dannydmc

Its 11:30 at night and the sun is just now sinking down to the horizon to sleep for the night. For its own sake, I hope it gets there soon; old Helois rises at 6:30 in the morning and, from my own persona experience, 6 hours of rest for the day just does not cut it. I wonder if the sun ever falls alseep while on the job; I manage not to, but its a close thing sometimes.
I'm in the home stretch now, here in the village; I'll be flying out of town Friday morning, giving me about three more days here. The weather has been beautiful, the snow is almost entirely gone save for in some of the shaded areas, and so I've been walking late at night. It helps me to relax, and allows me to put my thoughts in order; I'll be honest with you, I hadn't seen it for months, but the land up here does have a peculiar beauty to it. Its not the sort you'd see in almost any other part of the world; the lack of trees means that you can see for miles around, and the way the sun hits the slowly greening grass late at night can be breath taking.
Unfortunately, I'm not the only one up late, now that school has been drawing to a close. There have been bands of kids wadering around well past 1 or 2 in the morning; some of them composed of children as young at 6 or 7. I try to imagine staying up that late at that age and can't manage; save for the periods of insomnia I suffered from in High School, I spent most of my early years as an early-to-be-early-to-rise child. My parents would have had it no other way. It wasn't until I got to college that I truly came to appreciate the beauty and excitement of the late night; a love which has forever ruined me. Unlike the other teachers in the village, I oft times am unable to fall asleep before before one, let alone midnight; the result is that i drag during the entire day. If it were up to me, school wouldn't start until 10 or 11 in the morning at the earliest.
Anyway, these bands of children, invariably seeing me up and smoking a treasured cigar on my front porch, like to play the time honored game of "annoy the teacher". Some of this is good hearted, and however irritating, I can sense the fun behind it and am loath to snarl at them. Others, and my others I mean 'most' are just down right mean; they do it to be obnoxious and gain a reputation amongst their friends. Since I like to be alone when I'm walking, or smoking, this drives me up the wall; a fact which they notice and which eggs them on even further. I've taken to snarling "Go Away" when ever i see people around that late; tapping into a meaness of my own that I've done myself to bury over the years, but which has sprung back from the grave in recent months.

3 more days of school. 3 more days and this adventure of mine is over with; I doubt I'll ever see the inside of a High School classroom again, until my own children and encaged in one for 8 hours a day. I have no regrets; the truth of the matter is that i'm not a very good teacher; I don't have the skills neccesary for the job. So be it. I entered into it with noble intentions and, as so often happens to be romantics, reality struck me a blow in the nose. I tell myself that I did my best, and I really do believe that; I tell myself that I'm not bitter, and have a harder time swollowing that line. No, there is some bitterness; but it will pass with time. I'm not one to hold grudges or to allow myself to ruminate too greatly on the past; I take my licks, learn from my mistakes and move on. There's nothing to be gained by doing anything else.
That being said, I think there is a part of me which will miss the village. Despite the lack of anything to do, the inability to mine to fit in, there is a part of me that did come to grudgingly like this place (not love, it isn't Wisconsin or Ireland, but like). I met some great people over the past two years, was treated kindly by many, and I thank them for that and wish them the best.

But my mind is turning now to Wisconsin; home. While walking tonight I crossed a bridge which traversed a small stream which had cut a deep gash into the soft tundra-ground. I was reminded of the small crick in Hatley; a small little trickle which passed under a culvert and fed into a marsh on the otherside of the road. My Aunt Bernie used to walk down that way with my sister and I, and we'd throw rocks into it, or toss a twig in and then run to the other side of the road to wait for its arrival in the marsh. Sometimes we'd pick the Daises which drew there and take them back to Bernie's house to put in a vase. it was a strong memory and brought a smile to my face; its those simple things of childhood, I think, which stick with us until we're all old men and women. The toys we had, the video games we played, never seem to matter as much as those brief moments of pure silliness and gaity which seem to be the hallmark of children. I'd like to think that I haven't given up on that attitude entirely; my inner-child is still doing quiet well despite the abuse he's taken over the years. But he's not as strong either, and there are times I miss the excitment and amazement which come with being that young; every day is an adventure waiting to happen, and at that age we haven't yet forgotten the great truth that each day is new, each one special.