Since I returned to Bloomington in the summer of 1996 to finish my degree, I have been convinced that I was leaving upon completion of the 10-year academic ordeal. I initially felt that I would head overseas, find a job teaching special ed., and then relocate to somewhere outside the midwest for a good spell. As time went on, I became less interested in teaching outside of the US, and mostly began to think of moving out to Portland, OR. Most of you know about that nifty little hamlet near the Pacific. Two trips in as many years, and the successful migration of several friends to the region had seemingly cemented my decision to head west. The Pacific Northwest is as beautiful as the people who live there describe; I have seen few places on this earth that can rival the slopes of the Cascades, the ragged basalt cliffs of the coastline, or the blooms of Portland itself, ripe with fragrance. The people there are more than friendly, and the city is a hotbed for a good many political and ideological movements that I tend to support. And, lest I forget, the beer is FANTASTIC!! They sure know how to brew 'em out there. MM-MMM good.


However, and you knew a "however" was coming, I have recently come to the conclusion that I will remaining in Bloomington for at least one more year. It is quite simply the right thing for me to do at this time. The past four months have changed my world and personal views in many ways. I can't say that I noticed it at the time, but it has occurred. Mainly, I have had 16 great weeks of student teaching, which has made me realize how much I truly enjoy the profession I have chosen for myself. Everyday presented a new challenge, and I believe I tackled them quite well. However, I also recognized that if I am to do well in my first year of teaching, I will require large degrees of professional support. In Bloomington, I have a vast array of resources, from professors to teachers to friends, to friends who are teachers. In a similar vein, I am fortunate to be quite valuable in the field. Male special ed. teachers are rare, and one benefit for me is that I will have the capacity to choose schools in which to work, as much as they are choosing me. If I were to move west now, I would not have that luxury. I would be compelled to either accept a job now, from a phone interview only, or to wait until arriving in August. Waiting would put me into the position of moving all my stuff and my cat across the country, finding a place to live, and setting up a special ed. program all in a span of three weeks. That's not including the time when I would want to hang with my P-land homies. It just doesn't sound appealing. I would rather do it in a year, when I could use the luxury of the teacher's summer to make arrangements for a slow, deliberated move.


I am sure that some will accuse me of taking the path of least resistance, and they would not necessarily be inaccurate. I have wrestled with that notion quite a bit. I am wrestling with it as I write this log entry. But I also believe there is a difference between fear of blazing a new trail (sorry, I couldn't resist), and exercising prudence when deciding upon a course of action. I also must point out that two of my sisters played a role in this process. One of them did so by having a baby. Grace is just too damn cool to go away from. She is about as cute as they come. Just ask her mother. The other did so by coming down to Bloomington and spending time with me. I really am excited about having another year in B-town with my little sis. Of course, the rest of my family is way swell, too, and I will be pleased to get to be around them for another year. And let us not forget Shan, David, Ned, Shari, Scott, Justine, Phil, John, Carrie, Clint, and all the others who I am currently forgetting.


There you have it. I would be interested in hearing from anyone regarding this entry. I love getting comments on this page in general. And, for those of you who will not have me as a city-mate in August, Clint and I are still planning on a late-summer trip in a westerly direction!! Keep yer eyes peeled!!

Love and hold the pickles,


Jimmy

Several years back, I had the very real pleasure of attending the nuptials of Kate Sibley and Pete Zubler. I can't imagine two people who were so right for each other, and it was quite grand to be there as they joined up for the long haul. As most readers here remember, we proceeded to have a fine time during the reception portion of the evening, and I myself hoisted many a glass of fine scotch to the happy couple (which likely contributed to my sonambulist performance at the GBV show later that night!). Somewhere along the way, the above piece of Polish currency found its way into the pocket of my suit coat. I found it several days later, and I could not remember from whence it came. I figured it was without value, and put it in my wallet for safekeeping. Time moved along its course, and one fine afternoon, Paddy McDunkleson (coming soon!) and yers truly were setting up camp near a beautiful lake in northwetern Montana. Something brought up the subject of currency, and I showed him the above bill. He admitted that it was he who placed the offending money in my suit coat--he had gotten at a bar in the City of Big Shoulders. Nonetheless, we still assumed that, being Polish, it was unlikely to hold any value.


So let's advance the wheel of time to 2000, and move our Imaginary Viewfinder to a middle school in Bloomington. I have a student who is quite fanatical about Poland. He studies and reads Polish history with the same degree of voraciousness that Hrothgar likes Bil-Jac Cat Treats. I was looking for a class starter one morning, and we decided to talk about the bill. My illustrious and resourceful student quickly jumped to the computer, and pulled up a web site indicating that my Zloty was worth almost $250!!! Wow. I had promised the young man 10%, and I was quite pleased to pay him. All I needed to do was get it exchanged. The bank said I had to send to American Express, and gave me a form to fill out. So I sent it. And waited not too long. One day, the Airborne Express delivery company brought an envelope to my door. Sure enough...it was the above bank note, returned without any good old American scratch. Apparently, all of the characters in this tale, with the exception of those cheeky fellows at American Express, had neglected to look at the date on the bill--1982. Of course, as we all know, the Communists were running the show at that time. Since they collapsed in the late 80s, my precious bill is worth as much as a Milli Vanilli Grammy (or any Grammy, for that matter). The tale pretty much ends here. Am I disappointed? Sure. But I never had the $250, anyway, so no big loss. And it was a fun project for my students. I laminated the bill and gave it to the student for his scrapbook. I figure he'll enjoy it.