Delights: September 1 to September 7

September 1: “Look, class,” I might say as I pointed toward the row of boats. “Circle all the parallel lines. Color in all the triangles. Notice the flags fleeing the wind and the magic mixture of water, light and reflection. 

“And now, class,” I might say (if my class were here at the marina near the beach), “watch Mrs. Siciliano enjoying her crab cake and mojito.”

Even teachers get recess.

September 2: Next to the marsh and bay and island – and behind a chain link fence – rested a shiny red biplane. I was angling my camera down, up and sideways to snap a photo when a voice called out, “Do you want to come in?”

A young man named Sebastian escorted me past the airport fence to stand next to the WACO YMF-5, with its two open cockpits, four staggered wings and wooden propeller. Handcrafted in Battle Creek, Michigan, by the WACO Aircraft Corporation, the red jewel before me was produced in the 1980s using original techniques from the 1920s and 1930s. 

Sebastian invited me to depress the taut fabric encasing the wood infrastructure. “The wings and body of the originals were made of cotton,” Sebastian explained. Dew would collect on the fabric, bowing it. But once the sun went to work, the cotton would dry tight and sound. 

I also ran my fingers along the metal rudders and ailerons. (Thank you, Smithsonian Air & Space Museum, for giving me aircraft vocabulary!) And Sebastian urged me to climb onto a wing to peek into the cockpit. 

Sebastian offers 30-minute tours over Assateague Island, with two passengers in the snug open air front seat. “It’s like riding a Harley in the air.” 

Hello, dear family: any takers? 

I’ll be the one on the ground taking pictures — and waving enthusiastically to you and Sebastian.

September 3: We have an extra-long Labor Day weekend, and I really want to do “beach.” So I today did.

Bonus: I looked up from my book at the sound of gentle purring. Flying above the surf at Assateague was the WACO biplane. I tipped my sunhat to Sebastian, smiled and returned to my book.

September 4: I told my hair dresser that I had become a long-term substitute teacher. “Aha!” She crowed, “another person who flunked retirement.” Oh no, my friend. I absolutely aced retirement. But I am taking remedial classes in the science of waking at dawn.

September 5: I crossed the street to visit a neighbor as she directed her grandson in whacking and weeding overgrowth. As we chatted, her son and other neighbors joined us. Her son had just taken our neighbors up in his four-passenger Cessna propeller plane to enjoy a view of the ocean, island and bay. My neighbor turned to me. Would you like to go up with him some time? Thinking of that airborne Harley ride, I demurred — and immediately regretted it. I hope they ask me again. 

But if that chance has passed, I will find my courage — and Sebastian.

September 6: Another neighbor, it turns out, was a parachute rigger for the Navy in the 1970s. During the last days of training, their instructor told them they’d be jumping out of a plane the next day — and using the chutes they’d just packed. My neighbor said each man immediately grabbed his pack, removed the contents and triple-checked against tangles and flaws.

Mounted over the entrance to every rigging shop in the Navy, my neighbor said, is a big-lettered sign: “To err is human. Parachute riggers aren’t human.”

Bonus: The hanging basket of lantana I’ve sustained throughout this very hot, very dry summer just attracted a hummingbird! A rare and uplifting treat.

September 7: The principal called me into her office for a check-in. I sat tall and proper while she reported on the search for a permanent teacher and the arrival of a special education teacher in our classroom. I complimented my co-teacher, who had joined us for the meeting, and expressed deep gratitude for her lesson planning and math instruction. 

We so appreciate you, the principal said. I replied with a nod and a small smile. How can we support you? The principal asked. I made a tiny request. What else do you want to tell us? The principal asked. I shared a worry. I get it, the principal said, but that’s our problem to solve, not yours. Then she added, I think things are hard for you right now because you care so much.

I started to cry. 

I thought to myself: I am so fond of these remarkable children. Our lesson on personal narratives today prompted not only hilarious stories (“I want to tell mine now”) but also an astute and capacious list of things we’d find in a personal narrative, such as focus, setting, characters (and their traits), lots of details, challenges, conflict, point of view, resolution and even lessons. The class was astonishingly eager to list three or four events in their own lives that might yield an effective personal narrative, and some even started drafting — during snack time (!).

I blew my nose into a tissue. You’re right, I told the principal. I do care. And because I care, I’ll be just fine.

Readers, to receive notifications by email each time I make a post, just scroll all the way down this page (next to the “word cloud”), look to the left and click on the black button that says “Join Me!” And if you think a friend might enjoy these, please share the Delight!

If you’d like to browse my past delights, please consult the “word cloud” featured at the very bottom of this post. Find a theme or two that interests you and sift through the sands. Or learn a bit more about my Blog by visiting my Welcome page. You’ll also see links to four essays that were published in print magazines. I’m glad you’re here!