First Blood

Blue Bonny has drawn first blood--well, first bruise. I whacked my hand on the center console, so it's no one's fault but my own. Still, there I sat in the driver's seat, a wash of pain rendering me faint and sick. Fortunately, I was parked in my own driveway, doing what all new car owners do: playing with my new toy. So no other drivers were endangered.

We did take a short drive so that I could align the mirrors properly. I don't often drive with esteemed hubbie as my passenger, and today reaffirmed that wise decision. The older he gets, the more ADD he gets. He fiddled with the radio. He adjusted the ventilation. He even reached over to the steering wheel to show me where I could push buttons to change radio stations and turn on air conditioning. Between his fidgeting and the numerous bicyclists, I can't say I enjoyed the drive very much.

I do worry about his ADD tendencies. He hears what he wants to hear, pays attention to what he wants to pay attention to, works himself half to death, gets by on about five hours' sleep a night, and never stops moving, not even in bed. He can focus so intently that he's a real terror at any sort of game-playing. Yet he can tell me something one minute and five minutes later tell me the same thing again, not recalling that he's already told me. That's an occupational hazard of teachers, though. If you teach more than one section of a class, then you say the same things at least twice. I used to teach a business communication class back in Georgia. I had three sections that met daily. We were on the quarter system. For three years, I taught those three sections three times a year. By the time we moved to Missouri, I had memorized my textbook. I had also realized that if I didn't somehow mark my place via notes and color codings, it was possible that I could give the same test to all three classes, with my not having taught the same things to all three. That's one of the reasons I don't like teaching classes that are tied to a textbook, even though that's what I'll be doing next semester. However, I don't have to give tests, and as long as I can avoid it, I will avoid testing.

The strong sense of disorganization that I've felt this semester with these two online classes may be--I emphasize MAY--minimized if we have a textbook as a crutch. Crutch isn't exactly what I mean. More like a spinal column. I've chosen one I know pretty well, so there won't be a lot of new-text angst.

Certainly, there are some things I'm going to make very clear early on, insist upon, in fact. For instance, students must be able to access the course through the college's version of WebCT. I cannot keep bouncing back and forth from my personal email, my personal web page, my school email, my WebCT courses, and the occasional phone call in an effort to keep students up-to-date. I wish I could insist on technologically smart students, but that would be unfair, since I'm about as much a Luddite as I can afford to be. Still, I have one student who has sent me her proposal for Assignment 4 repeatedly. She has sent me work that is meant for another class. She has yet to send me the Assignment 4 project. Her first journal came out of the blue, not at all related to the assigned topic. It was sad and tragic, so for her sake, I was glad I read it. Her sister died from medical malpractice. In searching for cancer the woman did not have, the doctor nicked an artery. I can't imagine how dreadful it must be to have to deal with such a loss.

I've been trying to get the students to engage in chat in our chat room, but I haven't had a lot of success. That's something else I plan to do for next semester--have a scheduled plan of times when they'll have to chat with me. Heck, if I can force esteemed hubby to chat with me, surely I can force my students to do it! (Maybe they'll remember the conversation better than hubby.)

Finally I've made a decision to apply for the open position at my previous school. My instinct says it's wasted effort, but one does what one must. Blah blah blah. Really, I'm driven to panic attacks at the idea of going through all this again. It's amazing how really well educated people, people with whom you have socialized and joked and shared food, these same people can turn right around and in essence say you aren't good enough to be one of them. Okay, that's the message I GET, not necessarily the real one they SEND. It's just hard to comprehend. I readily admit I don't understand what happens to people's brains when they have to make hiring decisions, but I still suspect that the decisions come more from gut than brain.

Another decision--to whom do we give Bessy? If Younger Son would return our call, we could make the decision. I think Older Son would like to have her, and he'd take better care of her than Younger Son--at least, he has more disposable income to keep her repaired and gassed up. I wish I had a three-car garage. I'd keep her myself. But she's such a large memento.... Dr.S.