On the heels of buying my son a pair of dress shoes in the same size my husband wears, I needed some retail therapy myself and bought these cute as heck black silk shantung espadrilles. It was a beautiful sunny day today, and realistically, I could even wear these to work this week, if my toenails were in any way ready to see the light of day. But I think they were my little pick me up for today, and I will save their debut for a day when it is more truly spring...not just a somewhat perplexing seasonal confusion like this week feels.

Driving home from our shopping trip, I had some great music playing, the sun was bright in the sky, and Devin was next to me, but quiet, as he was engrossed in The Hunger Games. ("Mom, Dad, this book is SO good!!!" No, really? Didn't we TELL you you should read it a month or more ago? Ahhh, the satisfaction of finding something on your own...) I was thinking fondly of my new shoes, and also got to thinking of my fourth grade teacher...always interesting to think back on your own teachers, in particular when you are one yourself.

Mrs. Snover was not a teacher I disliked, or liked, really. When I think of her she is just kind of neutral, but I have two very distinct memories nonetheless. One involved a note written to her, by my friend Sally and myself, explaining to her that we really were not happy with our placement in a cooperative group with a boy in our class named Harold. And no, I am not making these names up...weird ones even for the 70's, eh? Harold, infamously, peed his pants in front of the class while giving a book report, and in our letter, we wrote a sentence that we found quite eloquent. "Quite frankly, we both feel he has BO." I remember giving her the letter and standing there while she read it. I was quizzically reading her body language and had no idea why, at one point, a ways into the letter, she seemed to, almost, laugh. She finished reading letter, then gently informed Sally and myself that she would not be changing the groups, but that the groups would not be forever, and weren't we at least happy to be seated together. Life went on. We survived Harold. We did get moved, eventually. Still, that possible laugh on her part, it haunted me.

The other memory, she wore high heels to work every day, but changed into well worn blue canvas espadrilles that she kept beneath her desk every day in the afternoon.

I think I understand Mrs. Snover now.