Goodbye to All That

I'm sitting in my apartment on a cloudy Tuesday in August, the day before 509j School District employees need to report back to work. It's notable, because I haven't spent most of the last ten weeks in my apartment. Here, on the eve of responsibility, I can look back at the crazy binge of the summer of 2011 and attempt to draw conclusions, to construct a narrative from the hot chaos.

This summer my reflex response, it seemed, to any invitation, was "Sure, why not?" I did what I wanted, when I wanted, the whole time. It created a dizzying few months that can be recorded in interesting ways: for example, I saw seven major league baseball games in four stadiums in three states. I didn't spend a single weekend in Corvallis since school ended. I slept in my tent at least 15 nights and my buddy's car four more. I rock climbed in three different states, ran the world's largest relay race, ascended a mountain, snorkeled in Mexico, and went spelunking in Southern Oregon. I went camping every week in July. I visited great metropolises and desolate wilds. In short, I tackled the American Dream, behind the line of scrimmage, made it fumble the ball, and ran it in for a touchdown. Then I went for two.

I realized a few years ago that I anticipate summer more now than at any point in my life. When I was a child, I didn't have mobility in the summer. In high school and college, I had consuming jobs. As a teacher, however, the obstacles to summer freedom have been removed, leaving ten weeks of blinding, lusty opportunity. This year, I pushed the boundary further, flew that much closer to the sun.

I look back and see a disassociative skein of images: a buffalo snorting dust on my tent in Oklahoma, a rainstorm flood a swimming pool in Mexico, a campfire in Central Oregon, a Jose Reyes triple in Texas, a Ludacris concert in California, a ski area in Utah, a desert river in Colorado. I can't make sense of these pictures. Nor can I explain the feeling, at the edge of my conscience, that I got away with something. People my age should be in quarter-life crises, gunning for a middle-management position at the firm, fondly longing for their college days. They shouldn't be asleep at a rest stop in Idaho, crammed in the passenger seat, wearing the last of their clean clothes and dreaming about semi trucks and wide-open plains. Normal Americans should be at work, buttoned-up, soberly building for the future. I must have missed something.

Then I remember my profession. I wasn't the only teacher to take hold of the idea of summer. Erika went back East. Matt toured the national parks along the Continental Divide. Kevin mountain biked in Canada, then went to Hawaii. Zach, before visiting his girlfriend in Guatemala, spent a month in Mongolia. And on and on and on. The middle part of the calendar opens a wide, beautiful door for us teachers, and we'd be fools not to run on through. God bless you, summer. You're a dear, dear friend.

Tomorrow, we need to report to Crescent Valley High School's auditorium. We'll see a slideshow of the new staff at 509j. We'll hear an address from our new superintendent. The vision for the year will be outlined, along with some whimsical anecdotes for our elementary school staff to enjoy. We'll learn about closing the achievement gap (CTAG) and professional learning communities (PLC's). Outstanding members of our district will receive the coveted "golden apple" award. We'll shake hands, rub elbows, hobnob. We'll collect some handouts. We'll come back.