 |
COLORADO |
|
COLORADO |
One advantage of working in a rural county is the ease of multi-group collaboration. Many community departments are one person. Not only does that eliminate the need to choose which person is most likely to assist; but also, unless they are having a really bad day, it eliminates the need to navigate inner-office politics. The economy of scale advantage applies to recreation also. With one public recreation center in the county, it is common to meet collaborative partners during the off hours. That is where I ran into Sandy Miller one evening.
I first met Sandy in 1996. At that time, she was with the District Attorney's Office. One of my students had to meet with her for a pre-arraignment conference. The juvenile's parents were unwilling or unable to go - so he asked me to take their place. My ego swelled as Sandy spoke of the importance of working together to resolve the matter. Obviously, my collaborative, problem solving reputation had proceeded me. Pride reigned supreme as Sandy counted on future efforts to keep this young man out of trouble. It really was quite a crash when I realized it was an attempt to garner my cooperation because she thought I was the creep's father.
Currently Sandy is our county judge. She is also one of the best mediators I have ever seen. Sandy possesses complete control of her facial expressions. She can use expressions effectively when she wants to and can completely shut them down when she needs to. This allows Sandy to run her court without loss of focus even during the bizzarest testimony. While people are rattling off implausible, convoluted tales of allegedly guiltless actions, Sandy listens, questions and directs the proceedings while the rest of us are coughing, cheek biting or toe stomping in an attempt to avoid breaking out in guffaws of laughter during open court. An occasional, very subtle, twinkle in her eye is the only acknowledgment of the comedy that is playing out in her courtroom.
I saw the twinkle in a case involving a few of my students. It was family feud day and the two clans felt the need to get restraining orders. Between the weeks of finger pointing, rock throwing and insult shouting, everyone felt the need to be restrained from everyone else. The permutations and combinations were staggering. It lead lesser mortals like me to jump to the conclusion that all of them should be restrained - in another part of the state.
Sandy's eyes were twinkling and I was coughing a fit as the adults sound like kids and the kids sounded like - well, kids - as the accusations flew. The most serious allegations might have warranted an office referral; but, sounded silly for restraining orders. Still Sandy handled it like a pro, the protagonist somehow had been identified, proper and sensible restraints had been issued and everyone felt heard.
I saw Sandy at the Rec. Center a few nights later. She brushed off my awe of her mediation skills as "doing her job". Then she mentioned that dealing with my students might lend credence to the theory that space aliens were on earth. Well, that was too good to pass up. I ran out to buy a supermarket tabloid. Then using words and pictures cut from the inside, I rearranged the cover to show a flying saucer and the words "Local judge says, 'Aliens Living Among Us' " which I presented to her.
Of course, my familiarity with the local justice system and smart-alec nature can lead me to the brink of trouble. My boss has requested, when confronted by irritated parents threatening to sue me out of existence, I stop saying, "Go ahead. Suing is easy, winning is hard." I made myself uncomfortable, when a lawyer conducting a telephone interview started by threatening to subpoena me if he found my answers uncooperative, caused me to impulsively respond, "Ya, ya - you call them subpoenas, I call them appointments."
One can only live in fear of court action for so long and I find myself in a job were I might be sued over something as simple as "go to sleep." That all started with the local tradition of sending sixth graders on a three day, two night camp experience. It is a rite of passage from elementary school to middle school. The kids are bussed to a professionally run summer camp that finishes their season by contracting with the school district for this activity.
The camp staff runs activities with middle school staff there to assist. When it is time for bed, staff and camp personal act as cabin supervisors. When a student on my case load goes, I am frequently asked to help with the night supervision. Since my case load is county wide and the start of school is always a challenge, I need to spend the days in the school district, do the hour and half drive to camp, do night supervision, eat breakfast and get back on the road to return to the district. Since I am driving a convertible in the Rocky Mountains during color season and getting fed wherever I go, it really is not that bad. It does get a little tiring though.
As I am doing the night cabin supervision, I am backed up by one of the experienced camp counselors. Every evening I sit down with them and explain the challenges and expectations of working with kids who have identified emotional difficulties. Every evening I am reassured by the young, enthusiastic camp counselors who share tales of all their experience and total devotion to kids no matter how challenging. Every morning they suddenly discover relatives in Iowa they simply must visit, leaving me, the next evening, to be having the conversation with yet another counselor.
It was the second sleep deprived night, third camp counselor and around 3:30 am when I was rose from my exhaustive sleep.
"Mr. Boston, Mr. Boston"
It was the kid that could never get my name right. No matter how many times we practiced Wasson - within minutes I was Boston again. I figured it was okay since everyone knew who he meant. Besides, problems presented to Mr. Boston somehow seemed easier to handle since I had no sense of ownership.
"Mr. Boston!"
"Whaaaaaaaaaaatttttttt?"
"Mr. Boston - wake up!"
"Whyyyyyyyyy?"
"I killed a poisonous cricket in the bathroom."
"That's nice - go to sleep."
"...and flushed it down the toilet."
"Good job - go to sleep."
"You got to come see. Come on Mr. Boston!"
Gentle stirring in the bunks and a moan from the direction of the "experienced" camp counselor convinced me that I should go. In some surrealistic rendition of the Andy Griffith show, we wandered toward the bathroom.
"I killed the cricket here."
"Yup - go to sleep."
"And flushed it down that toilet."
"Sure did - go to sleep."
"Is it gone?"
I resisted the temptation to explain that the poisonous cricket was traveling through the sewers to find his house and exact revenge as soon as the kid got home.
"Sure is - go to sleep."
We wandered back into the sleeping quarters where I tucked him in with the most kind and nurturing thought I could muster, "Go to sleep." Then I stumbled back to my bunk.
As I drifted off, a couple of sleep deprived thoughts wandered through my head. The first was my assumption that the kid understood the word "cricket" and misunderstood "poisonous". What if he understood "poisonous" and used the word "cricket" for anything smaller than a dog? He could have uncovered a nest of scorpions, brown recluses or baby rattlesnakes. My last thought was of Sandy, eyes twinkling, as a class action lawyer was grilling me on the stand for my lack of action in this situation, "So you were alerted to the danger and chose to do nothing about it. Why was that?"
"Well, Mr. Boston?"