Bewitching

Dear Mr. Weeks,

We’re building a new school, parts of it, anyway. I know it’ll be great, because we have $66 million to spend, so it’s all but guaranteed to be exquisite. Still, a gal can have an independent vision, can’t she? I know you’ve been gone for 83 years, but I’m hoping that your great ghost still haunts our city and that you’ll be willing to cast a creative spell upon our project.  P.S. please bring Mr. Farr with you and bewitch us with the following:

- That neoclassical design that was so enchanting.

 - At the entry, the warm embrace of a kindly foyer beckoning us to come in.

- Arches and winding paths preparing the way for school-day meandering.

- Floors of enormous tiles in haunting shades of umber; textured and warm, there to greet the ready steps of our students.

- Grant us the treasure of a library filled top to bottom with books and a fireplace by which to enjoy them (it will have to be gas this time around. Since you’ve been gone we destroyed the environment and wood fires are frowned upon.)

- Please whisk away all flimsy drywall and let our students know the prized finish of a beautifully textured plaster wall and how it makes a place feel warm and cherished, like an old family home.

- Please make the thoroughfare from classroom to classroom a lovely portico, allowing shelter and nature all at once and igniting the urge to linger.

- Given his success with the Exedra and City Hall and the original Havens School, perhaps Mr. Farr could wave his visitant hand over what appears to be an unfortunate lack of set-backs. Are we not desirous of lawn and trees to soften the transition from home to school? Will we cast our students out of the car and into the classroom with nary a blade of grass as a buffer?  Car…concrete…classroom. Oh, dear. Yes, Mr. Farr is just the person to address this oversight.

- I recently read that the lofty top floor of the 3-story building would be reserved for Mr. Booker and other administrators, but certainly that must have been a misprint. I know that whoever designed the building would insist that the students enjoy the restorative benefits of an inspiring view from the top floor.  But to be on the safe side, would you please make sure of it?

I know it’s not realistic. Sheetrock and CAD/CAM are much more affordable than the artisan techniques of the past. It’s probably a lot harder to weave all the new and much needed technology in and out of plaster walls, and let’s face it, all manner of shenanigans could occur in those dreamy porticos.  But for all the millions – all 66 of them – a bit of charm doesn’t seem unreasonable, does it? A bit of texture? A bit of character? A bit of soul?

And so, Mr. Weeks because the thought of our students having to walk along flat, white, anemic halls keeps me awake at night, I do respectfully request an inspiring bewitching at the earliest possible moment to avoid such a tragedy!

Sincerely,
E. Boyer

Scottish Records Office

Well, who could blame me? I heard SRO and my inner Highlander thought, “Well, I’ll be darned, a Scottish Records Office and right on campus...how exciting!” Upon further contemplation I wondered why, on earth Mr. Booker was suddenly so interested in the cataloging of Scottish records. Very fishy.  Well, one thought led to another. Would Mr. Booker’s newfound interest in the Scots be used for good or for evil?  Would Piedmont’s new Scottish Records Office be a source of pride for the thistle-eating Highlanders? Would paintings of our ancestral Picts and Gaels hang from it’s walls? Or, was something sinister brewing? Perhaps our new SRO would be nothing more than a new and glorified private office for Mr. Booker disguised as a Scottish Records Office. Alba gu brâth!! And, what about Sgt. Bowers? I suppose I couldn't blame him for being intrigued; the warrior-wear of the mighty Galloglasses was indeed something a police officer might covet. I’d have to get to the bottom of it. With a love for all things Scottish, I braved the rickety, pull-down stairs to the attic in search of my tartan sash.  I figured this new Scottish Records Office would be one of two things: celebratory or sinister and a proper tartan sash was appropriate for either.

O.k, so I jumped the gun. As it turns out, the SRO in this case isn’t for compiling records of the Scottish. C’mon, I’m an old Highlander; it was an honest mistake! Apparently, an SRO is a Student Resource Officer. Fine. Duly noted. Not one to let the efforts of a tartan-sash-search-and-rescue go to waste, I decided to do a little Scottish style reconnaissance: I poured myself a Benromach, wrapped myself in the sash and hunkered down on the couch for a proper Googling of this other SRO.

Mr. Booker and Police Chief Bowers are proposing that a School Resource Officer be assigned to PHS, Millennium and PMS. Initially, I thought why not? Anything for safety and let’s add them to Havens, Beach & Wildwood, as well. However, it seems the issue is far more complicated:

- SROs are not security guards.  They are armed police officers. Their job is to police classrooms and hallways. According to a segment on NPR, “Despite a high level of consensus among researchers and criminal justice experts that SROs should undergo extensive and specialized training, few of the 19,000 SROs in the United States are, in fact trained. Incredibly, there are no national standards – and in many cases no state standards – for SRO training, which means there is little consistency in how they are prepared to work in schools.”

-After the deadly Columbine High School shooting, the number of SROs in schools began to grow, but according to Marc Shindler, head of the Justice Policy Institute, there is no evidence to show that adding SROs results in safer schools. "In fact, the data really shows otherwise — that this is largely a failed approach in devoting a significant amount of resources but not getting the outcome in school safety that we are all looking for."

-Research shows that there can also be unintended consequences for students and especially students of color. They included higher rates of suspension and expulsions and in many cases arrests, which can set kids on a path to the criminal justice system for very minor offenses.  Many experts suggest that restorative practices have far better outcomes for both racial and ethnic minorities and the community as a whole.

-Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School had an experienced, armed sheriff’s deputy on duty at the time of the horrible shooting; he never discharged his weapon. The video footage shows that the officer remained outside in a defensive position during the shooting.

It’s no surprise to me that we would consider a police officer on our school campuses. It has a way of making us feel safer, but just because we feel a certain thing doesn’t necessarily make it true. Sadly, the tragic massacres that have occurred in schools have highlighted the limits of school security measures rather than the benefits.

I wish I knew more, but after just an hour or two into my Google search, the mothball smell from the sash was making me nauseous and the Benromach threw me for a loop, so I had to call it quits for the evening, but based on the little that I’ve learned so far, I hope we’ll insist on researching other options before we give the green light to an idea that seems based in fear, but little else.  

Five Minutes

E. Boyer

Blowers blow, mowers mow, hammers bang, babies cry, music blares, doors slam, mufflers roar, dishes clink, balls bounce, birds squawk, bells ring, drums beat, horns honk, and thusly on and on.

I read the thread, several weeks ago on Nextdoor about a call to the authorities due to a dog barking while in the Dracena dog park. I gathered from the thread that it’s been determined that five minutes of barking is considered excessive.  My goodness, five minutes? I should say from the outset that I’m not bothered by barking dogs. Nor am I bothered by crying babies, raucous party-goers or any of the other noisy things that exist.  These aren’t things that I love hearing at 1:00 a.m., but day-to-day I see them as naturally occurring in a neighborhood.

To be a little miffed by barking is one thing, but to make the decision to call law enforcement about it is, in my opinion, quite another. Good heavens, how can we manage to get through the challenges of the day if we can’t tolerate even five minutes of a barking dog? Why is the bark of a dog so vexing?  Why, of all things is it barking that drives one to the fence or to the phone to wage war? I ask sincerely because we often endure the year-long cacophony of neighborhood home remodeling projects complete with jackhammering and a poorly-tuned radio blaring day-in-day-out. Combine that with the onslaught of vehicles that roll in at 7:45 a.m. and take-up every available parking spot around your house, giant dumpsters and a port-a-potty all to the sound of a table saw for 8 hours every day for the duration of the project.

How about the neighbor whose conversations sound like the bellowing of a drunken sailor? I have a neighbor who truly sounds like the female version of Gilbert Gottfried and her loud voice never fails to startle.  It’s exactly what I imagine the public herald sounded like, making announcements in the Roman Forum!  Call the police? Of course not, but I do attest that it’s far more alarming than a barking dog.

Five a.m. walking groups, anyone? Indeed, and right below my bedroom window I’m treated to what sounds like 5 or 6 energetic walkers huffing, puffing and loudly chattering as if the whole world should be awake at this hour.  Though initially surprised by the inconsiderate gabbing at such a decibel and at such an hour, I confess I rather like it, now and use it as my M,W,F alarm clock to get up and do a few sit-ups and jumping-jacks that I otherwise wouldn’t do had my peaceful slumber not been interrupted.  File a complaint? No, I chalk it up to the inconsiderate obliviousness that currently plagues our society and use it to my advantage with abs of steel from the aforementioned sit-ups.

I find that these real-life examples help me put dog barking into perspective. Full disclosure, however, it was nip-n-tuck a time or two with the bellowing-drunken-sailor-lady.

What happens once the barking culprit is identified? What does one do with the dog once they’ve reached the five-minute limit? A muzzle? Confinement?  It doesn’t seem fitting, does it? Descendants of the ancient wolf, their “wild ancestry ignited by the scent of a competing canine” only to be squashed by a five-minute barking limit…oh, the injustice and humiliation put upon such a storied creature!

I suppose one could site the right to a peaceful existence, but where does that begin and end? Isn’t the constantly complaining neighbor also nuisance? As much as we’re entitled to a peaceful existence, are we not equally entitled to the simple pleasure of walking the dog, knowing that the dog may behave as a dog and occasionally bark?  If you told me that a dog was barking incessantly, day and night I would agree that intervention (and perhaps the installation of triple-pane windows) might be in order, but five minutes? Let’s face it; we decide what things we’ll tolerate and draw a line in the sand for those that we won’t.  Example:

Neighbor #1) Five minutes of barking = Is that the angels singing? Oh, it’s just my barking dog.

Neighbor #2) Five minutes of dog barking = The Hounds of Baskerville! Fetch my pistol!

Sigh…why must we take ourselves so seriously? For heaven’s sake, from time to time could we just take a deep breath and ask ourselves; how big of an ass am I being right now? If you’re calling the police for five minutes of dog barking, the answer is extra-large.  Couldn’t we gather-up just a tiny bit of tolerance?  Recruit a little patience? During this time when our country, nay most of the world seems to be smothered with the weight of a droning, hate-filled torrent, it seems that the sound of a barking dog would be charming. No?

To the woman who told of her experience on Nextdoor: I’m sorry to hear about your episode with a complaining park neighbor. Honestly, I wouldn’t give it a second thought.  As long as there are barking dogs there will be people to complain about them.  Such is the arrangement when neighbors and their sensibilities intersect. 

So, bark if you will, dogs and complain if you must, neighbors, but surely I won't be bothered by either.  The world is filled with noisy things and we have but a limited time to enjoy them…woof!

Cotton Candy Kid

E. Boyer

Our parade...Pipsy Tipsy!  What a crowd! Chalk it up to good ‘ole Piedmont patriotism and the green light to start drinking before noon! What’s the point of independence if not the freedom to get shnockered on your front porch mid-morning?  What the heck, count me in! I happily take my spot at curbside every year amidst the throng on Highland Avenue.

Ever the observer, I had a few thoughts:

Is it me or have we been short on floats the past few years? Maybe I’m remembering it wrong or getting it mixed-up with parades from my childhood, but it seems like we used to have more floats. I know we have flatbeds with dancing kids atop and the occasional costumed parent, but I’m referring to the papier-mache variety that takes 6 months to construct. Is the coveted Highland Cup no longer enough to summon the fighting clansman spirit? Have we lost the edge that drove us to our garages, attics and craft stores in search of bits of inspiration that would crush the competing neighbor floats? Crepe paper, plywood, bailing twine, chicken wire, all to achieve just the right finishing touches to our float entries (Fourth of July and Homecoming, for that matter.) I would have thought that the younger crowd, now with children of their own, would take the reins; that seems to be when this sort of inspiration is ignited. Not a criticism, just a curiosity for the future of things.  I think, perhaps the young folks, who are typically the life-blood of such traditions aren’t in town for the Fourth as often as they once were. Summering. Travelling. Camps. Today’s exhausted mother of three will only once be convinced to stay in town for the parade if other destinations beckon.  After that and it’s “Sorry, the kids are going to camp and I’m going to the lake for a week of peace and quiet. There’s a dock and a stack of magazines and I don’t intend to miss either for 45 minutes of dogs and cars.”  Ouch! O.k., we get it; a hodge-podge of cars (although this year they really were quite good!) lots of dogs in spangled ribbon and a truly strange gaggle of men wearing inner tubes isn’t quite the lure one needs to stay in town. 

Allow an old gal a few suggestions, keeping in mind that I just returned from said parade and I write from my front porch where, indeed I sit with a Bloody Mary into which I put 6 pieces of bacon, thus blaming the following on sodium…

Throw the damned candy! Listen carefully; there is but one reason that a child between the ages of 3 and 13 is interested in going to a parade. Candy.  In fact, the only reason kids this age get out of bed on any morning is the omnipresent hope that at some point during the day the opportunity for candy might present itself.  I know; your kid “doesn’t really like candy.”  Yes, they do and it’s the only reason they want to go to the parade. Tossing peppermints or Tootsie Rolls out of a car during a parade is like giving out toothbrushes on Halloween.  It’s bunk.  Full-size Kit Kats, folks!  Rule of thumb; if it doesn’t leave a little bruise when it bonks them on the forehead, it wasn’t big enough. The kids will happily endure a little roughing-up as a means to an end.  They’re kids and we’re talkin’ candy. They understand the risks and it’s a mission they’re willing to accept.

Something to further ruffle the anti-candy-throwing feathers: SuperSoakers.  Remember those?  The giant, high-powered water gun with a 40-foot stream! Why not take the take the sugar component to the next level? You want a happy kid, blast ‘em in the kisser with an Icee-filled SuperSoaker…I recommend cherry cola. Picture it; kids standing wide-mouthed like baby birds waiting for the mayor or some other local such-and-such to take aim and fire.  Shrieks of excitement all around! It would surpass their wildest dreams and they would look upon being the “target” of such cold, sugary goodness as the single most important moment in their childhood. Yes, it’ll be messy; that’s why God created soap. The Icee SuperSoaker.  100%, yes, yes, yes.

Cotton Candy. Forget the paper cone and let’s get a cotton candy dunk tank; arms and legs straight into the spinner. Voila! Cotton candy kid! It will instantly blow their little minds and they’ll be occupied for hours eating the sugary web off of their own limbs.  C’mon, folks, get the little tykes off the devices and send them for a full-body plunge into the cotton candy twirl-a-whirl! They’ll be revved-up like Howler monkeys from all the sugar, but they’ll run it off afterwards at the block party and then around 7:30 they’ll crash and burn and sleep like little angels until morning.  A win-win! Now, where’s the harm in that?

The giant Snail was an attention-grabber, no question. Why?  Fire.  We see fire and it sparks our primal flame. We’re drawn to it’s hypnotic powers. Fire invokes our inferno-powered superego.  We imagine ourselves flying in on the backs of fire-breathing dragons on a mission of vengeance and retribution.  Kids imagine a similar scenario, but with unicorns, minions and hamsters....all fire-breathing.  Yes, indeed, fire stirs the soul and gives an event such as a parade a certain flare that can’t be underestimated. As this year’s fire-breathing snail began it’s journey down Highland I had a moment of concern that it’s flames might set ablaze the arc of balloons overhead and wouldn’t that have been a spectacle?  But, I quickly reminded myself that Piedmont prides itself on a phenomenal fire department and they’d have us covered in the event of any such mishap. And by the way, given that papier-mache might make a comeback it’s not unreasonable to imagine that mishaps could occur.  Still, going forward I say that the float with the biggest fire component is the clear winner!

That’s it.  That’s all I have in the way of suggestions for the parade.  Yes, this is precisely why they won’t let me sit on the parade committee.

Happy summer!  Next stop, 7-Eleven for an Icee, which could be a disaster after all that bacon.