Career Year 15

Tomorrow is the official first day at my new school.
๐ŸŽ This is year #15

๐ŸŽ Schools: 3

๐ŸŽ Classrooms: 4

๐ŸŽ Districts: 1

๐ŸŽ Grades Taught:  9-12

๐ŸŽ Current position: English teacher 

๐ŸŽ Subject taught: English 10, English 9, Cambridge English 10, Pre AP English 10, Creative Writing, Journalism I-III

๐ŸŽ Principals: 6

๐ŸŽ States: 1
It’s interesting to reflect on this career.


Today is my birthday.

Another year concluded with an X on the calendar.

I don’t dare evaluate this past annual, as it was not one I hope to remember. 


It’s not the number that gets me down, it’s the lack of forward momentum in my life.

Everything seems stagnant. 

Yes, I’m grateful for the fresh start at a new school.

And I am progressing slowly at a new degree. 

But life has thrown me some serious strife and I’ve not handled it well. 

Perhaps this year will be better. Perhaps this year I’ll get some things right. 

I can’t do another year like 37. I don’t have it in me.



Amidst the clutter of my memories- photographs reflecting moments I treasure. 

Jingle of keys mark entrances and exits. 

Barking greets me at the foyer. 


Where kids retreat to private spaces. 

Where love reigns. 


Familiar welcome.

Print it

Online, a collection of snaps. Occasionally we browse through them. In time, most are virtually lost. So, I vow to print the lot. Glossy or matte, they love being fondled by eager hands that hope to relive the experiences.  Visual candy, sweetening our afternoon. This is why the shutter clicked, anyway.


Chattanooga- rock forms to peak: the highway is busier here. The scenery makes up for our slowed pace. In places, ragged rock of amber, brown and grey color frame the road shoulders. High up on hill, large houses look out over the landscape. Cherokee influence is on the many signs . Roadside crosses memorialize loved ones. Dilapidated barns butt against modern homes.  Relics of the past echoed in advertisements for antique-ing. My stomach does somersaults, maybe it’s the Krystals, but it’s more likely the rise and fall of the highway as it cuts through the mountains.  550 miles till home.


Three officers wander around the shoulder cautiously. Their cars are flashing blue and red to warn us to move over.  Three young men stand, eyes trained on their van as it is settled onto a flatbed. The golden ride is sans bumper – that lays 20 feet away in a crumpled mess. The tires are deflated, much like the posture of the man who stands closest, his bucket hat and shades shielding his face, his beard showing purple in the center and black everywhere else. The Google warning said crash, but only one vehicle remains on site.

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