Trespassers

Think back to your childhood. Do you remember the neighbour whose property you wouldn't dare set foot on for fear you'd be yelled at or threatened within an inch of your life? I am not that neighbour.

Kids traipse across my lawn daily on their way to school. I know this not because I see them (I've usually gone to work by the time they walk through) but because they are the bane of my neighbours' existence.

"Those kids were walking through your yard again," they'd say, more exasperated than I.

"I told them you have a video camera," said one.

"We should set up a blockade," said another (he may not have said "blockade" but that was the spirit of his suggestion).

Yet another blamed the fact that a nearby church had been vandalized on the fact that I hadn't cracked down on the children cutting through my yard.

Recognizing the turmoil my lack of action was causing for my neighbours, I decided to talk to the offenders. I decided to appeal to their logic (a sound approach when dealing with children). I would point out to them that walking through my yard was not in fact a short-cut; it was no more efficient, shorter or faster than walking on the street (this is a fact). Yes, I was certain that once I pointed this out, they would change their ways, having learned an important lesson - in life and in math.

As I was heading out the door to work one day, a bit later than usual, two unsuspecting seven-year-olds walked the familiar path through my backyard and to my driveway. They were struck with fear upon seeing me (well, at least surprise).

"Hi," I said, feeling no need to be confrontational. "I want you to walk around from now on. I don't want you to walk through my yard."

The little boy nodded. The little girl was not swayed so easily. "But it takes too long to walk around," she argued.

This was my chance. "Actually," I said, "It's the same distance. Cutting through my yard isn't any shorter." She looked doubtful.

"Yes it is."

"No it's not."

"Yes it is."

"Really, it's not."

The little boy chimed in, looking at his friend, "Actually she's right. It's not any shorter."

"HA!" (OK, I didn't say this out loud but I was thinking it.)

"Oh," the little girl said, deflated. She looked at me. "Well, can you drive us to school then?"

"No she can't drive us to school!" her friend exclaimed. (I am relieved at his clearheadedness). "She has to go to work!" (Oh dear. Have they not heard of "stranger danger"?)

With that they were on their way. I haven't seen them since, at least not their faces. I thought I saw the backs of them running out of my driveway the other day, and I suspect they still cut through regularly. I can't be bothered to get too worked up about it. As for my neighbours, they've moved. Coincidence, I'm sure.

1900 hours

I helped coordinate a film screening at work tonight, and my first stop was at the security desk to request that the room be unlocked and to sign out the audio visual equipment. The security guard handed me the sign-out sheet, on which I neatly printed my name, phone number and the time of sign-out (7:05 p.m.)

"Oh, you're one of those people," he said with disdain, crossing out "7:05" and printing "1905."

"Oh. I see. You use military time," I responded politely (although truth be told the use of the 24-hour clock irritates me greatly).

"It is NOT military time," he said, clearly annoyed. "People always call it military time. The 24-hour clock was around long before the military ever started using it! I don't know why people call it military time!"

"Well, the military use it," I responded, perhaps defensively.

"Well it's NOT military time," he said again.

"I don't use the 24-hour clock," I said, unwilling to let it go. "I don't like subtracting 12 to figure out what time it is."

He handed me the AV equipment without further comment, neither of us willing to give up our respective time alliances.

I'm not sure why I feel so strongly opposed to the 24-hour clock, but I do. It seems too formal for everyday life. I've yet to hear a friend ask me to meet them at 1600 hours, and if one did, I'd wonder if I should wear a disguise.

To me, the 24-hour clock is reserved for a world of formalities - a world where order is the ultimate goal and hierarchy reigns. It's just not me. I'm more of an "order and chaos in equal measure kind of gal" (give or take - sometimes chaos wins out). And while the 24-hour clock is suited to some settings (like the military, for example), it just doesn't cut it for the day-to-day me.

The next time I need to sign out AV equipment, I'll tow the line and write down the 24-hour time (although I can't guarantee I won't twitch while doing it). I won't even mention the military. But secretly, I'll be peeking at my watch to see what time it is in the real world.

Purge-a-tory

I am purging my house of unnecessary clutter. Thus I spent part of today digging through piles of papers I had shoved in plastic stacking shelves at the back of a closet. It was a historical journey of sorts as I was reminded of what seems like a previous life. Here's what I found:

From 1998 - A stack of written evaluations from grade five students who were assessing me as a student teacher. I had asked them to tell me what they liked best about my teaching and what they felt I could improve. Here's my favourite (spelling mistakes intact):

"You aer a good techer. You spek loud so we can her you...You need to be a little striker (stricter). If we are doing math and i said I want an ice crem yoll get it. Your to suff (soft)."

(This is not true. I would not get a child ice cream if he/she asked for it in math class. First of all, it's impractical. There's no ice cream place nearby, and it could drip on the math, which would just be messy. But he did have a point. That softness was the beginning of the end of my teaching career...)

Also from 1998 - Apparently, at some point near graduation from the Bachelor of Education program at Mount Saint Vincent University, I and a few other students committed to create a newsletter on some semi-regular schedule and send out to our fellow graduates. I know this because today I found a stack of self-addressed stamped envelopes from my classmates so that I could send them their first issue. Oops - 12 years late and 20 cents postage short.

From 1999 - A binder from a career counsellor I visited as I attempted to figure out my career path. I didn't find the sessions very helpful, and I don't think I've looked at that binder since. As I went to toss it in the garbage, I looked at the cover. It listed the "job phone lines" for eight Halifax employers. While never having called any of those numbers, I've worked for two of the companies on the list - Maritime Life and Capital Health (listed as the QEII - pre-Capital Health). It's funny where life takes you.

From 2001 - A paper I wrote for a masters level education course. The title: "Online Education: Can the Internet Offer a Viable Educational Option?" Check out the opening line: "As the Internet becomes more a part of daily life, it is not surprising that it is also impacting the realm of adult education." Gee, d'ya think?

As I throw most of these things in the garbage or recycling (except the student comments - I'm keeping those), I'm left wondering what I own now that will 10 years from now bring me the same sense of nostalgia. I know what you're thinking - I could just get rid of things as I go, and save myself the purging later. It's true. And not nearly so interesting.