Halloween . . . Birthdays . . . and Dissimulation

Here is a snippet from an impromptu conversation that unfolded in my classroom this week:

A student:  Ms. Cahoon, are you going to take anybody trick or treating this year?

Me:  No, I don’t think so.

Another student:  Don’t you miss going trick or treating?

And another student:  How long has it been since you’ve been trick or treating?

Me:  Well, believe it or not, the last time I actually went trick or treating myself was when I was twenty-one.

Yet another student:  Oh, then that was just last year, right!

Me:  Uh . . . yeah!

And one more student:  But I thought you were just eighteen now!

Me:  Oh man, you guys are good!

Obviously, there are backstories here, at least two anyway—a birthday one and a Halloween one.  Although the Halloween one really transpired first in the chain of events of my personal history, I shall commence with the birthday one. 

When I began teaching overseas, I switched out third graders for seventh and eighth graders and then launched a largely new generation of lesson plans and classroom procedures more fitting for a middle school English Language Arts experience.  So now at the beginning of a school year, usually the first day, I have students fill out a 3x5 index card with tidbits of information as I model on the board my own card full information.  For their birthdays (half-birthdays for those born during the summer break), I give my students a “birthday kit,” which includes a card (a personal note from me), cake (Hostess cupcake usually), a candle, and ribbon around a “gift” (a pen and a pencil to capture ALL the words).  This “birthday kit” is so much easier to assemble when I have index cards for each student arranged in “birthday order” and containing information about likes, dislikes, skills, and hopes and dreams.  That “card” that I develop on the board in front of my students as they complete theirs contains all manner of details about me (some of which might surprise you) and all of it true . . . except my birthday.  On my “card” I record my birthday as February 32, 1910.  Actually, I bumped the year twenty years forward when I left Germany—there it was 1890—because figuring out my age quickly became trickier, for some reason, with the advent of the twenty-first century!

No matter how old, students are intrigued with the age of their teachers.  Maybe, though, that is just an interest of humans in general.  Anyway, I love waiting for that little instant between when I write February 32, 1910 on the board and hear a student—and sometimes it’s only one or two—say, “Hey, February doesn’t have 32 days . . . no month does!”  And then the moan of curiosity thwarted, “1910 . . . that’s not your real birthday!”  Of course, with 6^th graders especially, there are always some who are really not quite sure if the “1910” is a joke or not.  Age discussions rarely ensue on the first day, though; emotional intensity and information overload prevail.  But they most certainly do surface again, especially when I share a personal story or on someone else’s birthday.  After that first day of school, the first time a student asks me my birthday, I reply that I told everybody on the first day of school and then repeat “February 32, 1910.”  Following a moment of shocked silence (somehow they rarely remember the first day presentation), some smarty—usually a guy, may I add—says something like, “I thought you were only 25!”  And I say, “I believe you have an A in this class!”  And then, baby, it’s game on!

And next, the Halloween story—a story that involves my brother Ken!

I started teaching school in the fall I was twenty-one.  That first year of teaching I often drove the two-and-a-half-hour journey home on weekends.  If I left as soon as school ended, I could be home for supper—one that Mom prepared!  Apparently, Halloween was on a Friday that year.  Ken, who would have been fifteen, and a couple of his friends had plans to partake in the trick or treat tradition at least once more before surrendering another piece of childhood.  Before heading out, Ken and friends convinced me to accompany them.  Although I felt some trepidation—no doubt because of my advanced age and dignified maturity—I suspect it was a fairly easy sell.  I donned some sort of costume, of which I have no real memory, but I definitely recall having a strong desire for a disguise and noting that being way shorter than the guys would probably work in my behalf!  Indeed, a lady at one of the houses we canvassed for treats did lecture the guys on perhaps being a bit old for trick or treating, but she never even made eye contact with me.  So, in the end, I had the magical experience of trespassing—returning to partake one more time in a rite of childhood and sharing that experience with my brother.  I still treasure the memory.

Home Tour

Until such a time you truly visit me in the flesh, forthwith is the best tour I can offer of my current home:

Now you have finally arrived at the entrance to my actual abode, so let's enter.

 Looking into the apartment from the hallway.

From inside the apartment looking back toward the door leading out of the apartment.

On one side of the entry is a guest room (I've begun laying out stuff on the bed in preparation for a Thanksgiving trip to Borneo) and on the other is a bathroom.

Next comes the kitchen/dining area:

That's the laundry area out there to the left.

Then there's this "middle" area between the kitchen/dining area and the living room.  On one wall are storage closets and then I have a step tanzu on the other wall.

And my living room is definitely spacious.

 (My reading papa-san chair--comfy and good light for old eyes!)

Pretty pitiful--so I've been informed more than once.  Supposedly this wall needs a more authentic BIG screen kind of TV.  But apparently, I have a serious proclivity to spend available moneys on traveling rather than TVs.  (In addition to both cable and Internet connections, this wall has abundant outlets--both 110 and 220 volts--so lots of things hitch up easily here!)

My bedroom lies behind this wall, its doorway adjacent to that basket at the left-hand side of the above photo.  To the right--using the above photo also as a reference--is a door to an enclosed balcony (most are enclosed in Seoul) that edges my bedroom.

 The first door, just past my bed, leads to an office (of which there are no photos at this time because it continues as my "denial room" and total sacrilege) and the next one (dark) is the master bathroom.  The closed doors at the left lead to a walk-in closet.

A built-in vanity and a partial view of the interior of the walk-in closet.

Here is the master bathroom:

I have one more bedroom located behind the kitchen, but I use it more as a library/den.

All the bedrooms have awesome closets, and this photo shows the room with closet doors open.

And this concludes the pictorial tour.  Notes and disclaimers follow below:

• I shall openly confess to a sublime partiality for the color blue. 
• Quite an assembly of framed pieces do not yet adorn the walls of this dwelling because I have yet to undersand how to secure them onto most of those vertical planes; past practices have largely failed me so far.
• A cleaning lady (every two weeks) somehow is included in the rent for this establishment, and I feel immense gratitude for her labors in keeping my glass-enclosed showers so clean and shiny.
• And yes, that is a water cooler (it has a spigot to dispense very hot water, too) you may have sighted in a few photos.  Technically tap water is "safe," but it is also rife with chemicals to make it "safe."  Delivery of bottled water for drinking is included with the rent. Happily, I have mastered the techniques necessary for hoisting those huge--and, may I add, HEAVY--replacement bottles onto the dispenser.

Addendum Regarding Cadences from "A Walking Commute"

This last week I heard two more lines for the Airborne Ranger cadence.  One morning I collected the second line of the cadence and then, a couple of days later, a third line . . . perchance, though, one carrying a PG or PG-13 rating.  Interestingly, neither of these groups used the phrase "your Airborne Ranger," but "an Airborne Ranger" instead:

I wanna be an Airborne Ranger,
Living a life of guts and danger,
Sex and danger,
. . .

Looking toward the permanent tents on Camp Coiner.

A Walking Commute

On most non-running mornings I don't drive to school; I walk.  Of course, there are exceptions:  (1) It's raining--as in rain serious enough to render me more than merely damp after nearly a two-mile walk even with an umbrella.  (2) A movie or other activity will keep me on post until after dark.  Granted, I have walked the two miles home alone in the dark before without incident or even a feeling of nervousness.  However, I don't generally arrange my plans to do so.  (3) There is too much to carry in a backpack.  Occasionally I must haul items between home and school or between school and home that are unwieldy and/or just too dang heavy.  Also, should a commissary run become necessary on a non-running day, the drive option usually wins.  Food generally seems to convene in unwieldy, weighty assemblages!  Still, this fall I have managed a relatively fair balance between walking commutes and driving commutes, and so far the driving ones have largely included a morning run. 

Now, dear reader, should any of the following post verbage seem lacking in background information, please refer to my previous post (September 17), for I shan't review again here all the details of Yongsan Garrison's current gate closures and traffic routes in place for morning PT.  Suffice it to say that, depending how morning ablutions and breakfast unfold, I usually show up at my nearest gate onto Yongsan a few minutes after it closes to vehicular traffic at 6:00 a.m.  Since I am on foot, I just follow the sidewalk entrance, produce my ID for inspection by the attending ROK soldier (a couple are quite cute and another one--a career military man, no doubt--has such a distinguished aura), and continue my morning trek.  Although some colleagues and friends want to commiserate with me because my commute on post commences with an entrance on Camp Coiner and then entails traversing this "camp," a section of the garrison devoted fully to military operations, I find it fascinating.  Camp Coiner holds a lot of the barracks and training areas, including these tents fitted with both AC and heat--definitely in use during exercises, but I remain uncertain whether they are in constant use.  Before I even make my morning entrance, I can already hear squadrons inside the walls counting and calling out drill instructions as they navigate through the design of that day's physical training.

While my walk to school ensues, I eavesdrop on conversations as soldiers run past, sometimes in formation, sometimes in small groups.  They talk business, family, last night, romance drama . . . kind of like us all, I guess.  Complaints I haven't ever heard.  They might call out to a soldier they know who mans one of the barricades blocking off the road reserved for PT,  shout encouragement to a lagging comrade, and occasionally ride someone not measuring up to expectation.  My favorte part, though, is when squadrons/groups call out cadences as they run.  I can hear their chanting way behind me or way in front of me and, by the volume, chart their progress in my mind as they run what is really quite a hilly course.  Multi-purposed, the cadences serve to pace, energize, and unify a group; they also entertain...at least, they entertain me!

Definitely there seems to be a designated cadence caller, someone who always seems to have a pleasing resonance to his voice, too!  (Yes, I used the masculine pronoun there because I've only heard a female cadence caller once; she was good, though!)  For most cadences, the caller says the line first and then the rest of the group repeats all or part of it.  I heard one a week or so ago where the word "machete" caught my ear, followed by this:

left, right, left, right,
left, right, KILL!
left, right, left, right,
you know I will!

YIKES!  Those words certainly brought to mind aspects of military reality I don't often focus on.

Then there was the caller who started with this line:

I wanna be your airborne ranger . . .

His group repeated the line and then everyone just cracked up.  End of cadence. They moved onto another one.

This week I heard my favorite cadence yet.  The caller virtually "sang" it all, the other troops keeping rhythm with "hey-hey" chorused at the end of lines:


Chorus

Hey lottie lottie      (hey-hey)
Hey lottie lottie-o   (hey-hey)
Hey lottie lottie      (hey-hey)
Let's have a party.


Verse

I used to drive a Cadillac
Hey lottie lottie
I used to drive a Cadillac
Hey lottie lottie-o
I used to drive a Cadillac
Hey lottie lottie
I will again when I get back.


Verse

I used to date a beauty queen
Hey lottie lottie
I used to date a beauty queen
Hey lottie lottie-o
I used to date a beauty queen
Hey lottie lottie
Now I just date my M-16.

That's all I heard; they had moved out of range.

In the afternoon when I'm walking home from school, the jaunt is much more mundane; the world has resumed its conformity to assumptions of the way life looks when living in a city.  Don't get me wrong.  The walk is still good, yet it fully fits within a standard zone of expectation.