So, I just wanted to add a few pics. Really, these are not going to be earth shattering, nor will the writing be splendid enough to peek your interest, but it is raining and I'm staying in doors.

That being said, I continued my cleaning today. Yesterday, I swept and scrubbed the floors. Today, I swept again, put away my laundry, cleaned the counters, washed the dishes, unclogged the drain, and swept the entry way. The sweeping of the entry way delivered a treat. Underneath my Yakima Rocketbox, which sits cumbersomely in the main entrance, I spied a postcard dated August 25th. The image on the card is of a fine young Anglo-Saxon chap, begrudgingly accepting a boot pressed against his cheek. His face mimics that of disgust, concentration, and acceptance, all at once. On the back of this captivating image, there was a note of sorts: The High Priest of the Mid-East, Shalom Boyle, wrote me in haste. Things have gotten sticky on the farm front, and he implored me to maintain vigilance in this good fight we find ourselves in. He highlighted the changing landscape of 21st Century warfare, and how if we try hard enough, our ingenuity just might be the creative Hiroshima the world has been looking for. Well me, being the scientist that I am, I take that as a sign to turn on the gas and start a fire. Every good scholar needs an opus, so too, for those so called artists. I am thinking of writing a novel with acrylic paints on 8x8ft canvases. Aside from my horrible spelling and lack of complete conviction, I see no reason for this not to be the answer to all of our problems. And so it is, and together we all say, amen.

This is a picture of the bus driver, our bus driver, coming back from Veracruz. Notice his slightly pontiff style hail he is giving. This delicate celestial gesture was a minute-by-minute mantra for this old concrete highway horse. However, there were stipulations: He only gave this gesture to other bus drivers (you can see the other bus off in the distance). To further narrow his rules of engagement, I noticed that he did not give this gesture to every bus he saw. So what was the distinction? The side view mirrors. Through countless hours of finite observation, I deduced that it was the side view mirrors of the bus, which were to descend from the roof of the bus, in an odd dog/lama ear sort of fashion. If our beloved bus driver, with his gently moistened hands, saw the same mirrors, then he signaled with grace. It was a great mystery to solve; I wish you could have been there.

This is what my class looks like, from the front and the back. The front is a menagerie of SAT vocabulary words, inspirational quotes, personal flags for each student, rock posters, and MLA format guidelines (if you click the picture and look in the upper left corner, you will see a darling little version of me). The back is a party of "I am From" poems, personal flags, and suspended baby pictures; each student brought in a baby photo and wrote an inspirational motto on the back. Now the innocence of their youth flickers above the perversion of their adolescence.