Repeating, this is not a blog. This is an outpost from the wilderness of contamination. It's a twirling headspin if I look at the screen too long. It's a confusion of monstrous headache and shallow breath. It's a long tunnel of dark and gray, with nameless, faceless drifters looking up and down. Normally that would terrify me, but I'm too exhausted to care.
All right. That's enough whining. I truly can't get a whole blog out tonight, due to pneumonia taking up residence in my lungs. But it bears reflection on what got me this sick. I am blessed with an extraordinary immune system; the last time I was this sick was on 9/11, the only time I've ever missed school two successive days for being sick, as opposed to recovery from surgery. I know why I got so ill then: I had floated the Illinois the weekend before and inadvertently took a big gulp of that nasty chicken-contaminated river water. Voila! Pneumonia.
So what's the culprit this time? I have a couple of suspects. My nose is always dried out, making it less effective at preventing germs to get in the airway. My C-PAP machine is not working right, so I'm not getting good breath at night anyway. I'm in a public pool several days a week. And I'm running at absolutely top speed this year, working non-stop.
Oh, I forgot the most likely culprit: I had fun things planned with friends both tonight and tomorrow. That NEVER happens. There it is, right there.
Eh, who knows? I'll take my pills, drown my sorrows in water and OJ, and sleep all I can. Next week, hopefully, I'll be back in full form.
Saturday, October 27, 2012
Saturday, October 20, 2012
Not In My Space!
These are the things to which I must say, "Not in my space":
- Cooked green vegetables. God meant for us to eat all of 'em (except green beans) fresh and crisp or not at all. When cooked, they taste like dirt and are way too squishy or slimy. I realize this is a childish attitude to have. Just bring me a corn dog and shut up about it already.
- Rap, emo, screamo, death metal, Justin Bieber. These are not music; they are the most effective form of torture known to man. Don't believe me? Remember Manuel Noriega? Don't tell me that they wouldn't have used Justin Bieber to get him out of the house, if Bieber had been more than a gleam in his daddy's eye back then.
- Constant technocrats. In fact, I'd just like to rid the world of the Smartphone, period. It's beginning to look like the Smartphones are really going to be smarter than the people, and then what? There are already countless movies out there speculating on what happens when.....but it ain't none of it pretty.
- Anything scented with lavender or patchouli. I love them both; my brain does not. These are the migraine triggers (along with lilies and other strong flowers) that make the right side of my head go BOOM! and then it's Custer's Last Stand trying to calm the battle in there.
- Loud unexpected noises. They make me want to react the way some startled dogs react: snapping at the first moving person they see. I've told my kids this at school, and I'm not quite sure that they don't believe I really MIGHT bite someday. It keeps them in check, at least.
- Children out past 9 p.m. I want to slap the snot out of people who are out and about late at night with little ones who are weeping fit to beat Jesus, because they are so clearly exhausted. Babies belong in bed, not in Walmart, after dark.
- Loose, yapping dogs. The most mild-mannered dog will come after me like Cujo. I've been told countless times that either (1) This is because they know I'm afraid of them, or (2) It's a very bad sign of my character. The first may be true, but if you think a dog is a good judge of my character, you both need to be locked up.
- Creepingly slow drivers. They must recognize my eminent domain and pull over to let me by, or risk being passed in a cloud of exhaust and curses.
- Itchy clothing. And wet clothing. Oooo---they make me shiver just to think about them. Double yuck.
- Alarm clocks. I have three. I use them all during the school year. The first thing I'm going to do when I retire is either have a sacrificial burning of them, or just take them out in the pasture back home and shoot 'em down. Or, no!---I'll just go all Office Space on them! Who hasn't wanted to bash something to bits like that? Damn, it feels good to be a gangsta! (If you've never seen the movie, just ignore that. I can't possibly explain it.)
- Disrespect, lies, hate, racism, superiority complexes, and general a--hole-ish behavior. Wouldn't it be a better world if we all acted like our grandmas were looking over our shoulders all the time?
Saturday, October 13, 2012
Rock-a-Bye
There's not much in the world that can repair or heal a fragile or damaged spirit the way rocking a baby can, is there?
This week was as busy and challenging as all of them have been---even more frenetic, if possible, because I was battling technology, which makes me absolutely insane. (That is not new in the computer age; I remember feeling deep hatred for the sewing machine back when I still sewed in high school, when Mrs. Barrett's most frequent words to me were, "Rip it out.") But things reached a fever pitch on Thursday, when a student confessed something to me that was one of the most horrifying things I have heard in my 25+ years in education. I couldn't react outwardly in that moment, but I remember clearly what went through my mind: "I want to hold Allie and rock her to sleep, right now." Allie, if you aren't aware, is my baby sister's one-year-old.
That's what I did tonight, after spending most of the afternoon here on the ranch talking to Sheri and playing with Allie, having dinner with my parents and both siblings (since my brother is here from SD for a couple of days), and then giving Allie her bath. She put on quite a show after bath time, making a circuit of the room giving everyone kisses, which she's usually kind of stingy with----she's kind of fallen in love with Uncle Bo and was probably trying to impress him. It was obvious that she was also fighting off sleep after a fairly sleepless day today.
Soon enough, we went upstairs with her cup to a book and her blanket. I thank God she loves books. She would go through every book on the shelf if we let her. But we looked at three, and then she played the stick-my-fingers-in-your-ears game she likes and let me sing a little to her (She loves music, too; we started learning "The Rains Came Down" while it stormed outside today). Then she snuggled down and we rocked and rocked.
I rocked long after she fell asleep. I always have a hard time putting her down, though; it's hard for me not to stare at her when she sleeps, just as all her cousins before her. But tonight, I prayed that her life would be as untouched by the grim, brutal ugliness of the world as possible, that we would all be wise in protecting her, that her home would be as safe with her in it as it was when we were growing up here. I prayed that we would know how to judge all the people and things that would come along to influence her and guide her accordingly. I prayed that she would always feel as comforted and comfortable as she did at that moment, sleeping trustingly in my arms.
And I feel better. I can do another week because I held that Allie-shaped bundle of balm, soothing my spirit and my mind, wiping away what went before and planning something more for her life because we all---her parents, sister, grandparents, aunts, uncle, cousins---would do anything to protect her. In a few years, she'll know that love very distinctly. For now, she simply exudes it from her baby skin, innocent eyes, ornery grin, and those rambunctious kisses.
This week was as busy and challenging as all of them have been---even more frenetic, if possible, because I was battling technology, which makes me absolutely insane. (That is not new in the computer age; I remember feeling deep hatred for the sewing machine back when I still sewed in high school, when Mrs. Barrett's most frequent words to me were, "Rip it out.") But things reached a fever pitch on Thursday, when a student confessed something to me that was one of the most horrifying things I have heard in my 25+ years in education. I couldn't react outwardly in that moment, but I remember clearly what went through my mind: "I want to hold Allie and rock her to sleep, right now." Allie, if you aren't aware, is my baby sister's one-year-old.
That's what I did tonight, after spending most of the afternoon here on the ranch talking to Sheri and playing with Allie, having dinner with my parents and both siblings (since my brother is here from SD for a couple of days), and then giving Allie her bath. She put on quite a show after bath time, making a circuit of the room giving everyone kisses, which she's usually kind of stingy with----she's kind of fallen in love with Uncle Bo and was probably trying to impress him. It was obvious that she was also fighting off sleep after a fairly sleepless day today.
Soon enough, we went upstairs with her cup to a book and her blanket. I thank God she loves books. She would go through every book on the shelf if we let her. But we looked at three, and then she played the stick-my-fingers-in-your-ears game she likes and let me sing a little to her (She loves music, too; we started learning "The Rains Came Down" while it stormed outside today). Then she snuggled down and we rocked and rocked.
I rocked long after she fell asleep. I always have a hard time putting her down, though; it's hard for me not to stare at her when she sleeps, just as all her cousins before her. But tonight, I prayed that her life would be as untouched by the grim, brutal ugliness of the world as possible, that we would all be wise in protecting her, that her home would be as safe with her in it as it was when we were growing up here. I prayed that we would know how to judge all the people and things that would come along to influence her and guide her accordingly. I prayed that she would always feel as comforted and comfortable as she did at that moment, sleeping trustingly in my arms.
And I feel better. I can do another week because I held that Allie-shaped bundle of balm, soothing my spirit and my mind, wiping away what went before and planning something more for her life because we all---her parents, sister, grandparents, aunts, uncle, cousins---would do anything to protect her. In a few years, she'll know that love very distinctly. For now, she simply exudes it from her baby skin, innocent eyes, ornery grin, and those rambunctious kisses.
Saturday, October 6, 2012
Movin' On
More than once, my late best friend, who knew all of my immediate family, observed that we all ran on a different speed than the rest of the world. Her summation was that we are "go-go-go-go-go-go-go-go-go-stop. Gooooooooooooooooooo-stop." It never occurred to me that there was any other way to be; in fact, I never knew until I was grown that we were different from anyone else in that way---I thought everyone worked 12-15 hours a day. I figured out pretty early that the worst thing you could call a Welker is "lazy." Most likely, it would be pretty inaccurate, too.
At 73, Dad is the hardest worker I know. I don't mean he was; he IS. I've known no one yet, of ANY age, who can put in more hours in a day than he does, and we're not talking about long days at a desk. He's been working with animals and field equipment since he was a child....and he's paying for it physically. Just a few weeks ago I saw him climb over the pipe fence behind the house so nimbly that you'd never know he has wrenching osteoarthritis and trashed rotator cuffs. He just does not know when to quit. Try to tell him to rest, and his response is, "Oh, no, can't do that! People die in bed. Don't you know that?" He's only half joking. But again, I didn't even know his work hours were unusual when I was at home. I thought everyone's dad worked until dark, no matter the season, and after dark or even all night if it was harvest season. He never even got sick very often, it seemed. That work ethic was part bluff, and part self-preservation: he just was too hyper to be sitting around. My sister and I both got that demeanor, she more than I. He's found more enjoyment in listening to music in the last few years and will be still for that these days, and I'm grateful he's found that. But I take a lot of pride in the fact that the man can, literally, still, work anyone else under the table.
Mom is in no way a slacker, either. When we were all at home, she could and did put in a full day's work every day in the house, in the field, in the office, in the pasture----often all of the above. Yes, four full days of work in one, like many mothers in the world. Time, life, and Dad have all given her more to do each year. I have seen her bake the flakiest pie crusts, rewire a lamp, work cattle, rock babies (yes, plural, at one time), build fence, repair plumbing, sew upholstery, hang wallpaper, cross-stitch, mud Sheetrock, plant vegetables, work ledgers, and I don't know what-all. She is fearless and tough and absolutely unstoppable. Unlike Dad, she can be still, to sit and visit with a person for a while without practically twitching to get up and get to work, but not for long periods of time. When she used to stay with us, when Laura was ill, it wasn't unusual for me to come home and find her working on a project, like taking our vertical blinds down and scrubbing each one. She can pace herself to just about any task, whether it's quick and repetitive or slow and methodical. More and more, I see her style in my brother's life and work. I wouldn't trade her, or the example she set for me, for any price on earth, but I'd pay anything I could for her to rest more often.
Our parents' examples for us made certain that we three kids would have excellent work ethics, too. That's always been my best characteristic. As I said, the worst thing you could call any of us was "lazy," and it certainly isn't true. But I feel like the laziest person in my family because they all work so hard physically. I work indoors, and I often have to sit because of my feet, teaching from my tall barstool at the podium. However, anyone who has taught even a day of school knows that it's physically exhausting, practically putting on a song and dance for six or seven class periods per day. That energy is much like adrenaline pouring through an athlete's system, an accompanying "high" when you hit the perfect rhythm. It's never failed me----but I think it might be waning.
A couple of years ago, I noticed that my usual quick march all day at school was slowing down, that it left me absolutely exhausted to keep up my normal pace. I observed to my doctor that I couldn't seem to go up and down the halls several times a day at school anymore without feeling like I was walking through mud at the end of the day. He gently observed, "Well, you ARE a 47-year-old woman now; you aren't going to feel like you did at 27." It was not the same as calling me "lazy"; in a way, it was worse. I was just slowing down, and there was not much to be done about it. At the time, I hated that most for my personal life. Who WAS I if I didn't run on a bottomless well of Welker energy? I used to get three or four hours of sleep a night when I was in grad school, working two jobs and loving it, having a good time. Even when I left higher ed and got into secondary ed, I almost always worked two jobs and lived a complex life, friends and family scattered away, requiring weekend trips to be able to spend time with anyone, while still getting all my grading and prep work done. I could teach all day, teach a night class two nights a week, grade and do all kinds of fun things on weekends, and still have energy to burn. But now..... Once in a while, I have dinner during the week with friends or family members, but most nights I'm not up for anything. If I get together on weekends, it's during the day, or staying overnight at the ranch.
This school year seems to be even more of a challenge. I started in July with a driving intensity to overcome my worries about so many changes taking place, which worked well for me for a while. I felt that I was doing a pretty good job as a mentor and a department head, and inspiration set me off on a couple of new projects to revamp my curriculum for the Common Core State Standards (eduspeak---there's sure to be more on that another time) that are looming in the wings. Technically, I was starting the year with five lesson preps per day, but effectively, one of those would be a separate lesson prep for each student, since it was testing remediation class. I didn't even feel particularly intimidated by that---one bonus from years of experience. And I would be keeping last year's after-school plan, holding after-school detention for the school on Tuesdays and Thursdays, tutoring on Wednesdays, and working at school every day until about 5, then going to water aerobics in Pryor from 5:30-6:30, showering, and returning home to BA by 8. Thirteen hours a day out of the house should be absolutely NO problem for me.
It is. It's become a problem. I work as briskly as I ever have all day; I even work at my desk through lunch each day, which I have never done for more than a couple of weeks, believing that teachers need peer time. I bring home stacks of work each weekend but don't get through half of it. On Saturdays, I always have a schedule. Keeping a planned day in my head is as instinctive for me as breathing; more than one friend, from college onward, has joked about my regimented times for working. Now...well, those schedules are useless. So far, most Saturdays I sleep. Not all day---I'll get up in the morning and watch something on the DVR (because I can't stay awake during the week to watch anything anymore!), but within a couple of hours, I'm on the couch napping. I wake up, fix a bite to eat for lunch, watch something else or look at a magazine----zonk! I'm back asleep on the couch. By 6 or 7, I'm thinking about the blog that I should have written days before, one I've been thinking about specifically or which idea I want to choose, and I spend the rest of Saturday night writing these novellas that I almost always intend to be much more concise. Then I wind up eating dinner so late---often after midnight, because I have to post by then---that I can't go to bed until 3 a.m. If I'm too tired to roll out of bed at 8 a.m. for church, I lose half the day. By Sunday night, I have a little work done, am somewhat rested, have good intentions to do better in the coming week....and immediately start withdrawing from my energy reserves by watching British sitcoms on PBS until midnight.
This is not how I want to expend my energy for the entire school year. I don't feel like I am ever anywhere close to being on top of things at work, let alone ahead of the game, and I hate wasting every Saturday sleeping so much, even if I DO need it. Unlike Dad, I can't access the endless reservoir of energy I need. Unlike Mom, I'm not pacing myself well. Unlike myself, I don't feel my mental runner's high, the rhythm of my work flowing through me. With nearly my whole self-esteem coming from my work, it's not possible to let this go on.
Self-assessment tells me my current energy reserves aren't right for me; they aren't even in my DNA. I haven't found the energy to search out the resolution yet, though. I keep hoping that perhaps I'll dream it, receive a flash of inspiration, or even hear it on NPR. In the meantime, I'm going to keep on moving, whether it's at a crawl, a steady stroll, or a lively stride. I've got a lot more "go-go-go" to go.
At 73, Dad is the hardest worker I know. I don't mean he was; he IS. I've known no one yet, of ANY age, who can put in more hours in a day than he does, and we're not talking about long days at a desk. He's been working with animals and field equipment since he was a child....and he's paying for it physically. Just a few weeks ago I saw him climb over the pipe fence behind the house so nimbly that you'd never know he has wrenching osteoarthritis and trashed rotator cuffs. He just does not know when to quit. Try to tell him to rest, and his response is, "Oh, no, can't do that! People die in bed. Don't you know that?" He's only half joking. But again, I didn't even know his work hours were unusual when I was at home. I thought everyone's dad worked until dark, no matter the season, and after dark or even all night if it was harvest season. He never even got sick very often, it seemed. That work ethic was part bluff, and part self-preservation: he just was too hyper to be sitting around. My sister and I both got that demeanor, she more than I. He's found more enjoyment in listening to music in the last few years and will be still for that these days, and I'm grateful he's found that. But I take a lot of pride in the fact that the man can, literally, still, work anyone else under the table.
Mom is in no way a slacker, either. When we were all at home, she could and did put in a full day's work every day in the house, in the field, in the office, in the pasture----often all of the above. Yes, four full days of work in one, like many mothers in the world. Time, life, and Dad have all given her more to do each year. I have seen her bake the flakiest pie crusts, rewire a lamp, work cattle, rock babies (yes, plural, at one time), build fence, repair plumbing, sew upholstery, hang wallpaper, cross-stitch, mud Sheetrock, plant vegetables, work ledgers, and I don't know what-all. She is fearless and tough and absolutely unstoppable. Unlike Dad, she can be still, to sit and visit with a person for a while without practically twitching to get up and get to work, but not for long periods of time. When she used to stay with us, when Laura was ill, it wasn't unusual for me to come home and find her working on a project, like taking our vertical blinds down and scrubbing each one. She can pace herself to just about any task, whether it's quick and repetitive or slow and methodical. More and more, I see her style in my brother's life and work. I wouldn't trade her, or the example she set for me, for any price on earth, but I'd pay anything I could for her to rest more often.
Our parents' examples for us made certain that we three kids would have excellent work ethics, too. That's always been my best characteristic. As I said, the worst thing you could call any of us was "lazy," and it certainly isn't true. But I feel like the laziest person in my family because they all work so hard physically. I work indoors, and I often have to sit because of my feet, teaching from my tall barstool at the podium. However, anyone who has taught even a day of school knows that it's physically exhausting, practically putting on a song and dance for six or seven class periods per day. That energy is much like adrenaline pouring through an athlete's system, an accompanying "high" when you hit the perfect rhythm. It's never failed me----but I think it might be waning.
A couple of years ago, I noticed that my usual quick march all day at school was slowing down, that it left me absolutely exhausted to keep up my normal pace. I observed to my doctor that I couldn't seem to go up and down the halls several times a day at school anymore without feeling like I was walking through mud at the end of the day. He gently observed, "Well, you ARE a 47-year-old woman now; you aren't going to feel like you did at 27." It was not the same as calling me "lazy"; in a way, it was worse. I was just slowing down, and there was not much to be done about it. At the time, I hated that most for my personal life. Who WAS I if I didn't run on a bottomless well of Welker energy? I used to get three or four hours of sleep a night when I was in grad school, working two jobs and loving it, having a good time. Even when I left higher ed and got into secondary ed, I almost always worked two jobs and lived a complex life, friends and family scattered away, requiring weekend trips to be able to spend time with anyone, while still getting all my grading and prep work done. I could teach all day, teach a night class two nights a week, grade and do all kinds of fun things on weekends, and still have energy to burn. But now..... Once in a while, I have dinner during the week with friends or family members, but most nights I'm not up for anything. If I get together on weekends, it's during the day, or staying overnight at the ranch.
This school year seems to be even more of a challenge. I started in July with a driving intensity to overcome my worries about so many changes taking place, which worked well for me for a while. I felt that I was doing a pretty good job as a mentor and a department head, and inspiration set me off on a couple of new projects to revamp my curriculum for the Common Core State Standards (eduspeak---there's sure to be more on that another time) that are looming in the wings. Technically, I was starting the year with five lesson preps per day, but effectively, one of those would be a separate lesson prep for each student, since it was testing remediation class. I didn't even feel particularly intimidated by that---one bonus from years of experience. And I would be keeping last year's after-school plan, holding after-school detention for the school on Tuesdays and Thursdays, tutoring on Wednesdays, and working at school every day until about 5, then going to water aerobics in Pryor from 5:30-6:30, showering, and returning home to BA by 8. Thirteen hours a day out of the house should be absolutely NO problem for me.
It is. It's become a problem. I work as briskly as I ever have all day; I even work at my desk through lunch each day, which I have never done for more than a couple of weeks, believing that teachers need peer time. I bring home stacks of work each weekend but don't get through half of it. On Saturdays, I always have a schedule. Keeping a planned day in my head is as instinctive for me as breathing; more than one friend, from college onward, has joked about my regimented times for working. Now...well, those schedules are useless. So far, most Saturdays I sleep. Not all day---I'll get up in the morning and watch something on the DVR (because I can't stay awake during the week to watch anything anymore!), but within a couple of hours, I'm on the couch napping. I wake up, fix a bite to eat for lunch, watch something else or look at a magazine----zonk! I'm back asleep on the couch. By 6 or 7, I'm thinking about the blog that I should have written days before, one I've been thinking about specifically or which idea I want to choose, and I spend the rest of Saturday night writing these novellas that I almost always intend to be much more concise. Then I wind up eating dinner so late---often after midnight, because I have to post by then---that I can't go to bed until 3 a.m. If I'm too tired to roll out of bed at 8 a.m. for church, I lose half the day. By Sunday night, I have a little work done, am somewhat rested, have good intentions to do better in the coming week....and immediately start withdrawing from my energy reserves by watching British sitcoms on PBS until midnight.
This is not how I want to expend my energy for the entire school year. I don't feel like I am ever anywhere close to being on top of things at work, let alone ahead of the game, and I hate wasting every Saturday sleeping so much, even if I DO need it. Unlike Dad, I can't access the endless reservoir of energy I need. Unlike Mom, I'm not pacing myself well. Unlike myself, I don't feel my mental runner's high, the rhythm of my work flowing through me. With nearly my whole self-esteem coming from my work, it's not possible to let this go on.
Self-assessment tells me my current energy reserves aren't right for me; they aren't even in my DNA. I haven't found the energy to search out the resolution yet, though. I keep hoping that perhaps I'll dream it, receive a flash of inspiration, or even hear it on NPR. In the meantime, I'm going to keep on moving, whether it's at a crawl, a steady stroll, or a lively stride. I've got a lot more "go-go-go" to go.
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