It has been a long time since I have put together an end-of-year reflection for the reading pleasure (or distaste?) of my friends and family. But this year has been extraordinary, so here is a recollection of 2017 in quotes:
#7 "Not one thought of K----" (Displeased parent)
In my teaching career I have received my fair share of angry phone calls and emails. In fact, this particular parent has been behind a great deal of those. However, I was surprised to receive a message from a parent...of a student...that had graduated...from a school district I hadn't taught at in over a year... the day after my wedding...about the guest list. I had barely been married 24 hours when:
"I'm writing to congratulate you on your wedding. I'm not sure why so many students were invited but [my student] wasn't, but whatever. It finally pushed me to the point where I can express how angry I am at you for leaving without giving [my student] a chance to say goodbye. She was really hurt by this and I'm not sure if she's over it even now. She trusted you. You violated that trust. I'm not sure how she meant so little to you that you could do that to her, but she clearly thought more highly of you than you did of her. I don't need a reply, I needed to get that off my chest. Seeing your pictures pushed me over the edge. All those kids there and not one thought of K-----. Whatever. I hope you never feel the abandonment that you forced on her."
I know that the intent of this messages was to make me feel bad, or draw me into a fight, or to put a blemish on a perfect day. But the true result: a family catch-phrase that is synonymous with whining.
The lesson: no matter what you do, someone will complain.
And to be clear: I invited family and friends of the family to my wedding, not students: people who encouraged, supported, believed in, and love me and my wife. Most of those people were family, some were old friends, some were young people I previously taught.
#6 "Wrenches aren't cool, they're just useful" (Mom)
The winning argument in a competition over who had cooler stuff in their barn coats. I have wrenches, hoof picks, and other essentials. Mom has a piece of antler. Apparently she won. I still disagree.
This is way cooler than an antler.
#5 "Well, you better come up and see this for yourself." (Ian)
Ian and I managed the most successful pasture-raised chicken season we've ever had. Turkeys...not so much. We suffered a skunk attack one week before processing and lost 2 full-sized turkeys and bruised wings on most of the rest (not inedible, but not attractive enough for sale). Ian discovered the carnage and called me. My question: "Hey, what's up?" Ian: Well, you better come up and see this for yourself."
Alas, that's farming.
Tore right through the chicken wire.
#4 "Don't call 911" (DUI driver)
Christmas Eve at the farm. We are decorating the tree when we hear a knock at the door. A truck had missed the curve by the barn and run into the deep ditch--the airbags were deployed. Being the family we are, we all leapt into action: Mom and Sydney gathered blankets and medical supplies, Dad got the flood lights on, Ian and I were first the to the truck. The driver was already pushing the door open. Fearing spinal injury I slowed her down and started to assess the situation. Her slurred response: "Don't call 911." Both driver and passenger were highly intoxicated--and high. Too bad they weren't as concerned about breaking the law before they started driving as they were after crashing. I'm just grateful they just went into the ditch instead of hitting someone.
#3 "We need to go to the E.R. for this one." (Me)
I slipped on my hardwood floor and slammed my elbow down on the coffee table. However, between my elbow and the table was a drinking glass. Three lacerations around the joint. I'm pretty good at "rubbing some dirt in it" and carrying on, but not for this one. I got nine stitches and a pretty sweet set of scars. I tell my students I fought a bear.
#2 "You made me wait a half hour!" (Guire)
Our wedding ceremony started 30 minutes late. Some say it was the bride taking too long to get ready. Some say the photographer wanted a few extra shots. Some say the groom and groomsmen were playing pool. Others claim that the wedding-manager forgot to come get the men. The true story depends on who who ask.
Fast-forward to the very end of the wedding: as we are about to seal our vows with the kiss, we are interrupted by the next line in the ceremony (we forgot to leave a spot in the script); we hesitate and wait. Without missing a beat, Guire, who married us, quips, "you made me wait half a hour!" Thunderous laughter, a wave of joy, and we kiss. The most perfect moment in my life.
#1 "I will"
The conclusion of our wedding vows. Best words of the year.
And for the record-- The groomsmen were ready on time.
I am writing you to say farewell; you have likely heard of
my departure from Newfield. My greatest regret in my time with you is not being able to say goodbye to each of you in person.
I deeply care for each one of you, the students and the community of
Newfield, and have both enjoyed and valued every moment of my time here. I have
learned many great lessons, experienced the incredible potential of young
people, witnessed the growth of the choirs, and watched my students mature into
beautiful, thoughtful people, and made friends and colleagues whose influence
will never leave me. I have made the most genuine music; I have laughed the hardest, I have cried the most painful tears. Each of you has left a permanent mark on my soul, and I will carry that for the rest of my life.
However, life takes unexpected twists and turns and we are
often left to interpret from the chaos the best path forward. Notice I said
best, not easiest. As the school year wrapped up I was offered a position
teaching in the Tioga Central School district. As many of you know, I grew up
in Tioga Center, I own part of my family farm, and now live 8 minutes from the
schools. In a word, it is my home. When the chance to teach in my home district
was offered to me I was immediately torn; do I stay in Newfield, where I am established
and comfortable, or do I take on this new challenge and bring my music to the
community that raised me…to the community where I first learned to be a
musician.
The decision came down to family. The opportunity to work in
my home district, where my (eventually, someday) children will go to school only
comes once in a lifetime. And so I am writing this farewell to you.
I want you to know that I am also heartbroken. Life is made
up of moments with people, and those moments take on a life of their own. When
the moment ends, as all moments do, we grieve. I am grieving this change, too.
But (*insert soapbox life lesson moment*), sometimes you have to make difficult
decisions that hurt in short term for the best in the long term.
To the concert
choir:
Keep choral singing strong! A choir is only as good as its
singers. I implore you to have faith and trust your new director. They will be
as, if not more, qualified to bring choral music to you. They will be
different—they will bring different approaches, focus on different aspects of
singing—that is okay. What an amazing opportunity to get more than one
teaching style and choral approach! Do not squander that by playing “this isn’t how we used to do it” card. Apply
the skills and knowledge I have imparted to you and deepen them with new
perspective. Make music. Be excellent.
On our last day in choir I brought up the despair,
hopelessness, and rage so often felt by young people in these difficult times
and how it can lead to self-harm or harming others. I made an offer to you, and
that offer still stands, and always will remain open forever. If you ever find
yourself in that place—call, text, tweet (@MrMac128), message, email me. Any time of day or
night.
Juniors who will graduate next year (2017)
If you need or want a letter of recommendation, please do not hesitate to get in touch; it is not awkward. We have worked together for four years, and I would love to write one for you.
To all of the musicians at Newfield: I will always cherish in my memory and in my heart the music
we made together.
All the best, and good luck!
Go team! (Huzzah!)
Mr. Mac
P.S. you have not seen the last of me (*laughs manically*)
P.P.S.- One more soapbox:
Mr. Mac’s 10 Rules for Success
11 -Con Fuoco- with force, intensity, vigor.
Whatever you do, put 100% into it 100% of the time.
22-Listen- actively, to everything within
ear shot. Listen intently when people talk to you, learn from what you hear.
33-Remember- every detail. Don’t forget
anything.
44-Decide
what you are for, and stand up for it even if it makes you unpopular.
55-Adjust as Necessary- Nothing is rock solid in this world. Be
willing to change your view, opinion, belief, mind. The only constant in this
world is change.
66-Discipline- Do what needs to be done,
when it needs to be done, no matter how tired, sick, sad, angry, busy, etc., you
are.
77-Visualize- Imagine in detail how you
want things to go, and work towards that.
88-Make lists- Big lists, little lists. In
order, or not.
99-Read- everything you can get your hands
on. Books, magazines, scraps of paper, pamphlets…
110-Family first- they are you and you are
them.
11- COFFEE.
My immediate family, led valiantly by my mom, spent the year and half before fighting along side him. It was a giant morbid and ragged crescendo starting from frequent visits to daily visits to three visit a day. From cooking meals to feeding three meals a day. Then came trips to the emergency room, the ICU, rehab, meals again, back to the ICU, and then to a specialty care hospital. This, amidst the care of my grandmother (his wife) who suffered a series of falls, miniature strokes, and dementia/Alzheimer's. All while balancing jobs, the rapidly expanding farm, college education, and concerts/recital/musicals. The strength and determination of Mom and Dad never ceases to amaze me. Yet, despite all of our collective effort, Grandpa passed away.
Loss
We spent his last day with him.
That day will always be a dark day for me. As Grandpa’s condition declined in late November he first moved to an ICU, then to a specialty care hospital. We (Mom, Dad, and Ian), all traveled down to visit him that day. It’s a two and a half hour trip to Dansville, PA, and it was made longer by the series of events that unfolded.
Mom’s cell-phone rang: it was the Doctor. I should take second here to note that this is my recollection, in paraphrase, of the conversations that follow. I was not on the phone, but have the recounting from Mom. As you can imagine, the accuracy breaks down over time and telling. But the intent and tone remain.
The doctor demanded that we get to the hospital. Grandpa’s blood pressure had dropped severely and he would not make it through the day. Four hearts sank, then roared into a panic in the car.
“We are already on our way,” said Mom.
Ten minutes later, the phone rings again: the doctor a second time.
“Yes, we a literally in the car driving down. [a pause] What do you mean, ‘what do want us to do?’”
At this point a nurse gets on the phone speaking as if slow, loud, and over-enunciated words will clear us of some stupidity and drive home what we already know: “your father is dying.”
Thank you for the insight.
We raced down to the hospital. We were walking briskly through the parking garage when they call again to tell us Grandpa is dying. “We are in the parking garage!” responded Mom, well beyond exasperated.
We made it to the Grandpa’s hospital room. A flurry of nurses and doctors followed us down the hall... they had been waiting. In my memory I remember a nurse stepping up to the nurse’s station and announcing our arrival with a terse “they’re here.”
We opened the blinds, turned up the lights, and put Grandpa’s glasses on. We hadn’t been there 30 seconds when the doctor, palliative care nurse, the charge nurse, all demanded a meeting with mom. They insisted on taking Mom (and Dad, he won’t leave Mom’s side) into a separate conference room. What followed was a short meeting and then over an hour of various levels of “care” professionals mincing words and implying that we should pull the plug. If looks could kill, my brother would have murdered every non-family member in that room. It felt like the battle of Helm’s Deep; waves of staff members in various combinations marching in and staring at Mom, then moving their sights to Dad, Ian, and me. My personal favorite was the doctor on duty that day: “People are born. And then they die. You’ve had a year to deal with this.” I have great respect for the health care profession, and the people that devote their lives to healing others. These were not those people.
Meanwhile, we all took turns sitting and holding Grandpa's hand, looking into his eyes. He was conscious and pretty alert. He squeezed my hand and even did his famous eye-roll-raised-eyebrow expression of disbelief and annoyance mixed with ridiculousness at the fuss of the ventilator and nurses, etc. I talked to him about school, the upcoming musical, and Carnegie Hall. He listened, but, due to his ventilator, couldn’t respond. Mom brought along a “iHome” and we played some of his favorite music. As the morning went on he slipped further away.
We went to lunch, and when we came back Grandpa was not as alert, and much more groggy. We stayed for awhile longer, fended off the doctors some more, before finally leaving. We all said our goodbyes; I think deep down we all knew that these were goodbyes for good. It was terrible.
By 9 pm Grandpa was gone.
Grief
A week later we held a service, and a few days later, once the dust had settled, the grief set in. Everything had a pall to it, as if the world were covered in the off-yellow stains of dirty teeth. Nothing felt right. I felt constantly cold inside. I felt hungry but unable to eat. Conversations felt forced. I felt short of temper, and easily offended. “So sorry for your loss” became so common I barely registered it. And I felt tired; not the end of a hard day’s work tired, but a bone deep weariness that pulled at my very core.
Suddenly, the things that I found solace and joy in were completely devoid of enjoyment. Barely able to muster the emotional energy that my teaching style requires, I awoke each morning in dread of the upcoming day. Long hours on projects felt like torture. Each passing minute was agony; trying to find something to look forward to was impossible. When I did look forward to something it was not the usual powerful inferno of excitement; instead it was more like a weak pilot-light struggling to stay lit in a drafty basement.
Most difficult to reconcile in my head was how the rest of the world keeps moving. Flying into a rage became easier than ever before, an escalation I feared would get me into trouble and I contained it in my own head (in fact, I had the fewest outbursts during the musical production than ever before; I was afraid my temper would reign). All requests, criticisms, and conversations became points of internal rage; I wanted to shout:
“How can you all go about your lives, and be happy, and demand things of me when I feel as if my whole universe is slowly imploding on me! How dare you! Who cares about trips, Carnegie Hall tickets, or what the weather is like. Can’t you see the impending darkness?! Can’t you feel my desolation?!?!”
Sometimes I felt completely numb.
Logically I knew the world must go on and the people I encountered were unmoved. And why would they be upset? Grief is a personal process, but it was difficult nonetheless. As I look back on the last year I hope that these feelings did not manifest themselves to those around me and push them away, especially those who are special and important to me. Only those with similar experiences of tremendous grief escaped my selfish inner-wrath, and to them I am eternally grateful. I can only hope to be as understanding and supportive to future grievers as they were to me.
Healing
It is a painfully slow process to move out of grief. As of today, I feel better than I have since Grandpa’s diagnosis over a year ago. But it has been a long road. Scratch that. It has been like jumping into a pool and holding on to the bottom until your lungs are screaming for oxygen. Then swimming for the surface but the water has become molasses. It’s thick and heavy and hard to move through. It’s nearly impossible to see through it. Sometimes you are swimming in the wrong direction. Sometimes you just stay there, mired in the darkness. Sometimes you want to struggle out and sometimes you feel like giving up. But eventually you surface and pull in that deep breath of cool air. Sometimes you trip and fall back in and it starts all over.
I’m still in the pool, but I feel as if I may be able to get out, or maybe learn to swim. I know I will always carry this grief with me, but in time it will fade to a manageable level. At least that’s what I tell myself.
Legacy
I did not, and still do not, fully comprehend how interwoven my grandfather is in my fabric of being. It feels as if someone took a handful of knitted sweater and tore it straight out, leaving a hole with hundreds of threads hanging bare. This tattered hole is all too painful to invent, and his absence has made his influence come into focus. It could be argued that I am inventing connections to fill a gap in my life, but I do not believe this to be true.
I now own the house that my grandparents built up from rafters, and spent much of this summer cleaning, painting, and repairing it. Moving into my house, a house that I spent time in as a child, cared for my grandparents as they failed, and am now rearranging and emptying has been both cathartic and overwhelming. I have seen within these walls the happy vibrant lives they lived, but also witnessed the signs of their slow decline into illness. However, I do not regret my decision (or massive debt) for a moment. Sifting through their lives has brought a lot of emotions to the surface, most of which I won’t discuss in this format. But it has brought into focus the complexity of life; there is so much subtly that is too often missed.
Early this past summer I had to rewire a light switch in my kitchen, one that Grandpa put in some 40 years ago when he built this house. It was an old model switch and I had to replace it. I used my intuition to attach each wire to its proper place, closed up the junction box, and turned the circuit breaker back on. The lights did not work properly (three way switches are tricky if not labeled properly and you’ve never actually wired one before). I sighed, thought about it all night, pulled out a book, and tried again. It worked.
This minor victory became suddenly poignant as I realized the many ways Grandpa was with me in this simple repair. The obvious observation is this was his house, his wired switch. But it’s deeper than that: the patience to work through to the solution- wiring it wrong, puzzling out the error, and then going back and trying again, is a trait that I absolutely learned from spending time working with Grandpa.
But even greater than both of those: the courage to try. Where others might have hired an electrician (nothing wrong with hiring professionals, I am not above that), he would have tried to fix it himself first. And there I was with my hands inside a light switch, fearlessly trying to fix my kitchen lights by myself.
It makes me think of all the people whose traits, skills, and knowledge have been imparted to me. My dad, my mom, my brother, family, friends... We are arguably just a painting; each color and each stroke is the influence of another person on the canvas of our soul. We form ourselves out of this pallet of people and experiences, swirling and mixing and rearranging the paint as we travel through our lives. As we do so, we leave our own paint on others’ pallets for their canvases. It is overwhelmingly sad when someone’s portrait is done, the paint dries, and we hang them up in the long hallway of people we have lost. And I am scared of the people I know I will lose someday and have to hang up their portraits as well. But I find solace and hope in this: part of them will always exist, because they are part of my portrait. They are part of me, and in turn a part of the people I encounter. So perhaps, though he has passed from the physical world, Grandpa is still a part of me. And in that way he is not gone. He will never be gone.
At this time each year it is customary of me to reflect upon the year. Though not my favorite holiday, New Year's Eve and Day do hold a series of family and personal traditions that I observe and enjoy. One of these annual rituals is a "post" to the internet that includes the events and lessons of the 364 previous days. I am feeling especially cantankerous this year, and feel that a long winded paragraph on Facebook will not slake my desire to share my year with the world, nor will a dissertation of every moment in our most recent lap around the sun. How, then does one boil a year down? Especially a year as incongruous and hectic as 2013.
Perhaps a bigger question would be "how does one explain history without becoming monotonous and boring?" I fall back upon this moment, a month ago, when I described to wide-eyed group of children the riot that ensued when Igor Stravinsky's "The Rite of Spring" was premiered in Paris: "Mr. MacDonald, history is so much more interesting when it's a story." Of course! The past is more interesting when told as stories- this is how we have kept culture and society thriving for generation after generation. Long before the "rigorous reading" and drill down standards and modules of the Common Core, we learned by listening to and reading stories.
Fortunately, I have a habit of writing down tidbits of what is said to me, or around me, or of what I say (this is rare). In an effort to explain my year I will use quotes and the stories behind them. I will of course maintain anonymity, and only give away enough information to create the proper context for each story.
Without further ado I present to you a conglomeration of moments from 2013, in quotations:
"Today is beard-ageddon."
My school produced "Oklahoma!" (Rodgers/Hammerstein) in March; as part of the process all of the men in the cast and on the production team stopped shaving for three months. The technical director and I agreed to shave our beards during the cast party to signify the closing of the show. A count down (10 days until the end!) appeared on my white board, and was updated daily. As the cast gathered moments before we began the final show, one of the students announced that today was the day we had been preparing for: the end of the beards. Also known as beard-ageddon.
"Do you have any higher aspirations?"
I will attempt to maintain calm as I explain this quote. I was volunteering at a nature center event in October and struck up conversation with the center's then president of the board of directors. Small talk always includes a little tangent about job and career. I described my position as a music teacher and how much I enjoy it. Her response: "Do you have any higher aspirations?" Insert awkward pause. I kindly explained to her that this was my career that I had been working towards since I was in eighth grade. What I didn't say aloud was along the lines of: "I work 14 hours a day 6 days a week to provide quality education to the next generation of people so they can better themselves, get jobs, raise families, and contribute to society. If you can think of a higher aspiration than that, please enlighten me." Self-control can be so uninteresting. Alas.
"...well, we inadvertently turned that into a sail..."
This was my brother. We tried to set up a 10'x20' tent on a windy day. It was a breeze.
"I'm sorry, we're sold out."
Wild Rose Farm took a big step this year. After 15 years of developing, we took our product to a series of farmer's markets around our area. It was a huge success. We sold out of lamb and chicken in the first two markets, and had to add extra batches of chickens. The demand is high, and we are delivering. As the saying goes- an overnight success only takes 15 years. I am very excited for the future of of the farm. Go team!
"You look just like you Dad, it's crazy"
Another facial hair story. Over the summer I decided to grow a mustache. The result: becoming my dad's virtual doppelgänger.
"We're all men here... right?"
Uttered from the mouth of an 11 year old scout. This scout is often silent and observational. But when he pipes up, he speaks words of wisdom and sassy sayings placed, as with this one, in perfect timing of conversational silence. This scout is going places.
"I have to start fasting at midnight, so I have 2.5 hours to eat everything in the house."
Ian strikes again. This was his sentiment on the eve of his wisdom teeth extraction surgery. From my Twitter:
"Said 'piggy wiggy' on the morning announcements. a student brought in a bird in a shoe box. i learned a Taylor Swift song. #middleschool
This all happened before 8:08am. It is the definition of teaching middle school. I love my job.
"Good to know he has a sense of humor."
Do you even know me?! I'm the punniest person you know.
"Do you know where you are supposed to be performing? Are you a student teacher?
I often joke that if I were to shave and put on a "hoody" I could go undercover as a high school student; strangers at a NYSSMA solo festival, and Area All-State festival, respectively, have confirmed this suspicion. These moments are always good for a laugh.
A note left on my white board.
This is the highest aspiration.
All in all, a solid year. Here's to 2014! Happy New Year!
It has been over a year since I graduated from Mansfield, and a year since I was hired as a first year teacher on the tenure track. For confidentiality's sake I will not name the school (this is the era of internet scandal and liability) but will refer to it as Oldforest. It was an eventful year, full of surprise, music, frustration, joy, and wonder. I am going to stay away from education speak and hit some of what I believe are some of the best moments of my first year of teaching.
[Bonus points for defining anacrusis and explaining its significance in the title of this blog.]
Fighting Unemployment
It would be completely remiss of me to ignore the dreaded job search, so I will start with it. I applied at six schools- two in Pennsylvania and four in New York. Of those, I had three rejections, one with no response. I had first round interviews at two upstate NY schools, each within a half hour of my home. I loved one of these schools much more than the other; the interview was enjoyable, with carefully thought-out questions intermixed with the occasional laugh. I was granted final round interviews at both districts, within a week of each other. Fortunately for me, my top pick was scheduled first. I prepared an audition and had a lovely conversation with the Superintendent of Schools, a former music educator. This was the job I wanted. I got a phone call two hours later.
"Hello, this is [the principal of the school]."
I swallowed, hard, and answered in my cheeriest voice.
"Hello!"
"Well," said the principal, "how do you think your interview went this morning?"
Dear God, open ended questions like this just terrify me.
"I think it went well. I enjoyed it."
"There you go. I think you're right."
She then proceeded to offer me the 6-12 Vocal Music Instructor position- the job I had been dreaming about since I was in eighth grade.
Professional Stunt Driver. Do not try at home.
Look Mom, no wheels (on the road)!
My first adventure barely involves Oldforest. I was driving home from work my second week of school. Out, into the road leaped a deer. I avoided the deer and in the process skidded and rolled my car over... one and a half times with enough force to tear my engine block off of its mounts.
Moral of the story: drive a Subaru and wear your seat belt. I walked away and was in school the next day (with a plate of cookies- many thanks to the MS counselor and HS art teacher). 74 people (yes I counted) told me I should have "just hit the deer." I preferred the cookies.
No-Shave January-March
I finally broke down and stopped shaving for three months. Oldforest put on a production of Oklahoma! I was vocal music director and rehearsal accompanist.As part of the fun and spirit of the production I started growing a beard, with the promise that I wouldn't shave until the show was over. Teachers take note: growing a beard provides endless wonder and amusement to students. In the days leading up to the show, a countdown to "beard-ageddon" appeared on my board. I shaved it off as part of the cast party festivities (along with other men in the cast). Next year we're doing Shrek... maybe I'll grow ogre ears and shave them off.
The Week of Doom
The first week of November had the following events. Monday- My classroom flooded. Tuesday- Throw up in my classroom; go home early (the only time I missed all year). Wednesday- First Pre-observation meeting. Thursday- Ear infection (ringing/deafness in the left ear). Friday - First Observation.
New Teacher Syndrome
Call the CDC, there is a disease circulating. New Teacher Syndrome, or NTS, is a highly contagious, dangerous, and uncomfortable ailment that seems to strike when a teacher moves to a new area. This tends to result in colds, the flu, and other random "bugs" that come from the respiratory systems of students. Voice teachers who suffer from NTS will very quickly learn how to sing through a cold safely and to expedite the healing process through water, vitamin C, and sleep... minus the sleep. But really, build up that immune system new teachers!
Statistics
To those of you who have read this far: congratulations! To those of you who are involved in the teaching world: fear not, for this has nothing to do with "data-driven [insert academic words]." I have kept track of random numbers this year--
Number of:
It's raining. Inside.
Colds: 11
Concerts: 3
Oklahoma! performances: 4
Keys on a piano: 88
Musicals performed in: 1
Miles put on my new car: 2,200
Car accidents: 1
Deer hit: 0. (please see above)
Festivals: 3
Birds in a shoe box: 1
Choral pieces learned: 20
Ties I own: 35
Last minute accompaniments for talent shows: 10
Exploded boilers above my room: 1.
Letters in the alphabet: 26
Letters in the musical alphabet: 7, unless you are German.
Although it was tough, my first year at Oldforest was extremely fulfilling. I will say that I could not have made it without my colleagues at school and my family at home. They were a source of knowledge, advice, enthusiasm, and support. Naturally, my wonderful professors in college and student teaching co-ops were instrumental in achieving this goal (I sound like I'm receiving an Oscar...). Most of all I must mention Mr. Kinney, my music teacher, mentor, and, now, colleague. He is the reason I found my passion in life. He inspired me to be a music educator. His words to me in ninth grade say it all:
[Music Education] is a real challenge, but also rewarding in many ways. It is both mentally and physically taxing because you pour your heart into your work everyday. You become extremely comfortable with who you are because you share your inner soul with fellow musicians every day as you teach them to express through music.
It's hay season here on Wild Rose Farm. Naturally this means the sickle bar mower, which cuts the hay, is broken. We attempted to weld it, but to no end; we had to replace the entire bar. Of course, the rock guards are attached to the destroyed bar by way of heavy steel rivets, installed by machinery when the mower was manufactured. In order to assemble the sickle bar mower with its new parts required the following:
1. Remove the rock guards from the broken bar.
2. Attach aforementioned rock guards to the new bar.
Easy, right?
Well, the process is simple, but the effort is extreme.
Removing the rock guards is a two-step process: Grind the rivet down then pound it out of its sleeve.
The tools for this:
A grinder.
Grinder
Hammer and set to create a dimple in the rivet.
Standard hammer and nail set.
And a pneumatic hammer.
Connected to the air compressor.
And, of course, safety gear!
Eyes and ears!
This went surprisingly well- 50 rivets in about 3 hours.
Here are the fireworks:
It's prudent of me to mention that Scamp, my border collie, is quite enthralled with the flying shreds of metal produced by the grinding; she is afraid of the vacuum cleaner.
Once the rock guards were out, I had to rivet them onto the new bar. Again, simple. Just a ball-pine hammer and rivets.
Pound the rivets into the sleeves... by hand... all 50 of them.
Done!
A successful Independence Day. Cutting hay tomorrow!
I spent my Memorial Day weekend hard at work on the farm here in Owego. As I mowed, raked, shoveled dirt (and other...un-mentionable things), planted, mulched, repaired machinery, and generally battered my body, I began thinking: why do I love physical labor so much?
Battered Hand
Those who know me well know that there is little that I love more than hard work; whether it be building and striking sets, tearing down a friend's back porch, or farm-work. In fact, by the end of the school year I crave physical labor. Why?
Visible Progress.
I am deeply involved in a career that offers little immediate satisfaction: you can always practice more and you can always (and should) change and improve your teaching. It is the reality of an academic world, and I would have it no other way; I would be completely bored if it was. However, in the work I do over the summer, there is an end. When I fix the tractor it's fixed (until it breaks again)! Done.
My lawn: done.
The finality of physical work is a restful contrast from the always improving world of music and education. It's refreshing and leaves me ready to take on the world of music and education and keep practicing and improving. My grandmother says it best: "A change is as good as a rest."
Farming is a change from constant brainwork, a change from sitting all day (desk, piano bench), a change from being inside, and a change from limitless development.
So, yes I own a piano and a chainsaw. And I love to sing opera and bale hay. (Sometimes at the same time).
It's important to find something that recharges you. You can cut down a tree with a dull saw and burn yourself out in the process, or you can stop, "sharpen the saw" and cut down the tree swiftly and efficiently.
Do a craft, take a facebook break, or mow the lawn and enjoy the recharging benefits of doing something with visible progress. Happy saw-sharpening!
