This week

Suddenly, there was lots to do. I had two tiny stories to submit by 5 on Monday and then, at 4:30, I heard from an editor from a nearby town wondering if I could cover a talk that started at 6. And I could. It was fun and a little unsettling to be covering a town where I didn't know people. Thankfully, I knew a exactly three people and that was enough. I took more notes than I'd ever be able to use, took lousy pictures (not completely my fault - the venue was dark) and got the heck out of there.

The next day was Key Day. Or, really, Missing Key Day. Aidan couldn't find his keys, so I let him take my car. But I myself was down to one key for the van, so I cautioned him that he needed to be careful. Wouldn't you know - his pants, cellphone, sweatshirt and keys were all stolen out of his (unlocked) gym locker. An afternoon of frustration and barely concealed rage. Even a three-mile run didn't cure me. I was so touchy that I got out of my friend's car when he tried to make me strap on my seatbeat one block from our destination. Bitch.

Later, after a longish School Committee meeting, I arrived home to a kitchen full of men: Neal, Aidan and three young South Africans who we were putting up for the night. They were members of the St. Alban's College Choir and they had sung at St. Luke's earlier. It was a cheery homecoming, and Aidan loved having the guests. (Again, I recall that this son of mine would have loved to be part of a bigger family. Oh well!)

The next morning, I cooked up pancakes, bacon and sausage and it all vanished into the boys. Neal and I walked with them over to St. Luke's, as they pulled their big suitcases behind them, for the bus trip to Boston and the rest of their tour. A brief but very pleasant stay.

Wrote a story last night and did an interview today and wrote that up tonight. I like this.

Getting a story right

So, I covered a meeting last Tuesday evening, came home and wrote a story about it. It was a complicated meeting, with lots of cost estimates, proposals and background information. By the end of it, I couldn't imagine how I would write it up. But, back home, the story came easily and I knew (thought I knew, anyway) that it was good. I sent it off to my editor and hit the hay.

The next morning, I had an email in my box from my editor. He said it was a good story but that he was holding it for the following Monday. He questioned, though, the lede of my story and wanted to discuss that. At first, I was annoyed. It was a complex meeting, I'd written a good story and it wasn't going to run. But it was the day before Thanksgiving, a terrible day to run a story of real substance. And, beginning of the week stories get more play online. Still, I didn't want him to be right about the lede. Mine was the right one.

We argued about it and I even told him I wouldn't revise it. But he talked more and I realized, much to my frustration, that he was right. My angle was good, but his was better and the bigger truth. It always comes down to not loving your words so much that you can't or won't change them. The story didn't run today (Monday), but will run tomorrow. It's better for all the hassle.

Covering elections

There are few more exciting nights for a daily reporter than election night. That was true as a Providence Journal copy editor too. When I was copy editing at the Journal, there was a buzz on Election night that I'd feel as soon as I entered the newsroom.

Of course, the strange thing is that there is always this waiting waiting waiting that has to happen. Then the news, all fast and compressed and crazy. And you work and work and work and hope that your work is halfway decent.

This year, I worked the primary solo. My editor was out of town on another work assignment. The videotaping was great - I was happily surprised to find so many willing participants. But by the time I was writing up my stories at the end of the night, I felt woefully unprepared. Why hadn't I compiled a list of the candidates? I was scrambling for the most basic information and feeling foolish. I vowed to be better prepared come the regular election.

Well, I was. Pretty much.

Still, once the returns were announced, I found myself jerking between video, still camera and notebook, trying to figure out what to do first. In the end, the video camera at Town Hall was a bust. No real point to it (although of course you never know ... ). It would have served me better to be ready with the camera (I almost was!) and worry about quotes later.

Writing was harder than I thought it would have been. I sat there, beer and notes nearby, unable to put a sentence together for a while. Finally, the words started coming. Maybe I got a good angle on my particular story. Or maybe not. But, as my editor says, you've got to feed the beast. It got fed. Still, I hope I'll be more prepared next time!

Jeez. I'm really a lot better in a crisis then in real life. A pathetic state of affairs. I was reminded of that today. After I expended way too much emotion during what could/should have been tough, but not crazy teary conversations, I got a phone call while sitting in front of this very same computer. "Hi, this is Jean, the bus monitor. Kate is asking that you come on the bus." What? I thought. James is off the bus. I heard the two of them here, in the house.

"Kate asked me to call you," said Jean. "We're having trouble with a girl."

Okay then. I put the phone down and moved to the front door, where James was sitting right inside. Okay, so he was inside. But, on the bus, I saw the problem. There were the three boys who've been riding the bus with James each morning, and a girl, who Kate was trying to restrain. The monitor was there too, helpless. Doug, the driver, sat behind the wheel, equally helpless. I took the girl and sat down with her on my lap, my arms holding her arms. She had really long, straight hair that was loose and everywhere. "She likes 'The wheels on the bus,'" said Kate as she moved forward on the bus, soothing the boys, especially 4th grader Xxxx, who was crying.

I spent the next 25 minutes trying to control this girl whose very name was unknown to me. I finally asked. Xxxxxx. Poor, poor girl. She was completely out of control and desperate for someone to save her. As calm as I tried to be, I wasn't the answer. She didn't get worse with me but she didn't get better either. I held tight and tried to keep my hands and arms away from her eager teeth. In the end, I got two bites, both on my left hand.

Eventually, Paula Dillon, head of special ed for the town, arrived and the two of us were able to move Xxxxxx into her car seat. Xxxxxx had been saying, "car seat, car seat." Yet an earlier attempt was unsuccessful. Paula proved the key. Then Xxxxxx said, "cookie." That was easy enough to solve. I brought her a couple of Oreo's and lemon cookies, with a cup of water. She ate and drank eagerly.

Meanwhile, Sxxxx, Wxxx and Xxx had been taken off the bus and were in our backyard, together with a completely oblivious James. Before long, we were accompanied by James's teacher, the school psychologist, the school principal (!) and, eventually, one of the one-on-one aides, a crazy collection of people. All in our backyard. Eventually, another bus arrived and the boys were taken away for their rides home. Lots of apologies from school staff, but really that seemed so unnecessary. These people - all of them - have done so much for James, for us. I was more than happy to help. Does that sound pretentious? Yet, it's the truth.

Hurricane? What hurricane? I found mealbugs ...

It always starts the same way: I see a moth or two and refuse to believe that I have a problem. Then, there's a moth that flies out every time I open the big cupboard where all the cereal is stored. And the nuts. And the popcorn. And the breadcrumbs. And shit like that.

Of course, I start checking everything that I take out to use and throw what I can into the freezer for the 24-hour kill method I read about years ago. Yesterday, I stuffed all the nuts and dried fruit into the freezer. Alas! It was too late. This morning, the evidence of serious moth infestation was unavoidable. Everything came out of that huge cupboard and the scene got considerably worse before it got better. They're only little moths and larvae and stuff but they creep me out!

Now, I have the satisfaction of knowing just what's behind, in and under that cupboard for the first time in at least two years. I'm not the most fanatical of cleaners by a long shot.

I'm out on my porch, listening to the crickets, happy for the soft breeze. We are poised here between summer and what comes next. Not fall exactly. Something kinder, more alive. School has started but it's been so hot this week that fact is hard to comprehend. And, now, as if on cue, a hurricane is threatening to ruin our weekend, or at least the beginning of it. Earl. Uncle Earl as someone on Facebook referred to it.

Perhaps this is all so dramatic because I am without a job for this moment. I am no longer a face of my02818 and that's sad. I've really really enjoyed my time there. This morning, a woman in the neighborhood stopped to give me a story idea. Of course, I was happy to get it and I passed it on to Bob. Passed it on, because it wasn't going to be my story. That's terrible.

I want to be able to be that person again, that person who writes about East Greenwich. Maybe someday.

So hot out today. I have come to a the Coventry Public Library in search of A/C, and to get a sense of Coventry. Amazingly, I've hardly ever driven into Coventry. It is a vast area with little there there. What a strange town to cover! I recoil at the challenge undertaking a Patch site here would pose. I would be starting from nothing, nothing at all.

I will have to decide soon. I think they are desperate to fill these jobs and happy just to have a live body with some semblance of experience who's interested.

Meanwhile, today was Aidan's last first day of school. He was so happy, really that's the word, heading off into his future this morning. I clicked several pictures, thinking that somehow I could hold onto him for a little longer if I filled up a memory card with his photographs. Strange, us parents.

For James, things went as they have been going since last year. He gets up, dresses, eats his huge yogurt-and-hot-cereal breakfast, asks to go outside, is thwarted in going outside by parents who don't want to bother have to bath him clean before school, Neal helps him brush his teeth and comb his hair, and then we wait for the bus, which doesn't arrive until after 9 a.m. The day is half over, or seem to be, and he's only just leaving for school.