August 25: "Today," Mr. Tumnus, Slightly Surreal

It was a good day.

However, I did spend a good deal of time working on syllabi and lesson plans and virtual teaching material.  Not fun, but necessary.  Thank goodness, I'd done a lot of the groundwork last week.  It was simply a lot of cutting and pasting and emailing.  

By midafternoon, I felt slightly brain dead, so I decided to take my puppy for a long walk to clear my mind a little.  It was a hot day (mid 80s), and there wasn't a whole lot of shade.  We took the Iron Ore Heritage Trail from my hometown to the neighboring town.  That's a little over three miles.  It's a beautiful hiking/biking path through woods and near caving grounds.  

I've always found this trail slightly surreal.  As you travel down it, you encounter things like uprooted trees and squares of cement that look like abandoned chimneys.  There are benches along the way, in case your feet get a little tired.  But the strangest thing on the Heritage Trail are lampposts.  Not powerline poles topped with lights.  Honest-to-God lampposts that look like they could have been transplanted from Narnia.  I can actually imagine the faun Mr. Tumnus standing beneath one of them.  Or maybe Harvey the rabbit.

Billy Collins has a good day, too . . . 

Today

by: Billy Collins

If ever there were a spring day so perfect,
so uplifted by a warm intermittent breeze

that it made you want to throw
open all the windows in the house

and unlatch the door to the canary's cage,
indeed, rip the little door from its jamb,

a day when the cool brick paths
and the garden bursting with peonies

seemed so etched in sunlight
that you felt like taking

a hammer to the glass paperweight
on the living room end table,

releasing the inhabitants
from their snow-covered cottage

so they could walk out,
holding hands and squinting

into this larger dome of blue and white,
well, today is just that kind of day.

It is a little past 9 p.m. as I type this now.  I know that autumn is fast approaching because night has already arrived.  My wife and son are getting ready for bed.  I can feel the shift of seasons in the house--from summer vacation to schoolyear.  I should be used to this change.  I've been doing it for almost 30 years, but I still find this letting go of sun and warmth very difficult.

Even along the trail this afternoon, I noticed leaves changing colors, green surrendering to gold and orange.  The long-legged shadows of August are stretching toward September.  Everyone is soaking up this last gasp of heat before the furnaces start kicking in.

As Saint Marty said, though, it was a good day.

November 18: Prayer Tunnel, Mr. Tumnus, Son's New Medication

The prayer tunnel was a tunnel fully enclosed by solid snow.  It was cylindrical, and its diameter was the height of man.  Only an Eskimo, and then only very rarely, could survive in the prayer tunnel.  There was, however, no exit or entrance; but I nevertheless understood that if I--if almost anyone, volunteered to enter it, death would follow after a long and bitter struggle.  Inside the tunnel it was killingly cold, and a hollow wind like broadswords never ceased to blow.  But there was little breatheable air, and that soon gone.  It was utterly without light, and from all eternity it snowed the same, fine, unmelting, wind-hurled snow.

Every time I read Dillard's description of the prayer tunnel, it reminds me of two things:  Narnia under the spell of eternal winter and the Upper Peninsula of Michigan from November to about April.  Unending cold and wind and snow.  If you don't believe me, come to my house about mid-December.  You'll probably see Mr. Tumnus the faun and Aslan the lion walking down the street, talking about Christmas.

Tonight, the first major winter storm is barreling down on the U. P.  About 3 a.m., the winds will start screaming, and the Trump signs on my neighbor's lawn will hopefully be picked up and carried away to the ice castle of Jadis, the White Witch.  It could happen.  The forecast is for 50- to 60-mile-per-hour gales.  All day long, it's felt like a prelude.  Gray and damp.  Clouds heavy as wet bed sheets.

My son took the first doses of his new medication today.  The pharmacist warned us about sudden drops in blood pressure and uncontrollable sleepiness.  We're keeping a close eye on him this weekend.  In a way, it's like watching for the first snowflake to come roaring out of the sky.  Something's going to change.  Either it will be pleasant--a fairy tale filled with gnomes and talking beavers--or it will be difficult--a blizzard with tornadic snows.

I'm cautiously hopeful.  I didn't really notice any difference in my son's behavior this evening.  He was tired and stubborn, repeating his current catchphrase ("I don't even care").  Yesterday, I attended a meeting with the guidance counselor and my son's teacher.  It was primarily to discuss ways to deal with his sometimes aggressive behaviors.  As I was leaving after the meeting, I thanked my son's teacher for being so patient with him.  "I know he can be very challenging," I said.  I think she could tell I was little down about the whole thing.

She smiled and put her hand on my shoulder.  "But he's worth it," she said.

Saint Marty is thankful tonight for caring teachers.

One of my neighbors