The Ramblings of Weesatch Joe

Yesterday was the first day of school in the district where my wife teaches. Tuesday night, there was the usual night-before-school-starts flurry of activity: finishing lesson plans, loading up her books and laptop, laying out her outfit for the day, getting the shoes chosen, making sure lunch was ready to go, and triple-checking her double-checking of the alarm clock. When the lights went out, she was as ready as ready could be to start the day at 0530 when that triple-checked, double-checked alarm would go off, alerting her to what she had already known: it's go-time. When it went off this morning, I was up as well. I loaded her lunch kit with leftovers (last night's chicken enchilladas and rice), soda, and cookies. I filled up her water bottle, then told her that her hair looked great, her blouse was perfect, and the shoes matched just right. With a hug and a kiss, and a "good luck; see you tonight," she was out the door, ready to take on sophomores and seniors and...

She pays all her bills, and mostly on time, Spending her dollars while earning mere dimes. She's waiting on tables at a beer joint in town Where their interest is up, but her bottom line's down. She owes money here, somebody else there; Trying to stay even with pennies to spare. It's not much of a living; it's the best that she can. She's doing her living on the installment plan. There's little to give; there's little to take. The work is all real; the money, near fake. What else can she hope for? Can she find a good man? She's doing her living on the installment plan. The last call is poured, the lights turned down low, One cowboy remains, the music is slow. He drains the last drop of his flat, luke-warm beer, Puts ten on the table; "Let's get outta here." She considers his offer, ponders the chance Of taking him up for tonight's last-call dance. They walk out the door, her purse in her hand, She's doing her loving on the installme...