shore for the weekend. There’s been talk of bird watching. We want to relax rather than attend parties at my alma mater. We’d rather have glasses of wine or a craft brewed beer than all-you-can drink Beast Light. I just hope that this experience–an adult vacation–makes me feel more grown up or offers me some time to reflect and figure out how to get to a point where I feel like an adult. I’m sick of feeling trapped in limbo. I’d like 25 to mean something.
