October 28, 2010
The novelty of the new term has now completely disappeared.
Students who lamented how much they missed university while working at their minimum wage jobs, or jobs that paid more than minimum wage because if they didn't no one in their right mind would even contemplate doing them . . .
Ie: tree planting.
. . . who missed their stimulating classes, pined for the camaraderie of far flung friends, missed the fraternization with sports teams or clubs, students reminiscing about games won or joyous moments coming together with like-minded people. . . .
. . . .just wanting nothing more than to return to the hallowed halls of higher learning.
Most likely, they are just bloody sick and tired of being back under the same roof with their parents, chafing at obeying the "house rules" when they have just finished living for eight months "on their own" making their own rules, living within their own guidelines and essentially doing whatever the hell they wanted.
By July, Keith had started to comment about how he was missing school.
Em, on the other hand, had just finished school and when Keith said this, she looked at him like he'd grown another head.
But now, he's starting to feel the weight of the work expected in second year.
Weight that leads to panic that leads to him looking like a deer in headlights trying to figure out how the hell he got to this place and more importantly how can he leave it.
My own students are currently sporting the same alarmed and confused look on their kissers.
In most of my classes assignments are due this week.
The upper level classes are comprised of students who have had the pleasure of my company in previous classes, so they are accustomed to my expectations.
But my first year students, who have probably heard maliciously fabricated rumours regarding my standards can't look at me without a montage of emotions crossing their faces.
Most of them are contemplating, I suspect, whether they should throw themselves at my feet, or run as fast as they can, as far as they can, and never darken my door again.
One student was so anxious to see me this afternoon, he walked into my office when I was meeting with another student.
I asked him to wait, so he proceeded to sit in the only other empty chair in my office.
I then said, no, that chair, pointing to the one in the hallway.
Obligingly, he walked into the hall, picked up the chair and started to carry it into my office.
I was stunned.
Finally, I broke what I wanted down to its most basic form.
"You sit in the chair while it stays in the hallway until I'm finished here."
"Then I will call for you."
"Then you come in."
The fourth year student in my office found the entire thing entertaining.
Although I wish she could have seen the look on her face when he initially burst into my office, paper in hand, breathless, saying, "I NEED you to look at this. . ."
First year students are delightful.
Entertaining.
And terrified of writing a paper for me because I told them I like to read books about punctuation for fun.
Unlike many of my students, who thrive on being away from the nest, I lived at home while attending university.
The first time.
When I returned to university, I had roommates, but they never paid rent, helped with the utilities, or cooked their own meals.
Some of them still live with me today.
So, I don't quite consider it the same thing.
In retrospect, living on my own may have significantly changed my life's trajectory.
But I lived at home because I was a VERY young 18 year old when I first walked through the doors of St. Thomas University.
Very young, very naive.
There were people in my classes who were living on their own, or, even more astounding, with boyfriends or roommates, who drove their own cars, worked part time and managed to go to university.
I could barely manage to get to Oromocto and on the bus, which at that time cost a whopping $2.00, and brought you all the way from Oromocto to Fredericton.
But I didn't live in Oromocto.
I lived in Geary.
And I didn't have a driver's licence.
In 1985, getting from Geary to Fredericton was a journey as complex and perilious as Frodo's trek to rid himself of the ring.
Every morning my mother would haul herself out of bed, get herself suitably dressed in case she happened to get stopped by the police, or get into an accident, and drive me into Oromocto so I could catch the bus into Fredericton.
Unless I was working in Oromocto that evening, the same routine would occur, just in reverse.
Meaning if my mother was working, I waited for my brother, or worse, my father, who was perpetually angry with me from the time I was 16 until I left home at 20 because I wouldn't get a driver's licence, but I wanted to drive.
I even half-owned a car, with my brother.
But more about that later.
I would then go to my friend's house and we would walk to the bus stop together.
The bus would eventually arrive, and we'd hop on.
This leg of the journey meant traversing through the back roads of southern New Brunswick, picking up everyone and anyone who wanted an inexpensive ride to Fredericton.
Meaning it took a while.
The bus was old, creaky, smelly, and always-too-hot.
My friends and I would sit along the bench seat at the back.
The heat, coupled with the gentle swaying back and forth of the bus would inevitably put us to sleep.
Only the jolt of the brakes and the blast of cool air pushing through the stagnant heat was enough to wake us from our restful slumber.
We were then faced with the realization that we had arrived at our destination, and were facing the next phase of our perilious journey.
St. Thomas University is at the top of a VERY steep hill.
In fact, much of Fredericton is on a very steep hill.
Just ask anyone who has ever walked from downtown Fredericton (such as it is) to uptown Fredericton.
Our $2.00 bus dropped us off at the very bottom of the hill.
We would gather our things together, look at one another, sigh, and then begin the very long walk up the very steep hill.
The last leg of the journey.
And on many occasions I thought I'd have no legs left at the end of it.
I swore at every.single.car with their easily.breathing drivers who drove past us.
And by the time we managed to get to the top of the hill, we were sweaty, cranky and usually late for class.
I don't know many 8.30 French classes with John Rahn I sat through sweating like a hockey player just coming off the ice.
The entire journey, from start to finish took 90 minutes.
More time than I spent in most of my classes.
Those were the days.
Now I have a car.
I no longer have to spend 90 minutes taking a patchwork journey to get myself to where I need to be.
But there are some striking similarities between the journey of then and the journey of now.
Instead of trying to get my mother up, I fight to get Em up.
Instead of waiting for my friend to get ready so we could catch the bus, I wait in the car, contemplating how many times I could honk the horn before anyone would get themselves out of the house.
Rather than fall asleep on the too-hot bus, I become enslaved to Stephen's body temperature, which wreaks havoc with his hot and cold, leaving him mostly hot. . .
. . . . and me mostly cold.
Morning drives with my brood are anything but boring.
In fact, sometimes they are more entertaining than I would either want or need.
One January, the first day of the new winter term, I managed to wrangle everyone into the car.
No one wanted to be there, because it meant accepting that Christmas vacation was over and it was time to go back to the real world.
No one was happy.
In the back seat, Em and Keith are wrapped in their new winter wear, sour faced and cranky.
Stephen was in the passenger seat, fiddling around with the heater, complaining about "how hot and stifling" it was in the car.
All while half asleep
We drop the kids at FHS, pull out of the parking lot, and having the green light, glide through the intersection.
Tickety boo.
And then, on Prospect Street, just past through the lights in front of Tim Horton's, in the left lane, meant for those drivers who wish to make the left hand turn, eventually, onto Regent Street.
Perhaps the. busiest. intersection on the South side.
At 8.15 on the first day of the new winter term.
Our car just stops.
Stephen, in his stupor, asks, "What's wrong?"
Me: "The car stopped."
SJP: "How come?"
Me: "How the hell would I know???????"
No car, no heat, windows open, a line of cars behind us, drivers wondering how come nothing is moving, and whose fault it is, and how can things start moving again.
Meaning, they were getting pissed off.
And my half asleep husband is asking stupid questions.
I put those lights on that flash at people, and the line of disgruntled drivers starts moving around us like water around a rock just tossed into a shallow stream.
Me, I was looking straight ahead, because if I made eye contact with any one of those pissed off pilgrim of the morning commute, I may have done something I would not have regretted later.
Meanwhile, Stephen is sitting beside me, barking orders.
Try this, try that, do this, do that.
With each demand he was getting more and more agitated.
As was I.
Now, the logical person would have inquired about how come we didn't simply get out of the car, walk to the Irving gas station, literally a stone's throw away from us, and call a tow truck?
What a logical question.
And we were having that conversation.
It shouldn't have been an issue really, because I know nothing about cars.
Nor do I know about what is necessary to deal with a car related debacle.
I thought Stephen should go.
But he wouldn't.
Unusual for my usually easy-going, sort of mellow, almost always willing to do what is asked of him husband.
So, the real question is, how come Stephen didn't want to walk to the gas station and call the tow truck?
Because.
He was wearing his pajamas.
No socks.
"Special boy" hat.
And he didn't want to be seen in public.
Translation: he wasn't willing to become the morning's merrymaker, dressed like a pj'd jester in the middle of the Prospect Street's court of cranky commuters.
Rather than take a couple of extra minutes to throw on a pair of socks and pants, my husband, who could only think of getting back into the warm, embracing nest of his bed to go back to sleep, just shoves his feet into his boots and staggers to the car like a student coming home from a night at Nicky Zees.
He had more important things, then, on his mind than such insignificant things as socks and pants.
And underwear.
Stephen slides over the thingy in the car that makes it go, and reverse, because he still won't get his freshly frozen pappies out of the car, and I go the Irving, call the tow truck and then call our departmental assistant.
Because not only was it the first day back after Christmas vacation, I had a 9.00 am class.
Of course I did.
I get back to the car to see an RCMP officer directing traffic around our temporarily annihilated automobile.
Stephen, who was content to anger me, wasn't willing to piss off the police, had NO choice but to get out of the car, knowing his flimsy excuses and flimsier accoutrements were not going to sway the dutiful officer who just wanted to clear up traffic and get his timmies.
By some miracle, we manage to get the car moved to the Zeller's parking lot with only one instance of harshly spoken words, on Stephen's part, about the quality of my backing up skills, where Stephen and I, who by this time were not sharing terms of endearment with each other, stood in the very cold morning air waiting for the tow truck.
You should have seen the look on the truck driver's face when he sees Stephen is in his pjs.
It was outdone only by the look on Stephen's face when he realized he was going to have to walk into the dealer's service office wearing his pajamas.
And stay there, all morning, no socks, no pants, no underwear, and only his cottom pj bottoms to keep him company.
Now, he makes certain he's dressed, at least dressed enough before he leaves the house.
Cause there is no way he's going to bare his bottom to entertain the morning cranky commuters.
Again.
Title Lyric: Pajamas by Livingston Taylor
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