Our Sweet Puppy Dog

Our last days in Portland, Carbon followed us from room to room, looking up at us with anxious eyes.  Her breathing was raspy, as it has been for the last few months, an indication that the laryngeal paralysis was getting worse.  She could still jump up to the bed and curl next to me with a doggy sigh.   Contentment or resignation?  I was never sure which, but when I reached down to pet her, she would stretch alongside me and rub her head against my hand, demanding more of that ear action, please.  Simone would join us, sometimes purring on my chest, sometimes sitting in her library lion pose on my feet, sometimes rubbing her head against Carbon's.

They both knew something was up.

The car and truck were packed and M, our 3rd driver, was ready and waiting.  I sat with Carbon in front of me, as I stroked her ears, rubbed her chest, scratched her back.  D joined me, and we said goodbye, tears rolling down our cheeks.

Simone followed us to the cars and I picked her up for a final hug.  She purred and then leapt down and started rolling on the sidewalk.   I got in the car, and she sat up and watched me with slanted green eyes and pointed ears.  She has lived with us since she was 4 weeks old...now she is over 7, still kittenish in size, feisty and street smart.

We had a nice drive east through the Gorge, fetching up at Baker City for the night.  The next day we made it as far as Spanish Forks, just south of Provo UT.  As I checked my e-mail, I came across one from our upstairs renter.  Carbon had apparently collapsed outside the woodpile on Saturday after we left.  Her breathing was labored and she was foaming at the mouth.  J got her inside and lay with her at the foot of the stairs, stroking her, calming her.  The next morning Carbon was upstairs, sleeping on the rug in the big common room outside J's bedroom, back to normal.

I sent a thank you note.

Monday was Day 3 of the drive, and my 53rd birthday.  We had a long drive ahead of us:  through mountains of SE Utah, on into southern Colorado and then angling through New Mexico, our new home.  Lots of amazing rock formations and wild lonely country.

Outside of Moab, we stopped for gas and a bathroom break, and that's when the torture began.  I checked my phone:  a message from Mom wishing me a happy birthday, and a message from C, our Portland neighbor.  She had found Carbon collapsed in the street, foaming at the mouth, vulnerable to passing cars.  She carried Carbon inside the gate, got her some water, settled her on the porch, gave her some water, and put the large flower pot in front of the gate to keep her inside.

Apparently our renter, who is a professional dog sitter and dog walker, decided to lock Carbon out of the house, and Carbon started looking for us.

Over the next several hours, we called people all over Portland, trying to find someone with keys to the house to get Carbon back into safety.  J had confiscated the key we had left under the pot for our friends.  Our other renter and key-holder was not moving in until the next day.  H and S were still in Colorado with the spare keys and the CareCredit card.  We reached voice mails galore, and when we actually reached a person, the mountains started interfering with reception.  We dropped calls.  We called again.  Voices faded in and out.  It was agony.

We reach KJR, D's son.  His car was unavailable, so he walked several miles and sat with Carbon until our renter returned.  He got Carbon into the studio, which the b&b renters had just vacated.  Constant calls over the evening and next day, as Carbon's condition waxed and waned.  A trip to Dove Lewis emergency vet.  A call to the regular vet.  Discussions of medication and treatment.

Tuesday morning we arrange for M to help KJR sit with Carbon for the rest of the week, until Saturday, when H and S return to take over.

Early Wednesday morning, our son calls.  Carbon had gone outside, gone to the front gate, and then returned to the house.  Wearily, painfully, she walked back up the stairs, her arthritic legs laboring.  She walked into the house, lay down, and...passed.

There are no words to express our grief, guilt and gratitude.  We know we rescued her, gave her 5 years of love, received the same back.  We know we couldn't take her with us.  We know she was old and seriously ill.  We know that our son and our dog had a hellish 3 days.  We know that our careful plans did not cover this eventuality.  We know that Carbon was looking for us, missing us.  We know that we did the best we could.  We know that we have family we can count on. We know that our sweet puppy dog spent her last hours with someone who loved her as much as we did.

Today our son sent this message:

She loved the porch.  I love you guys.

Thank you.

My house smells like cheerios

Yesterday I finally started to pack.  D had gone to the grocery store to find uniform boxes:  none of that liquor store jumble for us.  I went through the bookshelves and tchotchkes and stacked up photos and music and art, trying my best to pack in an organized fashion, but not make it too heavy to carry up the attic stairs.

I took the duct tape (has anyone ever used duct tape for taping ducts?) and the large marker.  I sealed and labeled:  "K's books, NF"  "D's photos."  "K's letters."  "Monmouth memorabilia."  (Why did Mom have to start sending me the high school essays and tassels?  And the baby book with one page filled in?  And the baby bonnet?  And every, I swear, letter I wrote home from college?)

The whole time, I was haunted by an indefinable, not unpleasant, sweet/nutty odor.  While I packed, I puzzled over it....paper usually smells of must or dust or something old.  Not of food.

Today D went out for more boxes.  He dropped an armload in the entry and I was overwhelmed by that odor.  I looked at the boxes and saw the labels:  cheerios, rice krispies, corn flakes.  And I figured it out.  Duh.

An unexpected 
Off-shoot of packing: my house
Smells of cereal.

In which refgoddess discovers she's a lousy mom

So, we're getting ready to move to New Mexico.  We have 9 days to decide what comes with us and what stays.  We have no money for a real move, and we want to figure out neighborhoods and jobs before we totally uproot.  The original idea was to rent a furnished apartment and take enough dishes and clothing to last for 6 months while we located a more permanent dwelling.  Sadly, we were unable to find a furnished apartment within our budget.   Of course, there are plenty of vacation rentals, and if I were an executive I could find some dandy places..... for $3.5k a month....which is more than I'll be making.

Instead, we are renting an unfurnished 2-bedroom apartment, loading up the truck (cue Beverly Hillbillies theme song) and the Honda, and looking for drivers to spell us on the 3-day drive.  There is everything to be done:  finding boxes, packing things for storage or transport; finalizing rentals here and there, setting up utilities, filling prescriptions; finishing up taxes and other business transactions; saying goodbye to friends for the nonce.

Fortunately the most difficult and important job was taken off our hands by H and S:  they offered a home to Carbon and Simone.  I will not dwell on their kindness in taking on a geriatric dog, right after losing their beloved Louie.  Nor will I dwell on how it feels to leave the furry side of our family behind.  I know it's in their best interests to not uproot or separate them, and there's no way Carbon can manage the trip with her laryngeal paralysis.  But I will miss them so much.

Monday night, H and S came over with knitting and notebook and ice cream to discuss the logistics of the hand off.  Who's the vet?  How do they behave at the vet?  What sorts of meds do they take?  What do they eat?  Are they allowed people food? Do they have accidents in the house?  Can I predict the causes?  etc.

I fumbled on so many of the answers, most of them Carbon-centric.  Ummm....yeah those meds, well, they're supposed to be given every 12 hours, but she's lucky if she gets them once a day.  The ulcer on her gums has been there for over a year, there's an ointment but I don't put it on her regularly because it's a 2-person job.  No biting,  just a lot of head-burrowing and head-shaking.  (Simone still has stitches from her last abscess and I can feel another bump.)  No walks for Carbon, now that her ailment has kicked in.  (Yes, it's a good idea to keep Simone in for the first week, but good luck making that stick.)  Food, umm....she's allowed to lick the plates, and I usually just set the plate on the floor when I'm done although I know she should eat in the kitchen, mumble mumble.... Commands?  "Sit, go lie down, moven sie."  Stay, sorta.  She comes when I call her name, because that usually means food or walk.  She does not come if there's a squirrel in sight.

They nod and take notes and at no time do they say I'm a lousy mom, although at one point S informs Carbon that she will be moving in with a martinet.  I'm guessing she'll be learning a few more commands.  I'm pretty sure you can teach this old dog a few new tricks:  she's both smart and amenable.

We finish up the list, talk about our respective travels, eat some smooth and creamy vanilla ice cream, sans chocolate sauce.  Simone cuddles up next to me and I get a bit teary:  usually cuddling is reserved for the cold months, but I think she knows I'm getting ready to abandon her.  Carbon lies at our feet and gets up now and then to put her head on a knee.   H and S tell me that they are so looking forward to having a biological kitchen cleaner again:  they are tired of picking up dropped food, and the soap usage has risen since Louie stopped licking the grease off the plates.

I am grateful to have trustworthy and loving friends who want to take on my responsibilities.  And, although I am the light of Carbon's life, I think they'll be better moms, too.  But oh, I'll miss them.  All of them.

Ear-worms from Ashland

Way back when I was just a child and TVs were black and white,  the TV networks ran a musical version of Cinderella, starring Lesley Ann Warren.   I remember watching it, and my nascent feminist was nauseated by the scene where she dips up water for the Prince, gazing raptly upward with big eyes, as she served her man.  Nowhere does this show up in Grimm, but there are some biblical overtones of Eliezer and Rebekah.  It seems that wife hunters need to haunt wells....but I digress.

That scene was thankfully absent this past weekend when Ashland served up a demented version of the Rodgers and Hammerstein classic, performed simultaneously with Euripedes' Medea and Shakespeare's MacBeth.  D bailed 15 minutes in, during "The Prince is Giving a Ball."  I stuck it out, because I wanted to see what in bloody hell they were trying to prove.

Not being ADD, I found the effort of following 3 plotlines enervating.  I really wanted to focus on the Medea plot line, which I knew the least.  The chorus and various characters wore masks, in homage to traditional Greek theatre, and it really worked.  Actually, the acting in all three cases was superb, and the Medea chorus sang some lovely songs, but the interpolation of Cinderella really distracted from the tragedies, and it was difficult to make any connection amongst the plot lines.   They didn't really share themes, other than those of ambition, betrayal, and vicious parenting.  I did like how the proximity to Medea and, to a lesser extent, MacBeth, darkened the Cinderella plot.  You could really see where the fairy tale might take her, and they underlined the point by having Medea don Cinderella's kerchief and apron.  Yeah, sweetie, the prince and Jason are brothers in arms....just wait until you've lived with him awhile.

Eventually, the actors started sharing props and language, merging into each other, until finally all costumes were subsumed in an all-black rehearsal outfit, and the actors from all the plotlines merged, with royalty on the top floor, main characters on the 2nd, and chorus on the bottom.   Applause followed, some standing, but most of us were scratching our heads.

Despite my irritation with the seemingly gratuitous Playx3 device, I found enough interest and enjoyment to make it worth my time.  However, I will not forgive them for the ear-worms I took away with me.  I spent all day yesterday humming "Why would a fellow want a girl like her"  It was almost as monotonous as, "this is the song that never ends...."

heh heh heh

Walking the labyrinth

On Friday, April 20,  I got up at 6:30 am.  I had a busy day ahead of me, with lots of driving.  I was going to Dallas, OR, the county seat of Polk County, 15 miles west of Salem, which is 45 miles south of Portland.  According to Mapquest, I had at least an hour and 20 minutes of driving to get there, but that didn't count rush hour delays.  Since I was going to an interview at 10:15 am, I wanted to give myself plenty of time.

I left around 7:30, and got there at 9:10.  This was not all bad. I had a chance to walk around the town and find the coffee shop.  I noted that, right next to the library, there was a Mexican drive-thru, with handmade tamales.  I promised myself to get some for D, who is a tamale fiend.  (Any time we are in a town with a Mexican population, he is drawn to the women with the coolers.  Speaking no English,  short, middle-aged, straight dark hair straggling from rubber bands and hair nets, they are not particularly sales savvy.  In fact, I am wary of street corner food, especially when I can't see the kitchen where it was prepared.  At least with a food cart you can look into the operation.  But it didn't matter to him.  If the sign says Tamales, he buys them.   And so far his trust has been justified.)

I was in Dallas for an interview, the fifth one this month.  The first week of April I had 2 phone interviews:  UNM and OSU.  UNM invited me back, but I haven't heard boo from OSU.  They were deadly dull to talk with, so I'm not sorry.  Phone interviews are nerve-wracking enough when you can't read the facial cues.  But there is a lot you can do to ease that, and the UNM folks were courteous enough to laugh at my jokes and explain the pauses while they wrote.  Sadly, I had to withdraw my application:  the job was part time with a low hourly wage, and the town of Gallup didn't seem to have much in the way of jobs for D.

The second week of April I interviewed with the City of Albuquerque.  Another phone interview, and this group was also friendly.  The job itself is exactly what I did at MCL, with a 50% pay cut.  Since cost of living is about 18% cheaper in Albuquerque, it's a pretty big drop in pay.  But I truly am in love with New Mexico, which is why I was applying there in the first place.  The big skies, adobe houses, ruins, pueblos, rocks, high desert climate, sopapillas with honey and green chili stews....I could be happy there, I know.

The third week started with a drive up to Sno-Isle for my fourth interview this month, and my fourth interview there.  As usual, I was more than qualified for the job.  (And as usual, they didn't want me.  I called them yesterday to check on the process and was told that, out of 80 applications and 9 interviews, they did not find a match, so they are re-posting the job.  Lord knows what they are looking for.  Someone who can balance a pile of dishes while tap-dancing and reciting Gunga Din, no doubt.)

So....Friday.  I talked with the dude from the city, two upper level library employees, and a volunteer/member of the Friends.  The job title:   City Librarian.  My experience earned me a seat at the table, but my guess is that the job will go to someone with an MLS.  The woman who was interviewed before me was half my age (and therefore has half my experience), a little overweight, dressed in an unfashionable skirt outfit.   She seemed pleasant and very librarian-ish.  Lord knows how I seemed.  I had a lot of questions about governance, stability, town finances.  Nothing earth-shaking there.

Afterwards, I checked out the library.  They are a store-front location, with a Senior Center at the back.  Lots of wood, lots of shelves.  Big tables, a reasonable number of computers, nicely separated kids area.  The back entrance off the parking lot dumps you into a lobby where the giveaway racks live, as well as doors to the restrooms and senior center.  I followed a possibly-homeless guy in:  he went straight to the rest room and I never saw him again.  The front door off the main street takes you down a long aisle, lined with 6-ft high bulletin boards and more giveaway racks.  The room opens out at the end:  circulation desk in front, children's area to the left behind the bulletin boards, adult fiction to the right, with magazine racks in the storefront windows.  Non-fiction and computers are in the area to the immediate left of the circ desk, and the teen/media area is squished between that area and the children's section.  It's a messy maze of shelving, all overflowing with books:  some serious weeding and collection development would be in my future, not to mention some reorganizing.  But, I like the crowded-bookstore feel, so maybe not.

I stopped by the reference desk, which is nestled behind the circulation desk, and talked restaurants.  The reference lady gave a thumbs up to the tamales, and also promised me a fabulous shake from Washington Street pub, catty corner to the tamale shop.  I purchase both ToGo and drove a few miles back to Baskett Slough.  There I watched the geese and ate one of the tamales:  still piping hot, nicely spiced, wrapped in foil and corn husks.  The shake was not fabulous, but was quite acceptable, and it lasted me to Amity.  I took the scenic route home.

En route, I fielded calls from D and from N.  N was looking for a third carpooler to the RE overnight retreat at Menucha.  I offered my services, and there was a fair amount of phone tag for the rest of the day.

At 2:30, D had his fourth interview for a sales job:  this one was at a hotel lobby near Lake Oswego, and the manager wanted a chance to Meet The Wife and answer any questions I might have.  D found that to be a positive thing.  I think it's a little creepy, but I did like the opportunity to check out the job for myself.   So, I stopped there before going home, and then I finished baking cookies for the retreat.

While I was packing for the overnight, I got The Call:  Albuquerque is unofficially offering me the job.  This means that of the 5 people they interviewed, I ranked #1.  They are recommending me to the City Fathers, who will take up to 3 weeks to make a final decision.  Then, I get the official offer and negotiate a start time.  Thus, no giving notice or planning the move yet.  And then I have a 6-month probation.

Okay, so now I'm going to a UU retreat, to confabulate with my fellow RE teachers and set the course for the next year.  And my brain is whirling:  I don't know where I'll be next year, I don't know what I want to do next year, I don't know if I want D to come with me or stay home and mind the store.  I don't know if we can pull together for such a big move.  I don't know if I can even afford the move, but I know I cannot afford to reject a full time job with benefits.  My unemployment will not last forever.

I can't stop to think about this right now:  I have to finish packing and pick up my passenger, who teaches the 11:15 5th grade class.  I teach the 9:15 class, when I am not singing, so I've talked with her before.  But I don't know her well.  Now I learn that she's in a scooter because of CP, and that she has two Master's degrees and is embarking upon a third.  She has a lot to say about accessibility, LGBT, and minority issues.   She talks about her past, present, and future.   I listen, and I feel guilty for my own unhappiness and stress.  This is a woman who has dealt with more problems than I can count, and she is positive and creative and forward thinking.  I know you can't compare burdens, and that each of us has unique situations, and it's offensive to reduce my colleague to the status of Brave Handicapped Person Who Gave Me Perspective.  But liberal guilt, with all its inherent smugness, is part of my make up.  Offensive or not, that's what I find myself doing.  

Upon my arrival, I drop my sleeping bag on the single bed (no bunk beds for me) in the westernmost upstairs room in Ballard:  this is my place of choice.  It's furthest from the stairs, and you can hear the frogs in the pond.   I realize I've left the toffee and cookies back home, and the D is probably gorging on them.  Oh well.  I grab a chip from treat table and make tracks to the labyrinth.

Menucha, in addition to having fabulous food and views, has this really wonderful labyrinth.  The walk is flat basalt stone, lined with brick. The center flower is many-colored river rock, each color delineating parts of the petals, browns, blacks, pinks, greens, rusty reds.  Rose bushes circle the space, with arched entrances to the east, west, north, south.  Part of it is shaded by the surrounding trees, but the center is warm with sunshine.

A young woman is sitting cross-legged in the center, surrounded by papers and books, hunched forward over them, long brown hair hanging to the ground.  She does not look up as I begin my walk, slowly circling back and forth and inward, thinking about Albuquerque, my newly renovated home, the difficult relationship with D, my exhaustion and depression, my commitments to people and projects and organizations, my finances.  As I approach the center, the young woman deliberately gathers up her papers, stands, and walks off the labyrinth, due east, eschewing the winding path out, looking straight ahead.  I am startled:  I did not mean to drive her away.  But I am grateful, for now I too can sit in the center and think.

I sit, I think, I empty my mind, I feel the sun, I listen to birds and the not-so-distance shouts of people and drones of yard equipment.  I get up and walk out, still thinking.  I bow to the labyrinth's center and say, "Namaste."

But I still don't know what I want to do.  And, after 24 hours, much fun with my fellow UUs, and two more labyrinth walks, I still don't know.  I don't think I ever will.

On re-reading Gift from the Sea

I came across Gift from the Sea several years ago, when I was visiting our cousins in Sequim.  Usually, when I am visiting friends or family, I only bring along reading material for the transportation part of the trip.  Once ensconced in my guest room, I start roaming the bookshelves, awaiting that serendipitous moment when the things that interested my hosts will capture me as well.  In many cases, the title that grabs me is something I've read before, or something that I've been meaning to read.  Agatha Christie, An Omnivore's Dilemma, A Natural History of the Senses, Into the Wild.....you get the picture.  But Gift from the Sea was a true serendipitous discovery.  I picked it up because I was near the ocean, visiting a house that sat on a bluff over looking the Straits of Juan de Fuca.  From the opening line, I was hooked.

Yes, I agree, the beach is the place for contemplation, renewal, simplifying.  From Siddhartha to Alix Kates Shulman, people have gone to water to think, to empty their minds, to figure things out.   Why not me?  I am not a writer, a creator, a guru, a bodhisattva.  I'm just a 20th century middle-class middle-aged white American female, but I can identify.  I can empty my mind with the best of them.

But actually, I cannot.  I almost resent people who can meditate, people who have enough self-hood to realize that time spent within is time well spent.  I will sit cross-legged in the center of a labyrinth, hands upturned on my knees, eyes closed, listening to my thoughts, waiting for a thought-gift to take back out.  And my mind distracts towards the shuffling feet of other pilgrims, I think about what I need to do next, I think about the time I am wasting.

So, I don't meditate.  And, I have not had the energy to read, lately.  The books are stacked up on my bedside table, and I do dip into them, but they are mainly an escape into the familiar, the methodology of my going-to-bed ritual.  I read until the words blur and the book drops out of my nerveless hand.  I jerk awake for a moment, set the book back, take off my glasses, turn off the bedside lamp, curl up, turn off my thoughts.  

The other day, however, I picked out Gift from the Sea from my newly-organized bookshelves.  It's a tiny book, so it sits in the overflow stack at the front of the spine-out non-fiction, easy to grab.  I took it out to the shedroom for my night-time read,  and I was hooked again.  She writes about about the multiplicity of our lives, about the demands on our focus and being.  Yes.  I am the hub of the wheel, attention and energy focused outward.  If I don't tend to the center, the spokes start wobbling, the wheel is unbalanced.  There are days when I don't have the energy to tie a shoelace.  Yes.

I want what she had, an island to escape to, a place to simplify the duties and demands, to true up my wheel.  Where is my goddam island?!

Years ago I read an Madeline L'Engle book where the sensitive, wounded heroine escapes to a Greek island.  She is surrounded by artists, fellow sensitives, who adore her and support her.  It was typical L'Engle, escapist and self-indulgent.  I used to identify with her heroines, but now all I can think is, what a whiny thing.  Real people can't escape to islands.  They have to deal with the abusive husband, work with him or leave him.  They have to earn a living and do the laundry, paint the walls, walk the dog.   They have to take care of business.

But isn't part of the business of life to attend to the core?  Isn't there a way to find that space and time, to create that island?

I.  Want. My. Goddam. Island.  
Now.

Plans that gang agley

It's a very quiet afternoon.  This is my second stint at the school, so when I arrived I already knew the players.  I was scheduled to cover for the secretary's attendance at disaster training.  Although she had already left, she had taken care of the morning attendance and left her e-mail up for the afternoon parent messages.  The backup folks had started compiling the bus change slips.  This is the school from whence Kyron Hormon disappeared, and no one walks to school, so there is a complicated procedure for noting down changes.  Some are called in, some e-mailed.  Today, a bunch of girls are going to Brownies instead of catching the usual bus.  The yellow slips have been filled out, and I need to check ESIS to find out which class they are in for the last period of the day.  A student will come by around 2:30 to deliver the slips to the proper classroom.

Basically, I am only here to answer the phone and monitor the office.  This is the day for the school nurse.  She has two interns, so my EMT skills are not needed, fortunately.  It's a very inconvenient building for dealing with medical emergencies.  The tiny nurse's office is down the hall and around the corner.  The staff room, with the refrigerator and ice, is the other direction, down the stairs, and through the lunch room.  Last time I was here I got a volunteer from the gym to go get ice for me so I wouldn't have to abandon the office (the Big Crime in substitute secretary land.)

The school is on the outskirts of the district, and it takes me close to 40 minutes to drive there, over the river, through Portland's industrial area, past Linnton and Sauvie Island, up the bluff.  You come out of the woods into meadows with barns and scattered housing developments, and finally reach the school, two stories and a basement, lots of old wood and windows and box gardens.  The office has room for a desk and me, with enough walk-around space for the teachers to reach their mailboxes by the door.  My desk faces the door:  the computer monitor and the window into the principal's office are to my right and the phone is on my desk to the front left.  Behind me are files and the bell system.

The counter to the main hall is a few steps to my left.  This is where visitors and late students check in and parents check out the early departures.    The counter has a glass window which was closed when I arrived to give the regular secretary a little quiet while she worked.  Two volunteers and L are standing by the window when I arrive, so it's very crowded.  L used to assist the secretary:  last time I was here she kept tabs on me and basically fussed over procedures on my behalf. Today she is working on the bus slips.  She is conscientious, but easily flustered. I do appreciate her dedication, though.  Soon they leave and I'm on my own.  I open the counter window and watch the classes file past to go outside for lunch time recess. Several teachers talk about inside voices and quiet on the stairs.

The principal is also at the training.  He is new this year.  He'd been gone last time too, so I had already worked with the Person In Charge, one of the teachers.  She checks in again and lets me know that she is mainly doing preps this afternoon, so she should be available if I need her.  No one thinks I will.

The afternoon chugs along.  I finish the small amount of work available to me, send students to the nurse's office for ice, read my e-mail, do my electronic puttering.  The student comes by for the slips.  A parent comes by to take out two of her children for an appointment.  I can't locate the son:  he's a 6th grader with variable 7th hour classes, and there is no information for Wednesday in his ESIS record.  I am calling around when I hear the beep for an incoming call.  I look at the phone monitor:  it's 9-1-1.  WTF?

I hang up on the teacher, tell the parent that she'll have to wait,  and answer the phone.  "This is 9-1-1, there is a fugitive in the area, a domestic violence situation, the FBI wants you to go on Lock Out."  "Lock out?  Not Lock Down?"  "Correct."

I realize I have NO IDEA how a Lock Out works, and I call the PIC.  She is teaching a class, and needs to find someone to cover.  She asks me to make an intercom announcement, but I don't know how to do that either.  I am calling the Librarian for that information when 9-1-1 calls again.  "I'm sorry to do this to you, but the FBI wants you to go into Lock DOWN."  Okay.  I call L, and she too needs to find someone to cover.  The PIC arrives, and we realize that she's going to have to go from class to class to take care of this.  L arrives, and starts fussing over the intercom:  she too does not know how it works, and apparently the emergency instructions are outdated.  She gives me the principal's cell number while she goes to another phone to call another school for instructions.  I catch him en route back from the disaster training workshop, because he has an afterschool meeting with the Site Committee:  they are going to be discussing the budget and layoffs.

L returns with phone instructions, but neither of us can make them work.  She calls the emergency number for PPS.  Parents who have arrived before the lock-down are milling about in the hall.  I go outside to check on them, and they ask what is happening.  (Hell if I know.)  They point to the doors, where other parents are locked out.  "They aren't safe, you need to let them in.  We know them, we can vouch for them."  "Actually, you can't,  you have no way of knowing that one of them is not the fugitive."  I go down the stairs to let the parents know this is a lockdown, the kids are safe.  One tall dark-haired gentleman insists on seeing his son.  I say, that cannot happen right now, we are in lockdown.  He is banging on the door.  L lets him in, and the rest of the parents stream in behind him.  Another parent asks permission to go get her son, who is in the car, and bring him back inside while they wait for her daughter to be let out of the locked classroom.

This is not how it's supposed to go, but it's not really my call.  I find the emergency instructions at last, and realize there's a good reason we are told to stay away from doors and windows.  It's not just about shooters.

A substitute teacher calls:  he has no key to lock the classroom.  I find the PIC outside the office and let her know.  Parents are huddled against the office window, asking how long this is going to last, asking about buses, asking about their kids.  Someone says they saw police handcuffing a man.  I realize I have no contact info, and I call 9-1-1.  They have been trying to reach us:  we can let our people go.  A uniformed officer appears with the same information.  The PIC goes around to the classes with the word, and parents and students begin streaming out.  The dark-haired gentleman stops by the door:  "You never lock me out again, I complain to him (pointing to the principal's office), you try to lock me out again, I get in, you can't stop me."

Okay.

L shuts the door to vent to me about the lack of instructions, the fact that emergency training is scheduled for next week, the fact that the dark-haired gent is a nut case.  I call the principal to let him know all is well.  He is 10 minutes away, and soon will be in the midst of debriefing and crowd control.

I go home and post this to Facebook:

The lockdown occurred
While the principal was in
Disaster training.