July—My Month Off

 

When I was a teacher (1966-97, 2001-11), July was my only month off. I usually taught the early week(s) of June—and school re-commenced in late August. And during those times of teaching, I like to say (because it’s true), I worked seven days a week plus evenings. As an English teacher, I always had piles of papers to grade, preparations to do, meetings to go to, etc.

Don’t get me wrong: I loved it.

But that left only July for my family and me.

I read piles of books, did some writing, traveled to visit sites of literary importance. Even when I took a strictly “family trip” to see my parents and two brothers in western Massachusetts, I could see the nearby home where Melville wrote Moby-Dick, Edith Wharton’s home, Hawthorne sites, and on and on.

Once our son, Steve, left home, Joyce and I would take literary trips all around the country—to see places related to my writers I was teaching, writers she was teaching.

But once August 1 arrived, that basically ended. I would then begin to do a little schoolwork, every day—such things as preparing vocab lists, preparing writing assignments, working out lesson plans. So by the time school actually started, I was READY.

I can’t say I was fond of August, but I was always glad (afterward) that I'd done the work. Things generally went so much more smoothly. I could concentrate on my classes, grading papers, etc. And didn't have to worry about any of that other stuff once the first bell rang.

I will confess that it took me awhile to learn this. Early in my career I didn't really have the time. I was in grad school (1968-77), and I am grateful for that: I met Joyce in a Kent State classroom in Satterfield Hall; those advanced degrees helped me out now and then, too.

Though I have to say my middle school students weren't all that impressed. When I finished my Ph.D., I told them they could call me "Dr." or "Mr."—I didn't care (and I didn't). But then they wanted to know what kind of doctor I was.

And I frankly replied I was the useless kind—couldn't treat their dog or cat, couldn't prescribe medicine for human beings.

Some of them looked very puzzled, and I could tell that they very much agreed I was the "useless kind" of doctor.

Nowadays, oddly, I miss those busy days—days when the future seemed endless, when I could tell myself, after a mistake I'd made (and I made many), that "There's always next year."

There wasn't, and there isn't. As my current medical status confirms.

But I don't think I could teach these days, anyway: the many standardized tests, the rigid curriculum—not to mention the face masks all day!

I loved the academic freedom I enjoyed almost my entire career. The things we could read, the plays we could write and perform, the class trips—my wonderful colleagues and I could basically decide what would be good for the kids.

And we did it.

Sure, we all screwed up now and then, but I knew I had always next August to straighten it all out.