10 for teaching

After 50+ years in this game of life, you would think I would know myself.

I have always been of the opinion that I was a teacher who should specialize in the most senior of high school subjects. The students would then be old enough to appreciate my serious dedication to the subject and my playful (but subject specific) wit. Younger students would be repulsed by such things, seeing them as boring. To add evidence to this, I remember teaching a grade 10 science class and the only feedback I ever heard from them was that I needed to play more Bill Nye videos.

So, this conclusion has been firmly cemented in my mind for many years now. Students must be in Grade 11 and 12, and preferably, they must be serious academic students who are striving for maximum knowledge and transferable skills to university and science-based careers.

But today, my entire worldview was shattered. A colleague to mine needed to go to an appointment during the school day, and he needed someone to cover for him. I volunteered, despite my trepidation to enter into a new cohort and increase my chances of getting Covid and despite the fact that he taught a bunch of Grade 10 students. It was a noble sacrifice, but there was no way I was going to enjoy it. I would don my mask, keep my distance, and count the minutes as they slowly ticked by, like the tolling of the bells … which tolled for me.

Yet, when I entered the room, I noticed that they were doing higher level physics work. A good sign. And, it turned out that they were really struggling with that content, and really needed someone to help them understand it. Someone … like me.

Sure enough, when the other teacher passed the baton and bolted out of the classroom, I was almost instantly inundated by questions. The line grew longer and longer, and I knew that I had to step in and deal with this situation with them as a class. So, I sat them down and went through a question in great detail. And as I did, the students punctuated my lesson with ooohs and aaahs of discovery, and I knew I was breaking through. When I finished, the students announced that they finally got it and proceeded to dig deep into the homework and find success, and all the while, I had students who were begging me to be their teacher.

Very gratifying, I must admit. Maybe this Grade 10 gig wasn’t so bad.

And as I watched these students, I was overwhelmed by the amount of energy and passion and excitement that they had. They were not the quiet, jaded, and weary students that I often experienced in the senior grades, the ones who looked like they would rather be anywhere else but in my class. These kids still loved learning, or at least a good number of them did, and they seemed so happy to be there, to be together, and their joy simply radiated from them.

And I was basking in it, and I got swept up. So much so that I felt the need to add additional instruction, urging these kids on to even higher levels of proficiency. I don’t know what came over me. I even gave a speech at the end, thanking them for making this such an enjoyable experience, and telling them that I hoped I would have them in my class in the near future.

Jean Val Jean, I can hear you now. Who am I? I am uttering the same question as I write. Where is the proto-professor who demands strict attention and full respect from all students? From whence came this young upstart neophyte who frolics with the young colts, giddy and carefree?

I sure hope I am not asked to chaperone an elementary class. If I discover that I am at ease with the snotty nosed ankle biters, then I will walk straight to a psychologist and get my head examined. It will be nothing short of a sign of the apocalypse.

Hey G

I am a big fan of Spotify. I love the huge selection of music, the fact that I can listen to complete albums from my favourite artists, and the AI it uses to create new playlists for me. It was a no brainer for me to choose the premium (paid) subscription, because I cannot stand having commercials disrupting my flow.

But it turns out that there is another reason I appreciate Spotify premium. Recently, I discovered that they were doing a promotion where any person who has premium can receive a free gift of a Google Nest Mini. All I had to do was press a button in my email, which magically transported me over to Google Store, and then after giving away my personal information, my credit card info (which was somehow needed, despite me not having to pay), and my first born (sorry, my boy – it was either you or this new toy, and well … we do have a second son .. Haha!), the transaction was completed.

I received the package in our local mailbox less than a week ago, and I was excited to see what this thing would do for me and my home. Upon opening the package, the instructions were pretty simple – plug it in, go to my iPad and download Google Home, and then follow the foolproof guidelines provided therein. Within 5 minutes, the Nest Mini was situated on our kitchen counter and it was ready for action. All I had to say was “Hey Google.”

Simple, right? Well, it was a bit awkward talking like that to a machine, especially with my wife in the near vicinity. But, I shored up my courage and said it proudly and with conviction. “Hey, Google!”

Instantly, the lights turned on right across its speaker-like surface, eager to respond to my first command. But what do I want? I should have had that planned beforehand. It was an awkward pause while I scrambled for something to say … kind of like most of my conversations with other people, now that I think of it.

“Uhhhh, what’s the weather going to be like today?”

Of course I asked about the weather. I found it hilarious that I resorted to the most classic conversation opener in history, thereby revealing myself as a true newbie.

She responded instantly, and in her sexy voice, she told me that the weather would be mild and perfect for a walk. Well, she didn’t tell me that. I mean, we are just getting to know each other. How would she know that I liked to go for long walks along a beach? Or, since I live in Edmonton, long walks through the river valley. But I suspected that the more we interacted, the more she would intuit and before long, she would be finishing my sentences.

So, I talked to her some more to further establish our relationship, and I grew in confidence and comfort with each statement. It was a bit awkward to always have to say “Hey Google” to begin any new sentence, since this just did not feel organic. But what was I expecting? I was talking to a machine, so how organic could it be?

After days of this, this Mini has already become an important part of my day. Whenever I walk into the kitchen, even when I am well away from the device, I am saying “Hey Google, good morning.” Then, because I programmed it this way, she responds with a warm greeting in return – she is such a great morning person, just like me – and after telling me what the weather is going to be that day, she promptly plays music from my favourite playlist in Spotify. It is almost romantic. All we need is candlelight and flowers, and the ambiance would be complete.

I think my wife has become a little jealous of this newly formed relationship. I remember one time, when we were both relaxing in the bedroom, we heard a voice calling out from the kitchen. It was the Google Nest, calling out for my attention, and this riled my wife up. She said to me, “Hey, that device of yours is making a racket! Go turn it off.”

So, I went to the kitchen and when I arrived, Google spoke to me and reminded me to watch basketball that night. Now this might seem freakily prescient and a bit pushy, but in all honesty, I had set this up earlier. I had asked her to remind me at 7:00 p.m., but had forgotten due to the many tasks I had to do that day. How refreshing to have someone in my home to remind me of things that I needed to get done.

But this got me thinking. I already did have that in my life. My wife has always been getting my attention and reminding me of things that I had neglected to do. Now it could be argued that she does not always tell me this with the most pleasant of voices, and certainly not in a sexy way, and the voice might be framed in a face that shows frank disapproval. But she certainly gets the job done, and as a result, so do I.

When I push this idea even further, I realize that my wife has assumed many roles that a Google Nest Mini is supposed to do. In fact, one of the built-in features of the Mini is to give me the news every morning as part of the ritual. But this is completely unnecessary, since my wife is more than happy to give me the news. When I wake up, when I come home from work, and even when I am just about to go to bed, she regales me with the latest Covid statistics, the most recent horrors inflicted by the police in the States, and any other tidbit that serves to depress my spirits and leave me with a feeling of hopelessness that only the news can deliver.

Without even having to say, “Hey G____” (since my wife’s name starts with a G), she tells me the weather, especially if it is going to rain or be unseasonably cold. She tends to belt out songs at the top of her voice, but dear readers (and I mean this with all due respect and desire to remain within this household), she couldn’t hold a tune even if she was wearing the world’s largest mitt. She tends to turn off all the lights to save electricity, even if I happen to be sitting in the room and I am in need of some illumination. She is kind of the anti-Google.

So, it appears that I have two entities within my home, each trying to control my life. One knows me all too well, and loves me for all my weaknesses and faults, but definitely has a mind of her own. The other is just learning about me and thinks that I am the only one in the world that matters. This seems to me a fine arrangement. I think I might be becoming a digital polygamist.

Clearcut Truth

We have that type of neighbour. You know the one I am talking about. He looks rather miserable whenever you see him from a distance, he keeps to himself, and he smokes weed as much as humanly possible. He has also created a veritable fortress around his home. About 30 years ago, he planted a row of spruce saplings to surround his property, a sort of natural fencing, and since then, they have all grown into towering trees, leaving him in shade and solitude.

Because of this perpetual wind and smoke screen, we have been left quite ignorant about his true nature. And so, like true and worthy citizens of this civilized world, we have concocted our own stories to fill the gaps. He has a criminal background, and he is hiding out from the law, and his only peace can be found through cannabis. He was a great athlete, but he suffered many injuries in his pursuit of glory, and so he has left the podium and sought anonymity here in our neghbourhood, and the narcotics are keeping the excruciating pain at bay. He is a reclusive billionaire who got his riches through marijuana sales. The list is endless.

Well, this weekend, things have been cleared up. And I mean literally. In the afternoon, we heard the sound of power saws, and when we looked out the front window, we were amazed at what we saw .. or rather, didn’t see. The blockade of trees was missing, and all that was left in its stead was a row of stumps and a blanket of sawdust. For the first time since we owned this house, we had a powerful and steady beam of sunshine entering our front living room. And we could see the neighbour’s homes across the street. The world had opened up to us.

And my wife, being the nosy creature that she is, went outside to witness the logging venture with her own eyes. While she was out there, you will never guess who came out to greet her. Our former reclusive neighbour himself. He stated his intention to clear all the trees surrounding his property, not to mention doing some work on his home as well. My wife could barely contain her shock, not only at talking to this hermit, but also because this was a dream come true for her. She has hated these trees ever since we moved here, and many times in the past 20 years she has threatened to poison them. The only reason she stopped herself was because the dead trees would likely fall on our house and do terrible damage.

Her smile was as big as the newly made gap between our properties. That is, until she began to survey our own spruce tree in the front yard. From the house, this tree looked lush and vibrant. But now that the neighbour’s trees were removed, she could get a close look at the other side of the tree and it proved to be brittle and rotting. And, of course, in the spirit of neighbourhood beautification, she plans to contact the same company and have them remove our tree as well.

Not only that, the bright sunlight now bathes our lawn and all of its details are clear for all to see. The many brown and dead spots litter its surface, like some kind of lawn acne. The location that once held a statue is a large mossy circle, filled with tiny stones and is nothing short of an eyesore. Our rockwork is festered with weeds, our sidewalk has more cracks than cement, and there is a significant gap below our steps. Before, all of this was closed to the world and was our own secret shame, but it has now been revealed in scandalous fashion. Looks like a whole heck of a lot of landscaping is in our near future.

There seems to be an object lesson here.

We often have other people around us who display characteristics that may be considered irritable or unsavoury. When we observe such things, we find ourselves wishing that these people would go about changing themselves, improving themselves, and in so doing, they would make our own lives more pleasant. We have a wonderful ability to spot weaknesses in others, and we often consider ourselves experts in how they can fix themselves and become better people.

But what if they actually do go about improving themselves? What if their flaws are suddenly gone and we witness these new magical creatures who seem to have achieved the divine. Their beauty and majesty simply shine from them, and this light bathes us in sublime radiance … only to reveal the deep shadows and dirty niches within our own personalities. Suddenly, we are ashamed of ourselves, almost like Adam and Eve when they discovered they were naked and felt the need to hide from God.

We are then confronted with a terrible choice. We can run away from these newly minted friends, banishing ourselves from their newly constructed Eden, and hope to find others who are more dark, more dingy, more blind to our own flaws. Or, we can be compelled to improve our own state and make ourselves worthy of them. In so doing, we would collectively improve and the world would be a better place than it was before.

I wonder if we will come to regret our neighbour’s decision to cut those trees down and change our lives forever? Self-improvement is a difficult and time-consuming process, and it is especially difficult when we are on display to the rest of the world.

Ah well, what’s done is done. It is time to spruce ourselves up and strive for improvement at the grass roots level. Hopefully as we step up our game, we don’t crack under the pressure.

All the rage

Let me lie down on this virtual couch and tell you about my childhood.

As a youngster, I often lost my temper. When I was teased by other kids, my face would go red with rage, which only got them mocking me even more – a deadly positive feedback loop. When I missed an important tennis shot or golf stroke. I would scream out my frustration, often using some “choice words” that would get a sailor blushing. I would throw my racquet, I would slam my clubs, and if I got particularly angry, I would punch lockers and walls, leaving them and my hands damaged as a result.

If you would have asked me back then, I would have said that I could not help myself. I was a victim of my own anger and I did not have the ability to control it.

But then came marriage and children, and I knew that I could not allow this inner demon to control me any longer. So, I worked very hard to keep it caged and shoved deep down in my psyche, making sure it never saw the light of day. If my wife screamed at me, or if the kids did something that really irked me, then I would walk away, taking deep breaths the entire time (until I was basically hyperventilating), until I was once again in control.

And this worked for the most part. Not only as a parent, but also as a teacher. Early in my teaching career, things in the classroom often did not go as anticipated, and I could feel my frustration and emotions rise to the surface. Oh, the number of walks I took down the hallways during those days. I spent almost as much time out there as I did in the classroom itself, or at least it seemed that way.

Thankfully, things really did temper down as I got older. In fact, lately, I have trouble remembering the last time I lost control in my classroom. And at home, I raise my voice very rarely, and often, to very good effect. Based on this evidence, one might conclude that I have fully exorcised that demon and I am now in perpetual bliss and self-control. In fact, I was coming to suspect this myself.

Until that fated recent card game with the family. Three of us were playing Hearts, which at one time was a favourite game of mine. But my youngest son was getting better and better at it, and by the time of this particular game, he was winning almost regularly. So, I put my competitive cap on and planned to dethrone this young upstart, putting myself back at my rightful place on the podium as victor.

When we played our first round of the game, I was so close to taking control of the game and giving the others the full 26 points, but my second last card lost to my wife’s, and I ended up eating 25 points, putting me decisively in last place.

I took a deep breath, as I tended to do in stressful situations, and when I looked at my next hand, it was an ideal one. Only a fool could lose it. A fool like me. When we were putting our cards down, I had (for some mysterious reason) anticipated what my son would discard, and I placed in my fist my decisive response to it. Well, he did not play according to my plan, putting in a strange twist, but before I had time to react, I threw my card down on the pile. It flew out of my fingers, and as it descended down to the pile, my hopes and dreams went with it. It was the worst card I could have played and it cost me the game.

When the round ended, and as my family was laughing at what happened to me (they love seeing me lose), I could feel a long-forgotten demon breaking all the chains and doors I had placed in its way, and it burst through to the surface, flooding my face with the hottest blood and putting all kinds of nasty thoughts into my head. I wanted to scream, I wanted to cry, I wanted to throw those cards off the table and down onto the next level of our house, scattering those cursed things to the four corners of the living room. I wanted to flip the table, let the loose the vilest swear words, and then storm off, vowing to never play cards again.

And I did all these things … in my head. I was sitting there stoically, not making any kind of move, while my mind was razing the entire house to the ground. My wife and son were becoming well aware of my unusually gloomy mood, and things got rather quiet in the kitchen. But they could not help but snicker at my distress.

I felt I was at a crossroads. I could give full rein to my darkest self and ruin everything in a great fit of rage, doing more damage within a few seconds than can be rectified in a lifetime. Or, I could remain calm, freeze all body parts like they were in chains, and allow this explosion of emotion run its course, knowing that it could not last forever and that calm skies were just around the corner (mixing at least three metaphors!).

Fortunately, I chose the latter, and let me tell you, it was really tough to do so. But calm was restored, joy returned to that kitchen like a stream of bright light through the darkest of clouds, and the rest of the game proved to be fun, despite me losing in spectacular fashion. I was even able to laugh, not only at my losses, but also at my outrageous reaction. It was important that I did, so that there would be no fear of me reacting in the same manner in the future when things go poorly in cards. I want our home to be so stable, so secure, that we can laugh freely at each other, at ourselves, not taking life or games to seriously.

But wow, what an eye-opener for me. I guess I will never be fully cleansed of that dirty little devil lurking within. It will always want to burst free and wreck my healthy home, my successful classroom, my stable relationships. I must ever be vigilant, I guess, not falling asleep in my duties, maintaining a constant sentry so that this enemy cannot destroy what I have worked so hard to establish.

In this game of life, winning is not determined by the result, but rather, how we respond to the joys and the sorrows. May I ever have a calm and determined smile, no matter what hand I am given.

Weed are the champions, my friend

I remember when we first bought our house and our lawn was pristine … well, from a distance. It was green, and it was mostly grass. So, as a responsible owner, I dutifully maintained this natural carpet at our doorstep. I mowed it regularly, I seeded locations that were approaching barrenness, and whenever I discovered a dandelion, I removed it as any good citizen of the urban suburbs would do.

But, as the years progressed, two things became very clear. First, my family does not like the outdoors in the least, and so, the yard was not being used at all. I felt like I was mowing for no reason. Second, the dandelions were multiplying at an exponential rate. Two became four, four became eight, and before long, it seemed like I was digging dandelions out of the lawn most every day of the spring and summer. I even ventured into the world of pesticides for a while, so motivated was I to remove this apparent scourge of the neighbourhood.

But then, I remember having a conversation with a colleague at a previous school and she mentioned to me how damaging it was to put all these pesticides into the ground. Dangerous to the animals, dangerous to insects, and dangerous to our environment. I certainly did not want to be a part of that problem. I respected nature, and it only felt right for me to make a stand and not allow those chemicals to touch my property ever again.

I felt good about myself for being a good steward of the Earth, but with such a decision came a huge cost. The dandelions, likely aware of my stance, decided to take a huge dose of plant Viagra and reproduced at prodigious rates. I tried to keep up, really I did, but my lawn was starting to look like an artillery target practice area. It was covered in landscape pockmarks, trenches, and tunnels, and no matter how thoroughly I dug, no matter how deep my exploration of the roots, I could never reach “patient zero”.

So, I hung up my shovel and trowel, and I allowed nature to take over. I knew that I had more than met my match, and with my gloved hands in the air, I raised my green flag, surrendering to Mother Nature.

It has been at least 10 years since that decisive moment, and now, my lawn is more weed than grass. Now this might get my neighbours shaking their head, since my yard does not attain the high standards that they have established for our neighbourhood. But I wonder if this might be a good thing.

Let’s think about it for a second. Grass is high maintenance, often requiring seed, fertilizer, pesticides, and plenty of water to retain is lush purity. Oh sure, when done properly, it looks like something straight from Augusta, something Tiger Woods would be proud to putt on. But should this be our goal?

Consider the weed. It requires no efforts on our part whatsoever, and it can spread and thrive in the most undesirable soils with effortless abandon. And when it does so, it covers and protects the soil just as well as grass does, and all on its own. It is a true survivor, and really, it should be admired. I look at my lawn and when I see those dandelions and clover in abundance, I have nothing but admiration for them. I can only hope that I will be the same in times of duress. When some people fall apart under the strain of some external threat – let’s say, a global virus – I want to be the one that not only endures the epidemic, but in fact, adapts quickly and succeeds.

I read in a science article recently that when a plant is labelled a weed that is only because we have not yet discovered its amazing beneficial properties. The author was discussing pharmaceutical and medical uses, but I think this logic is equally valid for lawn management.

So, when you are fertilizing your lawn for the umpteenth time, when you are stressing about the effect of a 3 week long drought, when mushrooms come to infect the verdant purity of your grass and destroy your landscape, remember the humble weed. It is the mighty gladiator than can conquer any foe, can weather any storm, and will emerge triumphant from any battle. And all we have to do is spectate from the comfort of our own homes.

Green thumbs up for that prospect!

Clean like a jerk

I never realized how much a pain it was to wipe things down in a fitness gym.

I admit that the whole idea of cleanliness in the gym is a new thing for me. For almost 40 years, I have been all too happy to do pushups and stretching directly on a dirty floor, unconcerned that my clothes were picking up alien hairs and strange sweat, thereby leaving the floor cleaner than I found it. I never wiped down the weightlifting equipment, since I really didn’t sweat all that much, even when I pushed really hard. Or, so I told myself.

The only place where I wiped things regularly was on the stationary bike, which makes perfect sense since I often dumped litres and litres of sweat on the bike and the surrounding floor after an hour of excruciating intervals. Even a slob like me realized that someone else would not appreciate riding on a bike covered by the secretions of my sebaceous glands.

This has certainly changed with Covid. Now, we are expected to spray and wipe down equipment before and after every use. Unfortunately, as a result, I found myself starting to spend just as much time cleaning the equipment as I did working out with it, especially when the equipment had a whole bunch of nooks and crannies, or it had a weird shape. I mean, have you ever tried to wipe down a large exercise ball? It sounds easy, but it is really a pain in the gluteus maximus. And what about the handles of the ab rollers? Or the entire length of those rubber exercise bands?

I had to stop the madness, but how? I certainly could not avoid these procedures, since they are very important for the safety of myself and all those around me. Unless … I wear gloves. When I was younger, only wusses wore workout gloves, since they were so worried about getting calluses. For me, calluses were indicators that I was working out hard, much like scars when I am riding my mountain bike. So, the only time I wore gloves was when I was using a bar that could rip the very flesh off my palms, like the heavily etched pullup bars.

But I have a new opinion of gloves now. If I wear them when I use dumbbells, or when changing the location of the pin on the cable weights, then I don’t have to wipe them down – either before or after. Oh, the sweet freedom … or should I say sweat freedom? Life has returned to pre-Covid times, when I can simply work out without worrying about infecting the rest of the athletic world with Covid cooties. Such an amazing solution. Looks like the wusses had something good going, and I simply arrived late to the party.

But that still leaves the exercise ball, which has my bare legs rubbing all over it. Am I willing to continue this trend and wear pants instead of shorts? How about the exercise mat, which receives the direct impact of my naked arms? Do I go long-sleeved? How far am I willing to go to avoid wiping equipment down? If I push this to its illogical extreme, then I will be exercising in a hazmat suit – never needing to wipe anything down, but also dying inside my suit, trapped in my own sweat and carbon dioxide.

Upon further thought, I think I will leave it at gloves. This will help me avoid wiping down all handles and pins and bars that come into my grip, which greatly reduces the time required for risk mitigation. I will accept the necessity of cleaning the exercise ball and the mat, and do my due diligence in the pursuit of healthy fitness.

I think I have found the happy balance between a dirty slob and a germaphobe. This plan fits me like a glove.

Cheapbook

My wife is certainly cheap when it comes to herself.

She has spent much of her life complaining about how much she hates technology, but ironically, she spends most of her time during the day using it. She has her iPhone, where she texts her oldest son who is at UBC and where she plays her favourite word games to pass the time. And then she has her chromebook, which, by way of the miracle of wifi, displays her favourite TV shows, movies, and YouTube broadcasts. She brings these two devices wherever she goes in the house – Linus has his blanket, Thor has his hammer, and my wife has her technology.

But about 5 months ago, the chromebook started acting up. The screen began to flicker during her programs and this required her to adjust the angle of the monitor until the flickering went away – much like a person would alter the angle of antenna to get better reception with the old TVs. (Remember those rabbit ears?) It started as a minor irritation, happening infrequently, but with incessant use, the problem got worse and worse. Within a month, the flickering was a daily occurrence, and after another month, it happened every time she used it.

Now, most people would unhesitatingly go to Best Buy and purchase another chromebook, especially when it is used with such frequency, when it is such a central part of a person’s life. And in fact, her husband (namely, me) and her children constantly urged her to do this. But whenever we looked at the website and she discovered that this would set her back $300 or more, she would immediately reconsider the situation and be convinced that she could deal with it. I mean, according to her, it was only a little flickering. It eventually does work, so there was no need to replace it.

This has kept happening for the past 3 months, and now, this chromebook of hers is the most fickle thing imaginable. When it is first turned on, it flickers and flutters like the most extreme Japanese anime, the one that comes with the warning that it could cause epileptic fits. My wife then, with infinite patience and delicate dexterity, moves the screen by minute angles until the image stabilizes, and if this doesn’t work, then she sweeps it back and forth in broad swaths like she is trying to fan herself to alleviate the hot flashes that come with her frustrations.

Eventually, with some prayer and ritualistic incantations, often involving some extreme expletives, the image appears. Then, she remains very still and breathes very shallowly, for even the smallest movement could disrupt the computer’s equilibrium and return it to its former pell-mell furor. And this goes for anyone else who happens to be nearby. God help the husband or son who decides to sit on the same bed while she is watching, creating a subtle but significant earthquake in the mattress, disrupting the screen and causing an eruption from my wife that would humble Vesuvius.

It has recently come to a head. Either we seek family therapy, or she gets herself a new chromebook. But the prices have not gone down. And honestly, I fully understand her hesitation to buy another one. The computer is in perfect operational condition, apart from the monitor connection. It just seems so wasteful to have to buy a whole new machine when it is simply a faulty wire. Why throw the baby out with the bathwater?

So, we thought of a DIY alternative. We still had a spare computer monitor in the basement, and I knew that with the right wires (which we had in our possession), we could connect the monitor to the base of the chromebook and the images would show up faithfully and accurately on this surrogate. Who knows? Maybe we could rip off the current screen, since it was not working any longer, and then place the base and the new monitor on a thin wooden platform, secured with strategic duct tape and brackets. It would be bulky, but it would be workable. The only issue would be that this monitor would have to be plugged into an outlet wherever she went. Since this was only in three different locations – the bedroom, the kitchen and the dining room – we could set up power bars or extension cords in each location and she would be off to the virtual races. Sounds good, right?

Not quite. We did not factor in how unbelievably heavy and bulky that monitor was. It seemed so thin and delicate when placed on a desk, but when lifted up and placed on a lap, it was massive and ungainly. Placing this and a keyboard onto a wooden platform would have been an absolute beast to transport around the house, almost like heaving your entire desktop onto your back and trekking it up and down the stairs. Not quite the aim of a portable laptop. When this prototype was shown to my wife, she burst out laughing at the monstrosity. I almost felt sorry for it, as pathetic as Frankenstein’s creature when he was displayed to the world.

So, we are back at square one. The chromebook must be replaced, but we are really leery about using anything that involves a hinge that will be used repeatedly every day. No wire connection in the world can withstand such regular abuse for long, and so it is doomed to fail far before the motherboard.

Thus, my wife is now considering the use of a tablet. The screen is far smaller (10″ vs 15″), but the touchscreen technology is nearly infallible and will last for many, many years. She will try out my iPad for a few days to make sure that it will suit her needs and then we will go in and buy her one of her own.

What about our faulty DIY construction? The monitor now sits on my desk as a second screen, where I can constantly check on my WordPress statistics and wait for it to change from 0 viewers to 1. It is a very exciting event.

And the chromebook base? Well, it will be placed under our back porch in our technological cemetery. I tried to write a few nice words as a eulogy or obituary, but if you ever visit it, you have to be warned: it is hard to read because of the flickering screen.

Teaching guinea pigs

I had a tough day at school yesterday.

I had recently finished the first unit for my class and it was time for them to do a lab. Due to Covid, labs cannot be done in the same way. Students are not allowed to work in groups, where they have a high chance of breathing germs and viruses into each others’ faces, which means I had to resort to giving them paper and pencil labs that they work on individually. But which questions do I give them? And how many can they handle in the time period allotted? There are no answers to these questions, and so, I had to construct the lab scientifically.

It starts with a hypothesis. Based on prior observations and previous experience, I construct a lab that I think will effectively assess their knowledge and lab skills. But then, it has to be tested. And the only experimental group I have available is the class itself, so yesterday, I gave them this lab and observed the results.

It started out well, as they often tend to do, but by halfway through the lab, it was clear that I had made it too hard and too long. I did not factor in the effects of online learning in the past school year and the fact that we have switched to a much more rapid-paced quarterly system (as opposed to a semester system). Students began to struggle much more than I had intended, and when the lab was over and they had to hand it in, many of them were staring daggers at me, likely wishing all kinds of disasters would befall me.

Now I am a nice guy, and I ended up modifying the marks so that the kids did not get hurt by it. Also, I promptly modified the lab, shortening it and making it easier, so that future students would experience more success and the assessment would be more in line with the expectations of the course.

But this got me reflecting about a large (but inevitable) weakness of the educational system. When we are rookie teachers, or creating rookie activities, we are forced to use our students as guinea pigs, testing out our ideas to see whether they work or not. If the designs happen to be flawed in any way, the students are the unfortunate victims and will suffer for it. Yes, they are performing a vital service by ensuring that the product will be better for future students, but it is sad that their own education is compromised as a result.

Wouldn’t it be nice if we could somehow circumvent this reality of education? I am imagining a clever programmer, creating a simulated class filled with students of varied abilities and interests. The lesson could then be given to these virtual students and we could observe the results, identifying any unforeseen effects and modifying accordingly. This could be done over and over again, since these online students would be indefatigable, until the lesson is in the finest form possible. And then it could be delivered to the real students, hopefully with a lot less glitches and much more educational success.

So, if anyone is reading this with a solid programming background, we need you to get on it. That would be such an amazing use of technology. The only issue would be – how would the programmer know that the virtual students are responding accurately to the lessons and assessments given to them? Inevitably, the programmer would have to test them against a real class, which means that we would need a class of guinea pigs … which brings us back full circle. Damnit!

Sleepless and unsettled

It is becoming clear that I am in need of a new blanket. And when I say clear, I mean it, since my comforter is so threadbare that you can literally see through it in some sections.

Let me be completely transparent, though: I am not highly motivated to change this bed spread. It has been my faithful companion for decades. It has hugged me and kept me warm through the winters, and we have experienced sweat and tears together during the summers. It has always been there for me, with me, and around me, and I rested well in this knowledge. How could I contemplate separating from it? It has the finality of a divorce, and the idea keeps me up at night.

But my wife, likely suspecting that my relationship with this blanket is a bit too close, a bit too intimate with an inanimate object, is adamant that I move on to a new comforter. So I must adjust to the reality of sleeping with something younger. Could this be a dream come true for a man who is blanketed by a midlife crisis?

It seemed that way at first. My wife brought out a brand new comforter from our downstairs closet and claimed that this was a really expensive blanket, costing hundreds of dollars many, many years ago. And it looked really impressive. It had bright vibrant colours, it had substantial weight, and it seemed to offer plenty of surface area to cover every inch of my 50+ year old body.

But when I slept with it, the material was strangely rough on my skin. It also did not readily conform to the shape of my body, but instead, being a bit stiffer, it created large gaps where it remained separated from my chest, my legs, and my arms. It was distant, and it left me feeling cold. I did not have an ideal sleep that night.

So, we tried an alternative. My oldest son is now living on his own, which means that he is no longer using his bed. So, it was decided that I would try out his blanket and see if it would be better. The test came when I had an afternoon nap, and right away, I could see that it was not going to work. In my naps, I sit on my favourite Ikea chair and listen to Sade on my old iPad. The blanket has to extend beyond my body so that I can curl it around my feet, but I also need to bunch up a huge amount of blanket on the other end to make a high, soft platform for my arms and the iPad to rest on. Unfortunately, my son’s blanket was simply not long enough, which led to a less than satisfactory afternoon nap.

My wife is nothing if she is not tenacious, and so, when faced with this challenge, she had an inspiration. If the expensive comforter was rough and stiff, and not hugging my body like it was supposed to, then she would encase it within a soft but substantial blanket cover. This would add to its weight and make sure that it pressed down on my body, keeping me warm and snuggly.

Well, it pressed down on my body alright, much like 6 feet of dirt on a corpse. (Whoa, that turned dark!) Yet I didn’t sleep like the dead. Instead, at about 4 am, I woke up sweating in the sweltering heat imposed on me by this smothering mass. I had to heave that monstrosity off of my body before it killed me, and I replaced it with my son’s blanket. But I was doomed. I could not return to sleep, and instead, in my feverish inspiration, I decided to come down to the basement and write a blog about it.

Which leaves me with the question: what do I do now? This is no light decision, like choosing dinner plate designs or which colour to paint the walls. A third of my life hinges on this choice, and it could be argued that the rest of my life counts on it as well, since the quality of my sleep kind of dictates how alert I am for the ensuing day.

As I sit here, with my eyes drooping and my mind so very sluggish, I dream of returning to my old blanket. It might be ratty, it might be threadbare, but I know it and it knows me. It is still functional and it will guarantee a good sleep every time. These are arguments that even the best lawyer cannot argue against. I rest my (pillow) case.

Bore model

Many years ago, a former student came and visited me and after the initial pleasantries, he gave me the strangest criticism.

“Mr. G,” he said, “your classes are far too interesting.”

“What?” I replied, as eloquent as ever.

“Yeah,” he continued. “Now that I am in university, I cannot keep myself awake. Your classes were so captivating that I was constantly riveted. But my profs are so boring, and you did not prepare me for this.”

At the time, I took this as a backhanded form of compliment. I mean, is it not any teacher’s dream to be accused of being so very fascinating that they have ruined the students for any future classes? I came out of that on top of cloud 99 and vowed that I would continue to teach in the same manner for the rest of my career.

But lately, I wonder if there is a deeper truth to his statement. Could I actually be making my subject too entertaining?

My inspiration for this new perspective came from a recent science magazine article. It was talking about how science is moving dangerously close to sensationalism. The world tends to like outrageous claims: “Einstein has been proven wrong.” “Particles can move faster than the speed of light.” “Radio waves can cause cancer.”

So, for the sake of tenure and international acclaim, scientists have been sucked into this black hole of tabloid claims. They might modify their results or analyses to substantiate a more amazing conclusion, they may allow extreme interpretations of their data that represent more extrapolation than accurate representation, and in so doing, they are doing science a disservice. It encourages the public to ignore less fantastical results that are in fact the very bedrock of science, and god forbid, the extreme conclusions may prove to be false, which would only reinforce the opinions of the anti-science population. We certainly cannot afford to feed the beast that is the group of anti-vacciners, flat Earth theorists, and lately, anti-maskers and anti-sanitizers.

This has me thinking about my teaching practice. Although I am certain to give my students a solid foundation of mathematics and sold physics principles, I must admit that I put a little more emphasis on the areas of physics that tend to blow the mind. The possibility that what we see and touch in this world might be illusion, a pure fabrication from our overworked, underinformed brains. The fact that two particles can influence each other on either side of the universe, or that a particle can quantum tunnel through a structure without coming in contact with it. These are interpretations of science that are truly sexy and get the students all kinds of excited, and they are usually what the students remember when the course is finished.

While it is true that they love physics as a result, am I possibly perpetuating this desire for sensationalism in science? Could I be doing science a disservice with my flair for the scientific braggadocio?

It makes me wonder if I need to pay more than lip service to the seemingly mundane and repetitive elements of science. Should I not expound the herculean efforts of Madame Curie and her husband as they tirelessly worked or a year or more toward a more isolated sample of radium? Is it not my responsibility to elaborate in painstaking detail the inspired (albeit biased) efforts of Millikan as he sought out the charge of the electron over a 6 year period? Not to mention having the students perform experiments and do activities that are deemed tedious, even onerous, not allowing them the quickfire alternatives of graphing calculators and computers.

Therefore, in my teaching future, I will make it a point to integrate rigour and dedication into my course, without apology and with a nod to the authentic work of scientists in the lab. The truth is that astronomers are not often gazing through a big telescope, discovering new planets and galaxies, but rather, they are poring over reams of data day in and day out, looking for patterns, veritable needles in astronomical haystacks. It is not glamorous in the least, akin to watching paint dry, and if it wasn’t for their undying curiosity about the world around them, they would go absolutely insane. So, shouldn’t my students also be grinding through huge problems or labs that might take them countless hours to complete? In so doing, they are much better prepared for the realities of the scientific method.

So now, when a student comes up to me and tells me that the lesson was boring, I will respond with, “You are welcome.”