Edubabble and other Blither

The mammoth cop sat in the school office in the chairs along the wall, twirling his hat absent-mindedly as if his mind were on other more important matters-- a call home, detention, or suspension. He waited to see the principal, to see what fate held for him in the next few years, the last years of his career.

When I saw him sitting there, I assumed one of the kids had run into a little trouble. When I later saw him shadowing our school resource officer, Officer McGary, I thought that maybe City Council wasn't sure about our cops-in-school partnership, in place for the past six years. Maybe this fat guy was with McGary to see just what he did all day with these kids when he could be out on the beat, chasing loiterers from Sheetz, warning dog owners about shit, and checking the restrooms at the city park for pot-smokers and vandals. I was wrong on both counts. Officer McGary was leaving us become chief of a nearby township, and Officer Obese was going to be his replacement.

I didn't know this when my principal, Stan Hetrick, called me to his office last Wednesday morning. "Chrissy," he said. "I want you to do me a favor. When you see McGary and his little buddy around school, tell McGary you want him to teach a class in January."

"OK, " I offered, unsure. "Any reason why?"

"I can't go into that now," he replied. I was skeptical, but planned to do as I was asked.

Later that day he filled me in. McGary was going to be the chief in Sipes Township, and city council wanted to replace him with Officer O. "He's their highest-salaried guy, Chrissy, and they want me to pay for half of that. Of course they do. I don't want their dead weight, though. I don't think he'd be happy here."

I had to agree. The kids would eat him alive. He put one to mind of the stingy administrator of the workhouse in Oliver, the indignant guy who became apoplectic when Oliver Twist had the audacity to ask for more, please. I envisioned a plethora of doughnut jokes in his future. I could picture slippery sixth graders simply scampering away from him, snickering.

The next morning, Thursday, I saw the officers in the lobby by the cafeteria. I approached them with my best Miss Magillicuddy/Eliza Jane Wilder demeanor-- straight, proper walk, big smile, precise enunciation. They both looked afraid. "Officer McGary!" I called. "Just the man I wanted to see." I didn't give either of them a chance to respond. "I have a marvelous idea. I'd like you to come to my class this January, when we really begin to prepare for state testing. You see, the students will be reading various articles about adolescent issues, and many of them involve legalities. I'd love for you to lead the discussion. They'd love it, too, I'm sure. I look forward to putting our heads together soon! Bye, now." I trotted upstairs to my classroom, leaving both men rather dumbstruck.

As I checked my mailbox Friday morning, Stan was waiting, a big smile on his face. "We have a new contestant, Chrissy!" I guess the local chief called Stan and informed him, a little apologetically, that whoever the new guy was, he just wouldn't be able to jump right in and teach right away. "These guys just aren't ready for English class," Stan was told. Stan understood, oh, yes, he did. Perfectly.

This was a good weekend. For most of it. Friday night was the middle school Christmas party, and we ate there. Saturday we went to my brother-in-law's house and ate there. Today Tripper and I went to another friend's house, where he hooked up some cable. She, too, fed us.

When I got home, I called my mother, who fed me her favorite meal of guilt, pity-side-up. She had called me for my birthday, but I was at the party, singing "Like a Virgin" and almost losing my keys and didn't get home until late. We chatted for awhile, and I asked the question.

"Have you and George decided when we can have Christmas?"

Saturday the 23rd was decided on. We made some more small talk about decorating. I told her I wasn't really into it this year, so I wasn't doing any. I vacillate yearly. She told me she wasn't sure if my stepsiblings would be there or when. I said we'd have fun no matter who was there or who wasn't.

As the conversation wound down, this is what I got:

"Aw, George will be so disappointed. We just get whatever's left when it comes to the holidays. I know we're not religious, but it's still the holiday, and it's sad that we won't have our family with us on Christmas Eve or Day."

"OK, well, see ya," I said and hung up.

Is she kidding me? The reason the 23rd was chosen was because of George's work schedule. (He works shifts. It seems to me that for him the holiday would be when he DOESN'T HAVE TO WORK.) For years she wanted Christmas Eve, and she got it. ("Go wherever on Christmas Day, just give us our Christmas Eve celebration.") When George's schedule changed, she suddenly wanted Christmas Day, and she got it.

Here's the deal-- blended families cannot simply get everyone together all the time. If my stepsiblings will be with their grandparents, so be it. I have to see my father, Tripper's mother, Tripper's father, and my mother in three separate cities within a hundred mile radius. Tripper's family gatherings depend on when his brother and family can get there from clear across the state. It doesn't fucking work! I'm melting! Oh, what a world, what a world....

So we're making a point. He's coming with me to Rust Belt Town, but then he's leaving and will spend Christmas Day with his mother, and I with mine. I will come back to Dogpatch at a later date, and then we'll do rounds two and three.

Deck the halls? Deck the fucking families.

The first time I saw The Godfather I think I was in high school. I read the book my freshman year in college. Like most Godfather devotees, I dismissed Godfather III as “just not the same, man!” I agreed with those who denounced Sofia Coppola’s acting but hailed her later directorial pursuits. I compared the Corleone family’s roots to my own and discovered there wasn’t much of a comparison.

My hometown, however, now there’s a good old-fashioned mafia town… in my mind. When I was a young girl, I wanted little else but to be ethnic in some way. I wanted shiny, big blue-black hair. I wanted a confirmation dress. I wanted tons of cousins who’d breaka you face to keep my honor from being besmirched. Is Rust Belt Town full of the mafia? Could be. With its bigger cousin, just across the state border, getting mentioned in The Sopranos, you never know. Black Hand Society? Documented in the Legends of Rust, Volume 1.

Moving to Dogpatch didn’t remove me from the reaches of this Cosa Nostra. Once while visiting Rust Belt and, like always, hanging out in the bar of the family restaurant waiting for my mother and stepfather to get a minute free from work to talk, I struck up a conversation with an older gentleman. “Where ya from?” he rasped, then coughed. I told him. He laughed and shook his head knowingly. “You know Treasure Woods?” he winked, referring to Dogpatch’s gated “resort” community, having something for the whole family. “ We built that, hon, and I think you know who I mean by we.”

I’m currently obsessed with HBO’s The Wire. Tripper and I like most of HBO’s series. (Unlike me, Tripper was not obsessed with Sex and the City.) The Wire is about real people in Baltimore—cops, gangs, teachers, working class, and kids. We also watch The Sopranos and Deadwood, and I love, love, love Big Love. (Note to all of you out there: don’t call us on Sunday night unless it’s an emergency.) I’m starting to believe that someone at HBO, like me, wanted a romantic tie to organized crime. Deadwood? Organized crime in the Old West. The Sopranos? Self-explanatory. Big Love? Mormon organized crime tossed with kinky family unit in suburbia.

I’ve decided that the whole world is like the Mafia. At our middle school, my principal is Tony Soprano, head of the Family. His boss, our superintendent, is head of all the Families (Johnny Sack?) What does that make me? Tripper has suggested that I’m Pauly or the one played by Little Stevie Van Zant (spelling, PG?) of the E Street Band. My crew? The 8th grade English Department. Ah, a little power…. A very, very little. Sigh.

My principal and I were speaking the other day of a colleague, a real pain in the ass, and an incompetent one at that. “You want me to step in?” he asked. “Nah,” I said. “Jones is manageable. I’ll take care of it.” He may just get whacked.