I had forgotten the peach. That was clearly the problem. I had made a note to myself there at the top of my lesson plan: “peach, lime.” We were going to be writing descriptive paragraphs, you see, and I thought I’d just bring some everyday objects to get us going.
A peach is a lovely thing. Fuzzy, warmly colored. A bowl of them, ripening softly in my parents’ kitchen in the waning summer evening light, very nearly brought me to tears once. Don’t laugh. It’s true.
Oh, go ahead and laugh. It’s still true. And I’ll use it as a metaphor for something someday, you wait.
Anyway, on Wednesday I had forgotten the peach. And the lime. I didn’t even have a pencil, which can also serve, in a pinch, as something Good to Describe. And I didn’t realize this until after the class had begun (not that I could do anything about it before that point), so that I just had to soldier on, teaching, teaching, and Hope for the Best.
It’s a short class, just Monday and Wednesday afternoons this week and next. I started with eight students on Monday; I had ten or eleven on Wednesday, and we had a fine time together. Really, we did, despite the fact that the topic is “writing,” something that makes Almost Everyone cringe. But I have taught this class several times before (read Many) and probably could, if I wanted to, teach it with my eyes closed. In my sleep, even. But I don’t want to, because teaching is just Too Much Fun.
Yes, it is So Fun, almost as fun as writing, and maybe nearly Just as fun– but Very, Very Different. I love to teach, love my students, have never, ever had a student I didn’t like. And that includes the boy in my eighth grade English class who was sixteen (16!!!) and hated school. It also includes the Very Small boy in my eighth grade English class who wouldn’t really speak to me and loved Beavis and Butthead in a way that was, frankly, scary. And it includes the taller-than-me eighth grade girl with a Really Big Mouth who made No Bones about the fact that she hated my guts for the entire month of September. She came around, or maybe I did. Either way, I really, really liked her.
But on Wednesday I had forgotten the peach, and when it came time to have the students Look At Something, and make a list of descriptive possibilities for said object, I Came Up Short. So I went to the windowsill and got the watering can that resides there, the ugly plastic watering can, and we used it.
I made fun of the watering can. Yes, I did. And this is partially because I teach with wit (when I can) and joy (almost always) and a self-deprecating sarcasm that tends to bleed onto other things. This watering can was begging for sarcasm, and it got it, full throttle (I meant to bring a peach).
In my Martha Stewart days (have you had Martha Stewart days? If so, then you know what I mean. If you are currently in your Martha Stewart days, then Get Out Now), this watering can Would Not Do. No. What Martha wants– indeed, what Martha requires– goes beyond Service. What She would want would be something galvanized, maybe, or French. Have you seen them in her catalogue? French Watering Cans? They are Ridiculous. Tall painted metal cylinders, slightly wider at the mouth than at the foot. That’s all. No spout, no handle. A can, indeed. You might as well rinse out that newly emptied can of stewed tomatoes and use it. Or no, don’t bother rinsing.
Still, I made fun of the watering can. Subtly, amused. The students laughed. Shared humor, shared derision. It was a bonding experience.
And what did we learn about the watering can? It was yellow. Yellow, yellow, yellow. Too, too. It was about the size of a pineapple, or a basketball. That was an argument. But for your sakes, I’ll say it looked very much the size of a large teapot, squashed flat on both sides. And on both sides, embossed, in relief, if you will, the image of two butterflies. Oh my. So attractive.
It had a sticker on one side, highlighting an offered possibility: “white cap twists off for more precise watering.” And, sure enough, the little white end of the spout, covered in holes to create a “shower” effect, could easily be removed so that the spout was bare, allowing water to come out in a single stream. Nice.
Did I mention it was plastic? And that we discovered a seam down its length, where it had been glued together? So this puppy was mass-produced, obviously, in symmetrical halves, and then fitted together with a counterpart, resulting in a serviceable watering can that one would Never want to leave out on the counter. Not Martha Stewart’s beauty ideal. Not my beauty ideal. Not really beautiful. No.
I thought we were done. I thought we had plumbed the depths of descriptive possibility. And then– how could I have missed this?– someone pointed out the handle, and the spout. Graceful, she said. They were graceful. I looked, and I saw it, too. They were indeed graceful. A Very Nice Shape to each of them, and slender. Very Nice. Lovely, even.
Now, suddenly, I saw that someone had Chosen that yellow. Yes, perhaps they were a bit enthusiastic with the dye. But yellow is nice. Yellow is cheerful. Yellow is better than, say, grey for a watering can. Better than white, even. Better than the natural color of plastic, whatever that might be. And someone had decided on butterflies. Embossed butterflies. Butterflies in relief. Butterflies are cheerful, too.
So what if it was plastic? And mass-produced, tell-tale line of symmetry and all? Martha’s watering cans are easily $19.95, and that’s for the small ones. This one, in all likelihood, stood on a shelf in Wal-Mart for $1.99, and does its job just fine, perhaps Better, than Martha’s (precise watering in France, apparently, is an impossibility). And it has a handle, a graceful handle. Someone had given this watering can some Thought.
Is that all it takes? Is beauty not so hard to find? Do we need only climb down from our sarcastic high horses to find it?
The view is So Much Better down here.
