The accident prone auto

“Did you see what happened to Gordon’s truck?” my husband asks as he walks in the door from work.

“No.”

“Someone rammed him sideways. Both doors are badly dented. And he just had the truck painted.”

I make sympathetic noises as we go out to take a look.

“Happened sometime today,” Gordon says. “It was fine this morning.”

I nod and make more sympathetic noises.

“Almost looks like it was hit by a car with bumperettes,” says my husband. “But how could a car hit you sideways like that?”

“Oh!” I say with a hand over my mouth in horror. “I think my car did that.”

Both men stare at me.

“I came home at lunch, left the car in the driveway, and ran into the house. I put the car in neutral and pulled on the emergency brake. When I came back out the car was sitting with the front tires against the curb. It must have rolled across the street, hit the truck and then rolled back to our side of the street.”

We examine my car. No damage, but the bumperettes do line up with the dents in the truck doors.

“Well, I did report this to the police,” Gordon says.

We climb into his truck and drive to the nearest police station. The officer, barely containing his grin, holds up his handcuffs.

“You can’t,” I say. “I have children.”

“Oh, don’t worry ma’am,” he says. “We have visiting hours on Sundays.”

The dangers of eating out with junior high students

“You asked for this,” I tell myself as I stand in front of the unruly grade nine students. They’re big. They’re loud. They’re bold. And, I’m not all that much older than them.

They’re my PFL class—Perspectives for Living. I’m supposed to teach them life skills like self-esteem, drug and alcohol education, and sex education. They’re here because the drama teacher and the art teacher are fed up with them and only the academic kids take the other two options offered—French as a Second Language (which is the bulk of my teaching assignment) and music.

I have great plans for this  class—field trips to see court in session, guest speakers, etc.—, but I can’t do any of that until I get some control. The first couple of weeks do not go well so I hatch a plan.

“Here’s the thing,” I say. “You guys put yourselves in groups of four and every Friday I’ll take a group for lunch. You pay for your meal. I’ll pay the tip.”

Group one piles into my car that first Friday and we drive to the small restaurant near the school. We have a great time. Group two and three go equally well. The atmosphere in the class begins to change.

“Shut up! Mrs. Jones wants to talk.” This is the biggest, toughest kid in the school talking and they do. Shut up, that is.

Then it’s group four—five boys from Lebanon with very shady reputations. “Where’s A?” I ask.

Waiting for us in the parking lot. And he is. Sitting in the driver’s seat of his own car. I didn’t know he was old enough to drive. He gets out and gallantly opens the passenger door for me. Great! I get to ride shotgun which wouldn’t be bad normally, but the car is festooned with huge furry dice and pompoms. I poke my head in. The entire interior is covered in plush red fabric.

“It’s okay. I’ll sit in the back,” I offer.

The young man insists I take the front seat. I slide in and sink down as low as I can. I don’t particularly want to be seen in this car. It’s not a matter of snobbery, honest. It’s a matter of professional reputation. I don’t think anyone saw me and we had a wonderful time at lunch.

We don’t neglect the academic students. My fellow French teacher and I offer to take them to a French restaurant at the end of the year. Seventeen kids take us up on the offer. Again, it’s a wonderful time. The kids even use a bit of their rudimentary language skills with the waiters, who it turns out don’t speak French at all.

On the way out, patrons waiting for tables stare at the multicultural crew of gangly teens. “Thanks for dinner, Mom,” one says loudly.

“Oh, you’re welcome,” I say. What else could I do?

Who am I?

I’m Darlene Jones. Like most people, I play many roles: daughter, sister, student, traveler, wife, mother, reader, educator, body boarder, camel rider (yes, it was a hoot), writer, and more recently and most enjoyably—grandmother.

As an author, I’m often interviewed for blog visits. I was once asked at what age I was happiest. I have to say now. I’m retired and I’ve discovered that after building a career and raising children, I can put myself first. That’s not as selfish as it sounds. It just means no alarm clocks and ample time for writing.

Almost every interviewer asks what inspired my books. The answer is easy. I worked in Mali as a CUSO (Canadian University Service Overseas) volunteer. At that time the country was the fifth poorest in the world. Try to imagine going from the comfort and ease of life in Canada to a world without.

Malians had little in terms of material goods and modern conveniences. A kerosene lantern or two, and for the lucky few, a bicycle. Malians lived as they always had. I hadn’t just traveled to the other side of the world. I had traveled in time. In spite of the hardships the people endured, they were friendly, kind and helpful. The memory of the children’s wide warm smiles still warms my heart.

It was easy then, to write about what I wanted to do most—wave a magic wand to make things better for Malians. My novels create a fictional magic wand to make the world a better place. Of course there’s action, adventure, and a love triangle too.

http://www.emandyves.com

1 to 4 – who would have thought?

I’ve just published my fourth book. Yes, four. I intended to write one.

Why did the story grow?

a)     Because I like to talk a lot?

b)    Because I needed something to do?

c)     Because I became addicted to the computer?

d)    Because the story took over, the characters demanded more time and attention.

The correct answer could be all of the above, but my answer would be “d.”

What do I do now that the series is completed? I’m not quite ready to start a new novel, but I do have a couple of ideas up my sleeve and if they grow the way my story did, I’ll be tied (happily) to the computer for a long while to come.

Young Professionals

“I’d like you to consider _____ Junior High School,” the superintendent says.

“I’ll take it.” I’ve been watching the postings for principals and it’s the only school that has interested me.

“Things are not good there. Over 200 suspensions last year and test results are abysmal,” the super says.

Two hundred? The school only has three hundred and eighty kids.

“You’ll have to work your magic.”

Magic! What magic?

When the posting is made public I visit the school. Venetian blinds hanging at all angles, slats missing, classroom doors begging for paint, a science lab and art room overflowing with junk, a gym floor that hasn’t been refinished in over 20 years, and battered army-green lockers falling off the wall. The physical plant matches the student reputation. The teachers and support staff, when I meet them are wonderful. Just what the school needs. I suspect they can work miracles given the chance.

I give us two years to turn things around. We start with assemblies on the first day. The grade sevens are shy and fearful. The grade eights a bit rowdy, but nothing unusual. I tell the grade nines that I intend to reduce the number of suspensions from 200 to zero. They scoff and hoot and holler. I tell them not to laugh. It will happen.

For the physical plant, we start with new lockers, that little bit of personal space being so important to kids, move on to painting, clearing out junk, new vertical blinds, refinishing the gym floor….

For the discipline, I have a sign painted on the wall by the front entrance that reads:

At _____ we:

• Look good,
• Work hard,
• Get smart,
• Are professional.

I go to each classroom and talk about the new motto. I explain that school is their job and they have an obligation to themselves to do their best. I tell them that school is no different than learning to ride a bike or a skateboard. It takes practice, practice, practice. The more you practice the smarter you will be.

I tell the kids that we will have one rule only. They must be professional at all times. This turns out to be a bit of a magic wand.

And the last bullet? Professional?

To the young girl with her midriff showing, I say. “If you were a lawyer would you go to the office dressed like that?”

To the young boy with obscene words on his t-shirt, I say, “If you were a mechanic or a doctor would you go to work dressed like that?”

Students grumble and complain that our one rule sucks, but behavior improves. Then one day a teacher comes into the staff room chuckling. “You have to hear this. The bus from _____ just pulled up with the volleyball team. The kids got off the bus and pushed each other around. My class was watching out the window and several of them said, “That’s not very professional.”

“Never mind,” says another teacher. “I overheard one student tell another that what she had just done was not professional.”

Later that year one of our students and her younger brother are killed in a car accident. A group of grade nines organize a memorial service for them. I stop to talk to one of the girls working on the computer in the staff room. I tell her how proud I am, that they are being so professional. She says, “Mrs. Jones, for the rest of my life, when I hear that word, I will think of you.”

Did we turn the school around? Yes, in less than a year. Did we do it on our motto alone? Of course not. Many other factors played into the transformation. And our suspensions that year? Twenty-one.

Travel Confessions

Anneli at wordsfromanneli has tagged me in her blog post, Travel Confessions.

Visit her blog at: http://wordsfromanneli.wordpress.com She posts interesting pictures and stories.

The rules in the Travel Confessions series:

• Post a photo (or photos) and description(s) of your confession(s) in a new post.
• Tweet your post with hashtag #TravelConfession and follow/tweet @Traveling9to5
• Tag 3 other travelers you’d love to see

My travel confessions?

#1 My mother always said to put all the clothes you think you’ll need for the trip on your bed. Then put half of them back in the closet and pack the rest. I’m pretty good at following that rule, but I invariably take one or two pieces that are not appropriate for my destination.

#2 I’m going to have to stop travelling because my souvenirs have gotten to be too expensive. I used to buy t-shirts and trinkets. On the last three trips (Egypt, Hong Kong, Australia) I bought diamonds and on safari I managed to find a tanzanite. Go figure.

See also – http://emandyves.wordpress.com/2011/10/09/pink-diamond-of-mine/

#3 My mother also said to take twice as much money as you think you’ll need and I do, but no matter how much money I take, I’m down to my last few pesos, lira, pesatas, euros, or dollars on the last day of my trip. And that’s after visiting the ATM. This puts me into embarrassing situations. I’m sometimes reduced to begging for loans from travel companions just to tip the taxi driver. More than once, I’ve been appreciative of the airline food as I fly home.

For the last part of my Travel Confession “duties,” I’d like to tag three other bloggers and invite them to participate in this fun and easy blog exercise.

Yvonne at http://ytaba36.wordpress.com/

Aggy at http://www.DreamExploreWander.com

Emma at http://www.emmacalin.blogspot.co.uk

The Sad Side of Semana Santa – Mexico, beyond the resort areas

There’s a sad and sobering side to the joy and excitement of Semana Santa that makes us realize just how lucky we are to have been born in and to live in Canada.

Holidayers descend from a one ton moving truck or a farm truck with their bundles of pillows, and blankets, and clothing to camp in the dirt of an empty lot.

Little boys string a hammock under the trailer of a semi in which to sleep.

Bus drivers sleep in the cargo holds of their buses and set upa little plastic tables in the rubble by the roadside to prepare their meals.

Unfinished buildings become shelter for many.

And perhaps saddest of all, on your early morning run you will see the musicians who walk the beach playing for tips, sleeping on the sidewalk by their bus with their instruments wedged between them.

And no, I don’t have any pictures. To take some would have been too much of an invasion.

Semana Santa (Easter) – Mexico – beyond the resort areas

During Semana Santa – Easter Week – little beach towns in Mexico are inundated with tourists. A town of 3,000 can suddenly swell to 40,000. If 200 bus loads of tourists arrive for Christmas, expect 400 for Easter.

Here are a few pictures to show the changes in Guayabitos from “normal” times to Semana Santa.

The kids walk to the corner for tacos de birria.

The same street during Semana Santa.

Buenos Dias. Uno jugo de naranja, por favor.

Can you still see our juice man? He is back there, honest.

Vendors squeeze into every nook and cranny, and into every spare centimeter of  sidewalk or curb  selling trinkets, fried plantain, pastries, beach essentials, and pretty much anything else you can imagine. In the driveway behind the first stand, the young entrepreneur has set up tables with colorful cloths.

Empty lots are perfect for parking, camping, or setting up make-shift stores.

Musicians gather. I leave it to you to imagine the cacophony of music, buses, cars, loudspeakers, etc.

Traffic jams arise. Yes, the garbage smells foul.

And the beach goes from this …

to this …

and this!!!!

The fine art of broom usage – Mexico – beyond the resort areas

Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, in a land far away, a little girl watched her mother sweep the house every day. Her father had a broom just like her mother’s, but his was special, used only for something called curling.

Once upon a time, a shorter time ago, in a land far away, the little girl and her family moved to the city. The old broom was cast aside, replaced by a vacuum for now they had wall-to-wall carpeting.

Once upon a time, a day or two ago, in a land called Mexico, the girl, now a woman, watched as Dona F used one of her many brooms to sweep. It seemed that each had a special use.

Broom number one has fine soft bristles suitable for catching all the little motes of dust (and there are many) inside the bungalows. Broom number two has somewhat stiffer bristles and is used on the patios and balconies. Broom number three has the stiffest bristles of all and is used on the textured tiles that surround the pool and bar area.

And broom number four?  Surely it’s long past its prime. The woman carries it to the garbage only to be told in no uncertain terms that it is not to be discarded. Broom four, sits with the others unused to date, but presumably it will come in handy one day. Perhaps to sweep up bits of cement during repairs or….

The munchkin uses broom number five. Apparently, one can’t be too young to begin learning the finer art of sweeping.

Sights of Mexico – Beyond the Resort Areas

Spending more than a couple of weeks in a resort hotel each year in Mexico gives us the opportunity to see a little more of daily life. Here are a few glimpses of our experience.

Dogs living on the roof – watching the world go by.

Laundry on the line (very often on the roof) smells so clean after a few hours in the sun and breeze.

Parties in the street.

Hair stylist on the beach

The horses have a view from their hilltop pasture.

Cats on the prowl for rodents or Whiskas Temptations.

And the wedding that moves from the religious ceremony at the church to the civil ceremony and reception on the beach.