jumpingfish

“Can I ask you a question?” 

She was making me a hot pastrami sandwich, which is the special this week. I had told her I was a math teacher to justify the book I had been reading while I waited in line, and it evidently made her think of something.

I looked at her, a bit surprised. “Sure.”

She set down the bread and her knife, and she held up her hands, making a circle.

“So how much area does a sphere make when it touches a flat table?”

“Well theoretically it is just a point,” I said, “so there’s no area.”

She nodded as if perhaps that was what she was thinking. Or perhaps there was some kind of bet.

“But in practice…” I added cautiously because I am apt to wax theoretical and overlook all practicality (as anyone in my family will tell you). “In practice there’s a small flat area.”

And with that, I took my hot pastrami sandwich, selected a bag of sea-salt chips, and found a table in the corner. 

As I sat down, I grabbed a book off the book sharing shelf by the door, “Fundamental Principles of the Metaphysics of Morals” by Immanuel Kant. Never read Kant. What better time than while eating a hot pastrami sandwich. I opened the book and started reading the preface where I was told

We may call all philosophy empirical, so far as it is based on grounds of experience: on the other hand, that which delivers its doctrines from a priori principles alone we may call pure philosophy…

I wanted to take the book to her. To show her those words. To warn her of the purely philosophical answer I had given her. To caution her on my complete lack of empirical experience with spheres sitting on tables. I wanted to. But I thought better of it and ate my hot pastrami sandwich, instead.

It’s common for students to walk into class before the bell and as they make their way to their assigned seats to ask, “Are we taking notes, Mister?”

I usually chuckle. They know what that means, because we have notes almost every day. Part of what I’m teaching them is how to communicate well, and that includes writing. (I told them this on day-one, and it’s written in the syllabus.) Even though they might not master the skills, they will almost certainly remember clearly (which is distinct from “fondly”)  that Algebra 2 class where they filled a notebook with daily notes.

So it was no surprise this day when I heard, “Are we taking notes, Mr. Hasan?”

“Why yes, we are!”

“Ok good,” the student said. 

This, I didn’t expect.

“Good?”

“Yes. I love your notes.”

“Love?”

“Yes, you write like you talk.”

Ok then.

It was the last day before the Thanksgiving holidays. Each period was going to take a test (easy to plan for). It was sixth period. The day was almost done.

The students started filing into the classroom. The sixth period kids all tend to arrive in one great mass. So the room was filled with them walking in and milling around, making their ways not so quickly to their assigned seats. One of them walked up to me and held out his hand. He was holding a plate from the cafeteria.

“This pie is for you,” he said with a smile on his face.

“For me?” I asked. “You brought a slice of pumpkin pie for me all the way from the cafeteria?”

“Yes.”

I smiled and joked, “Ahh. I know what you’re doing.” And I left the fact that it was test day for him and the other students to connect with the gift. 

The others laughed. He turned and walked back to his seat.  “Fine,” he said in a partial laugh, as if to imply “I see how it is.”

Five minutes later, the room was silent and they were all working on the test.

I grabbed a piece of stiff paper and my scissors. I cut the paper in half. I drew a design on it and put some words on the cover. On the inside I drew a slice of pie and shaded it with colored pencils. I wrote a thank you note on it. And waited until the end of class, after all of them had finished.

Before the bell rang, I walked up to his desk. He looked up. I handed him the card.

“I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful,” I said.

He smiled tentatively. His table partner leaned over to look and smiled widely.

He stood up and packed his stuff in his backpack, leaving the card on the desk. I thought to myself, “This is the way it always seems to go with the cards.” They serve their purpose but then they get discarded.

When the students were gone, I looked over at his desk again. The card wasn’t there. He had taken it with him. 

I guess his smile was not so tentative, after all. And I am thankful for that… and the slice of pie.

I gathered them up from the gravel along the sidewalk: acorns fallen from the four young Lacy Oaks struggling in the strip of ground between the restaurant and the parking lot. On two separate occasions, I gathered full pockets of them.

This has been a bumper acorn year. Although I am told trees just 30 minutes south have little fruit, those in town have been dropping acorns in masses. Sidewalks and streets and lawns are covered in nuts great and small. 

And so it was that the temptation to gather them was irresistible as I walked between the restaurant and parking lot. The desire to raise another generation. But I had no time, so last weekend I put them in glass jars on the counter (after removing those that floated to the top of the bucket). Five glass jars for acorns from five species of white oaks. For a weekend when I might find the time to plant them in various containers with chicken wire to keep the squirrels at bay.

This was not supposed to be such a weekend. But upon admiring the crop on the counter, I noticed that, soil or not soil, the Lacy Oak acorns were pushing out sprouts. They had no intention of waiting. And so it was that I got some dirt, filled some containers, pushed down a few handfuls of acorns, covered them with more soil and fastened the all-important chicken wire.

So that they might sprout further and we might given more young trees as gifts to more of our neighbors in a year or two.

There is a cartoon stick figure who makes an appearance in my algebra classes from time to time. He wears a top hat for no other reason than he is the teacher cartoon dude, and I need to distinguish him from the cartoon students who are usually seated. His role is to make sidebar comments about things that I don’t bother to say… um… except that I’m clearly saying them as I write his words.

Today cartoon teacher dude made his first appearance for a while. He was telling the kids what to do with extraneous solutions: “Ignore them!” As I drew the figure and began writing the words, one of the kids in the room threw down their pen and said, “I’m not writing that.” 

“That’s fine. You don’t need to.” I told them all that a long time ago.

Later, two of the students asked, “Mister, how to you draw your cartoons?” The two of them had a bet related to whether or not I picked up my pen when I drew the two legs. The bet ended in a draw (!).