FORMAL WEAR

 First let me say, if you know how to spell the word boutonniere without spell check, you are light-years ahead of me.

My daughter is attending a formal event this evening.  Weeks ago we stopped by the florist to order the boutonniere for her handsome date.

The Spanish Inquisition (I mean florist) started her investigation by directing the question to Aubrey. "What color is your dress?"  That was easy.  "Pink, but we just want a white rose."  "What school is this for?" We answer (though it is not really relevant) and she writes this information on the paper as though it is an important clue. Doubts began to surface as the florist's litany of questions progressed with more queries having nothing whatsoever to do with assembling a floral decoration for my daughter's date's lapel. I redirected to the task at hand and asked for a Saturday morning pick-up.  You would have thought we had asked for spit-shining and overnight delivery of the Crown Jewels.  "I can't possibly do it that early...."  (Silly me, I thought I was the paying customer and got to decide when I needed something.)  Another impatient thought flew through my racing mind (something along the lines of- this is ONE SIMPLE BOUTONNIERE, not a rolling float for the Rose Parade.) I usually manage some degree of propriety and said neither of these things out loud. Despite the uprising in my head, my outward affect remained calm.

Succumbing to pressure (I've always been an easy target for a bully) I agreed to the time Madame Florist decreed. But it made me nervous. It was only 2 hours before Aubrey would need it and already anxiety began knotting my stomach. Despite the useless witty comebacks coursing through my head, I'm a complete pushover. The florist scribbled copious notes willy-nilly on a plain sheet of paper and "filed" it by shoving it into a stack of papers (assorted sizes and shapes.) 

I began fretting the moment we walked away and could not calm the uneasy storm until I returned a week later to change the pickup time.  She saw me coming, stuck out her right leg and effectively completed the menacing posture by placing her hand firmly on the hip.  She watched me approach and I lost resolve with every step. "I need to change the time of the pickup for something I ordered."  HEAVY SIGH.  Out came the worn manila folder stuffed with papers and with little patience for my appeal, she asked for the date.  She located the paper with only a little difficulty and I had to admit I was somewhat relieved that she actually had SOME kind of system.  "I need to pick up the boutonniere a few hours earlier."  She began shaking her head in disapproval.  (Does this woman NOT want to sell flowers?  Am I on Candid Camera?)  "Why?” she asked.  Okay, now I was getting really annoyed.  Who knew what time Aubrey was going to need to leave the house and I did not want to be scrambling around at the last minute.  Additionally, I had little faith that the boutonniere would be waiting for me (and acceptable.)  I did not want to provoke unrest by voicing my distrust so I chickened out and framed my lily-livered answer. "I have to BE somewhere." She looked at me like I’d been caught in the school hallway without a pass. My stomach churned and from the Inquisition’s mouth came words which nearly brought my nonviolent generally congenial disposition to outright fisticuffs....  "Where do you have to BE?"  OH MY WORD!  I should have remembered I had feet and stomped off to another florist but while forgetting my lower limbs, at least I found my voice.  "I am NOT picking up this boutonniere on Saturday."  The florist measured me with her eyes and threw me a bone.  "I can make it on FRIDAY."  Okay, this sounded like compromise and besides, if my blood pressure went any higher I’d start lifting off the floor. I started to cave (again) and asked a question of my own. "Will it still be okay for Saturday night?" Now SHE was offended.  "Of course! (unspoken reference- DUMMY!) Just stick it in the refrigerator."

Fine. I requested the change and watched this haphazard recorder of details scratch out Saturday and pen FRIDAY on her scribbled paper. 

I like a good insurance policy and felt a little better since this gave me a window of time during which Aubrey and I could plead our case to a different more benevolent florist or heaven-forbid make our OWN homemade version of a boutonniere if things fell through.  But I still harbored a naive belief that this would not be necessary.

I guess you know where this is going. 

I stopped on my way home yesterday afternoon to pick up the stupid flower.  The florist-tyrant was mercifully missing, leaving two sweet young apprentices in her wake.  The first was a boy named Brock who claimed that the only floral task with which he felt comfortable was filling helium balloons. I told him I was there to pick up a plain white rose boutonniere for my daughter’s date.

It was Brock who dashed heroically back to the cooler to locate the order. He returned holding a clear plastic box and wearing a very concerned facial expression. “Um….. do you remember what the thing was supposed to look like?”  Clearly he could not imagine that anyone in their RIGHT MIND would have ordered the monstrosity he held in his young hands. The box was missing its usual order slip so he wasn't sure to whom it actually belonged.  I’m telling you right now, there’s NOBODY going to claim that floral nightmare once they get a look at it.  In the center were three of the tiniest white rosebuds in the history of the world. They were standing in a line and fastened with unforgiving green adhesive.  Surrounding this trio was a bonanza of ribbon. A veritable plethora of dark pink loops and swirls.  The ribbons were curling well beyond the borders of the rosebuds.  Inside the dreadful layer of dark pink ribbons was another interior section of sparkly pink ribbons, a shade unbelievably uglier than the outer rim of festivity.  It’s like someone was going all out in a contest to create the tackiest decoration EVER. It was a ribbon mum of horror. The tiny rosebuds were dwarfed by the looping mount. I don’t know what this thing was meant to be, but it was failing on all kinds of levels.

This time I was not at a loss for words.  “OH MY WORD, that can’t possibly be it!  WHY would she put all that pink ribbon on an item for a guy’s lapel?”  Elton John? Liberace?  Brock had NO IDEA and looked relieved we were not expecting some poor guy to actually wear it.  He seemed really sorry to be the cat that had dragged in the dead mouse.  With downcast eyes, he informed me that there were no other orders waiting in the cooler. Desperate for help he suggested that perhaps his coworker might have an idea. 

Enter Mandee.  Despite being roused from her break time, she was immediately sweet and accommodating. Before she even knew there was a problem she was apologizing on behalf of everyone with whom she’d ever worked. (I got the feeling she’s had to do this before…)  I explained my dilemma and she began opening and closing drawers.  I suspect she was hoping a boutonniere instruction manual and supplies would suddenly become obvious.  Neither employee knew where the Queen of Flowers kept her file of orders. Mandee made a call to another florist and spent an inordinate amount of time on the phone.  Returning, she used both hands and every reassuring gesture her face could render. “I am going to HELP you” (spoken slowly and deliberately as one would speak to a wounded dog or a person in the throes of insanity) Mandee had assembled her sweet young courage and she was going to embark on the first boutonniere-making endeavor of her life.  With hesitancy but practicality she added, “I think it will take me an hour.” I thanked her for her willingness to venture into the unknown on my behalf and told her I’d return later that evening. 

It was more like 2 hours until Aubrey’s nail appointment was finished and when Brock walked toward me THIS time bearing in both hands the new clear plastic box. He was beaming from ear to ear.  Mandee had DONE GOOD.  It was lovely.  And I was ever so grateful.

In about six hours my daughter will be attempting to pin the boutonniere to her date’s lapel.  Here are my three remaining fears. 

Number one: Based on the frustrating florist’s lack of tact, her first question to Aubrey, and the scary overabundance of pink ribbon- that ghastly floral piece actually WAS the boutonniere she intended to make for us.

Number two: The florist ignored the change of date and is (as I type) making the boutonniere we requested.  This will inevitably start a tirade of nasty calls to the house when she thinks we did not come to pick up the order. (I will beg Jim to return the call if this happens – he loves a good debate.) 

And the worst case scenario which will actually cause me to burst out laughing because it would be SO GREAT in a really sick way- Number three:  When Aubrey’s date presents the flowers to adorn her wrist, it will actually BE the “ribbons gone wild” horror I saw at the shop.  (This final fear is the reason I am waiting to post this story until AFTER the formal begins.) 

“AFTER THE ROSE” ADDENDUM:  The wrist bouquet was absolutely gorgeous and Mandee’s debut boutonniere looked great on Aaron’s lapel. 

OUTDOOR CLASSROOM OBSERVATIONS

The temperature was easily 10 degrees warmer in the dining hall. This was not necessarily a good thing since the morning humidity was suggestive of a rain forest; almost thick enough to slice and serve. 

Of the hundred fifty or so souls at Camp Men-O-Lan, I was the lucky one. While for 2+ days my coworkers battled foreign mattresses, assorted unfamiliar bedfellows (some with home sickness, some with smelly wet socks) and the creak and groan of camp buildings settling in for a dark night, I was in my cozy bed at home looking forward to the luxury of my own shower. That is not to say I enjoyed waking while the dominant hour was still an unreasonable 5. But it sure beats having to sleep at camp. 

I have, in years past, felt a little sorry for myself when it came time for Outdoor Classroom. Spending hours preparing a medical plan, packing supplies, collecting medications and tracking down forms, it is always a little anticlimactic when I watch the last of the middle-schoolers and their teachers exit the building. I am usually left on campus with the other 400 or so (smaller) scholars of Penn View. Well I've learned my lesson about feeling sorry for myself because THIS year, there were no nurse-parents available to volunteer for the longest day of camp. It seems it was easier to find a sub to cover my office for 7 hours than it was to find a medical person to spend 17 hours away from home to be on standby for a long outdoor exercise in learning. So there (a little reluctantly) I was. Be careful what you think you wish for.

Having had enough of the stifling humidity of the dining hall, I took my laptop out into the crisp air on the front porch to do some writing. This should have been an uneventful task. There were no obvious external outlets so I determined it would be necessary to send my laptop and cord out the window. Good thing Bonnie was an able assistant (and NOT just because I was too weak to manipulate the screen to an open position.) It was more significantly a "good thing" because when I asked her to hand the chubby laptop out to my waiting hands, she coolly reminded me that someone less DAFT would just unplug the computer and send out the cord. Good point. (and duh....)

On the sturdy and surprisingly comfortable wooden porch furniture, I was at certain intervals surrounded by a fleet of dedicated middle school teachers. Bedecked in sweatshirts and bandanas (the apparent traditional garb of Outdoor Classroom) they were diligently sifting through Landis Supermarket bags of damp camp journals. Giving themselves to the task, they read student entries with an enthusiasm I found inspiring for instructors who lacked a decent night of sleep.

The elusive sun made its first Thursday appearance mid-morning, pressing its warmth through newly emerged leaves, catching light on the raindrops which fell the night before. It was seriously beautiful.

But then I was assaulted.  NOT COOL.  I felt something tickling my head and lifted away a surprised brown spider with rather hairy (and unsettlingly meaty) appendages. I'm not sure which of us was more displeased to discover the other and in a rather disturbing turn of events, I had no idea where the wild flicking motion of my hand had sent him. Did I mention I hate spiders?  I took a little walk around the porch to give the ugly fellow some time to find a new head to bother. 

While on the porch, a marvelous little man stopped by for a visit.  His mother is one of our science teachers and the aforementioned adorable little man is currently her three-month-old excuse for not having to WORK. Along with premature worry lines on his tender and expressive forehead, little Ezekiel was sporting the tiniest pair of crocs ever manufactured.  Sweet Ezekiel was too agreeable for his own well-being and was abruptly swept off by another of our coworkers without complaint.  He might have loudly and wisely refused this hasty relocation had he known he was headed to the "archery area" for observation.  The business of preadolescent students displaying archery skills is a dicey proposition AT BEST and upon discovering the whereabouts of the little darling, his return to the safety of the porch was promptly manipulated by his prudent mother. 

   

LOOK AT THOSE CHICKLET-SIZED SHOES! 

Nearly missing lunch, I was pampering a student's swollen ankle. In my absence, helpful coworker Heidi assembled my black bean taco. This creation was better than camp food has any right to be.  I KNOW camp lunches were not this delicious when I was a young camper... (Of course my childhood camp food preparation was not directed by a man in an official white chef jacket as was the case at Men-O-Lan.)

By one hour after lunch I had burned through most of what was previously considered a generous supply of instant ice packs, resorting to stuffing latex exam gloves with ice cubes from the kitchen.  Desperate times call for desperate measures. The downside to having the actual school nurse accompany an outing so rife with blisters and headaches is that familiarity breeds neediness. Just like the elementary students in the hallway who feel the need to report every Band-Aid as they pass me by, middle school students see my face at Outdoor Classroom and it prompts in them an overwhelming urge to whine. Not counting medications, I received approximately 40 complaints of illness or injury during my one day "shift." (This sorry pitiful condition seems to occur when children bring their boo-boos and belly-aches to the same school nurse they've visited since age 5...) Receiving a cotton ball of Caladryl on a barely visible rash, one of these needy students proprietarily remarked, "Can I tell you how nice it is to have our "own nurse?" I realize I should be thankful I am apparently so approachable and I'll try hard to remember that while I practice a firmer Nurse Cratchet face in the mirror.

The rain held off nicely, allowing for fabulous pastimes including (but not limited to) tie-dying t-shirts, the knuckle-scraping phenomenon of the ga-ga pit, Frisbee golf, pond fishing, paddle boating, obstacle course navigating, and the actual launching of rockets made from scratch.  Given the ominous forecast, it was a bullet dodged. In fact the wettest students were the victims of plummeting water balloons rather than the precipitation so maliciously predicted by forecasters. (Such harbingers of doom.)

Middle School Students Playing Three Blind Mice

 

The elementary students are always very curious about the "big kids" who get to go to camp for school.  They can hardly wait for their turn. Two of my own children have experienced this rite of passage and though it has been twelve years since my firstborn participated I can still say with conviction that I do not envy the laundry-processing mothers of this muddy crew.

So during my very small window into the Outdoor Classroom experience, this is what I discovered. People were smiling, nature was beaming all around us, and learning was happening in a very sneaky way. Food webs and pesticides were discussed and absorbed without obvious props like desks and textbooks. Memorable classes were taking place under towering oak trees, learners too engaged to scratch at the new mosquito bites on their mud-smudged legs. It turns out my coworkers (those sleep-deprived educators pretending they are just ring-leaders of fun in the woods) are categorical charlatans. 

Well-played teachers, well-played…