A Love Song for LG

I started this blog some months ago, because I was expecting it to be the first that would take me more than a couple of hours to write.  Writing a love story just takes more out of you---and I know, because it’s my love story.  It’s the story of a love of place, for the way the air smells and the light reflects off the buildings.  It’s a story about the love of not just one person, but a culture, of people whose spirits you recognize without even much of a need for discussion.  It’s a story that gets played out in little towns everywhere, maybe with no one to ever write it, but many lucky enough to live it.  This story, though, is mine.

Locust Grove was always on the map of my world.  When my brother and I would stay with our grandparents in Pryor for most of June every summer, we would pass through LG on our way to visit extended family in Arkansas.  We would stop at the springs to fill up the green plastic gallon thermos and Grandad’s aluminum thermos he took out on his carpentry work.  Both sides of our family, multiple generations of them, spent time on Spring and Saline Creeks for as long as I could remember.  And almost every Christmas, we’d visit Dad’s sister Jayne’s wonderfully rowdy family at their cabin on the creek, back behind Cavalier’s place.  I even got my first speeding ticket (ONLY speeding ticket for almost 25 years) in 1985, at the corner of Koelsch and Wyandotte---yep, that’s the corner of the high school!---on my way to see my mom and grandma in Pryor for Mother’s Day.  But there was no inkling that it would ever be more than a pass-through place in my life.  I was 35 when I slipped quietly into LGHS as Frances Cowan’s replacement in August of 1998, trying to get back a semblance of a personal life after a few years’ sojourn teaching in Roland. 

 What matters first is WHO mattered first:  Ma Bell.  There was no mistaking that she was a demi-goddess of the south hallway.  She was little and loud and loving to every kid that passed her door.  The first impression I had of her was that fierce side we all love; Josh Wall had a bad migraine and was talking to me in the hallway, describing the obstructions in his vision, when she saw us out there.  The next thing I knew, she was between me and Josh, working the reflexology points in his hands to relieve his headache…as she later taught me to do for Laura when she was weak and ill from chemo.   Now, 16 years later, that caretaking is the truest thing I know about her---she is the lion-hearted mother of us all.  She was the first person from school who showed up at my house after Laura died; she taught me that day that paper goods are often better to bring the family besides food.   She always has such vocal support of all the kids’ activities, and I know that I am not the only person, not by a long shot, who feels the loss of her daily since she retired.

 Betty Perkins was the department chair I first worked under.  I’d known her name as long as I could remember; my grandma used to save the Pryor newspapers for me to read when I would visit, and I would always happily devour any articles Betty had written.  Working with her was like showing up for music class and finding Madonna was your teacher. 

 And Paula Reed, my teacher- neighbor:  impossible not to love, bubbly and happy and friendly as she is.  Those who have been teachers know the bond that is formed, if you’re compatible, with the person in the classroom next to you, from the thousands of passing-periods spent at the door, joking and policing and commiserating.  I learned she is a wicked mimic, and I covet her razor-sharp wit.   We were neighbors for three years, but that was enough; we are fast friends still, though we haven’t seen each other in months.

There was a great round-table of ladies then who had lunch together most days:  Betty, Mary, and Paula, as well as librarian Joan Bennett (who has more history of LG in her head than any library could hold), Shirley Cowan, Kita Asbill, Brenda McClain, Beth Bowin and a few stragglers from time to time.  They made me welcome as one of them, though I was clearly an outsider, with no direct links to the community.  I tried the first few years to keep my ears open and my mouth shut, even though that policy can sometimes earn one the reputation of being stuck-up.  But it worked out, and all of those who remain are dear friends to me now.

A couple of years after I came in, Robin Pendergraft joined the faculty, and I met one of the most genuinely nice people I’ll ever know.  She would remember whatever was happening in my life and ask me how this or that was going---it was amazing to me that anyone could or would go to that trouble for me.   When we moved to the new wing in 2001, we were placed next door to each other.  Our friendship was sealed by that---now, since she left the LG system, we try to see each other once a month, and when we do, it’s “chatter-chatter-chatter” the entire time.  I don’t think I’ve ever had a friend who makes me feel as comfortable talking as she does---usually I’m the listener.  When she left teaching at the end of the 2011-2012 school year, she wrote me the most precious note, one that I will treasure forever.  Not many people can move me that much, and I am so grateful for her. 

Maybe the widest range of people I’ve known comes from Locust’s teaching community, past and present.  The world tends to lump us in one heap and from one mold.  Anyone in the field can tell you that educators run the gamut, from the nutty professor type to the consummate lady teacher and the young, hip, funny professional.  I won’t say who is what type, but just in my acquaintances, they are all there:  Dianna Stokes, Shannara Mayo, Karen Vich, Amanda Bennett, Kelly Moss, Jennifer Villalobos, Shirley Cowan, Sarah Keener.  (Anyone who knows this list can tell you which ones are the ladies, and which ones are the nuts---but I can’t say here!)   Most of those come from my own building; factor in people like Sandra Downing, Roy Flanary, Sandy Pierce, Blake Stephens, and Clint Hall, and the “you can’t fit me in a mold” factor it too high to calculate. 

 The people most lacking in education are the positive male role models so many of our kids desperately need, and we have some of the best.  Working on the Professional Development committee introduced me to Shane Holman, the funniest, kindest, and most game elementary principal ever.  Wendell Wolf has the biggest, softest heart I’ve ever found in a farm-raised person; he’s the best example of a good family man I could ever choose for our students.  By the way the kids talk, I know Ted Mayes is a tough but fair math teacher who has shown his students that, yes, math is useful and fun.  Tim White, who teaches most of the same juniors I do, is so brilliant at motivating students to learn history that I’ve been forced to let go of my prejudice against educators who come from a purely content-based degree program; I always believed that education coursework was essential to become a competent classroom teacher.  In addition to breaking down my judgment of alternative certification for some teachers, he keeps me on my toes as a favorite political sparring partner. 

Probably the person I’ve met in recent years who has influenced me most is Lori Helton.  When she came to our building as an English teacher four years, I was first impressed with her knowledge, then intimidated by her absolutely unflagging energy, and a little threatened by her ability to do 1,000 things at once.  I didn’t feel really comfortable as her department head because it seemed so very obvious that she would someday be an administrator, so how should I have the nerve to advise her?  When she became our assistant principal two years ago, I found a totally unexpected role model in her---unexpected, because we are so different, on the surface at least.  She’s brilliant, tough, decisive, and funny as hell, as well as talented and beautiful:  the combination all women (to my mind) long for.  Most importantly, she has worked harder than anyone I’ve ever seen in any administrative post to do the best for her students and teachers.  I’ve felt almost drowned when I consider the tsunami of change coming to education in the next few years, but she can quell my nerves with her calm assurance that everything we’ll be doing, I’ve already been doing for years, that it’s just a matter of applying different terms to what I know.  Now, with Lori serving as our newest principal, I pray that she’ll be there for my last few years as a guiding beacon through the narrow straits of testing and evaluating reforms. 

 

I worked for a number of other principals in quick succession---good ones in some way, except one of them, who should probably remain nameless (Gary Lundy).  But Steve Tyner, Max Tanner, Howard Hill, David Wilkins, and Joel Green all helped me become a better professional.  Max also conned me into what became both my life preserver and my albatross:  advising Student Council.  I had a life-size stand-up of Elvis in my room back then, and Max came to my room after school one day to ask me to become the advisor.  When I kind of hemmed and hawed about it, he started singing like the King, using the broom he was carrying as his mike, making up his own lyrics begging me to do the job.  I couldn’t help it----I laughed and gave in.  And it was a great thing for me.  I deepened my connections with the kids, the school, and the community.  Maybe that’s when I became more aware of the families and business owners, and some of the real characters we have:  Rob Foreman, Reba Pierce, Les Kern, Stephanie Anderson, Verla Fletcher, Elaine and Shannon Cook.  Gary Shamel I knew; he had been friends with my brother and my cousin Mike for years.  I didn’t get to know most of the community members very well, but had a passing acquaintance with many, and I found all of them so much more welcoming than people in a small town sometimes are. 

What of the students during these years?  Oh, there have been those that stand out in the worst ways----but not many.  Blessedly, Locust has relatively few problem children compared to other schools; it retains enough of the small-town aspect of knowing everyone’s business, so everyone better stay on their collective toes, yet it’s large enough to provide variety in the kinds of students I’ve taught over the years.  There was Dusty Bailey, the first person I ever saw wearing the “I have the body of a god.  Unfortunately, it’s Budda” T-shirt, and his cousin Boo; the two of them got me an autographed George Clooney picture for a graduation present---their graduation.  There was Casey Gwartney, my student council president who was always brimming with great ideas.  Another fantastic Stuco president, Martha (Forest) Morehead, now teaches next door to me.  I’ve had the sweetest and most helpful teacher’s aides imaginable:  Carissa Sanders, Megan Ward, Whitney Taylor, Alayna Starling, and Diana Neel, just to name a few.   I couldn’t even begin to list the students who have meant so much to me that I always refer to them as “my” kids….but I hope I don’t have to.  I hope they already realize that.   The years begin to blur, and when I run into former students, I sometimes forget not only when they came through but also their names----but not their faces, or how much I loved being their teacher.  I have been there long enough now that I’ve taught multiple generations of some families; if I include my years at Northeastern, I’ve taught three generations in a few families.  That is really, really hard for me to comprehend, but I take warm, heartfelt pride in having had the chance to be a little part of their lives. 

 As my career winds down, I find even more people in the town that I’m connected to.  Cydni Tillery and Marea Breedlove at the Food Bank have taught me much about the needs of our students in the community.  It’s rare for me to go anywhere outside of Locust and run into someone from there that I DON’T have some connection to.  I’ve taught their grandson, worked with their sister, clashed with their niece over a grade, served on a committee with their brother.  Maybe they’ve even been hunting at my brother’s place in South Dakota with some of his friends from LG.   And no matter where I go---my podiatrist’s office in Broken Arrow, a tire shop by Eastland Mall, my Aunt Carolyn’s house, water aerobics at the Pryor Rec Center---people always ask me about Ma Bell as soon as something tips them off that I teach at Locust Grove. 

I left my home, left my little town, to become a part of another, hoping that I’d have nothing to live up to or live down because I was my own person, cut whole from my own cloth and shaped by my own character.     Now I see that nothing is my “own”; it’s the life of that other little town that framed my character and gave it meaning for the last 15 years.   Other than my family (and George Clooney, of course), LG is the longest-running love story of my life.  No paltry little blog could give it the beauty it deserves.  All I can offer in repayment is one golden phrase:  Thank you.  Thank you for this greatest of loves---to serve another. 

 

 

 

 

Breaking Free

One day this week, a radio announcer mentioned that it was the annual Great American Smoke-Out, a day encouraging smokers to quit.  It reminded me that I had passed eleven smoke-free years this summer, about half the length of time I smoked.  It got me thinking about what kinds of things chain us---because we all know there are almost countless ways to be enslaved.

When I was still a smoker, the Smoke-Out was a yearly annoyance that I ignored.  Now it just seems futile when I remember how it made me feel.  Still, I know it must work for some people, and I hope it helps move them along the road.  For me, that didn't happen until Laura was told she had to quit in order to get massive hormone treatments to avoid a hysterectomy, and I said we would both quit since it wasn't fair for her to live in a house with a smoker and try to quit. Otherwise, I don't know if I would have ever quit.  Another friend once said that it depressed her just to think of giving up her "friend"---her cigarettes---that she kissed so often every day.  The analogy rang true with me instantly.  I even asked my doctor once why she didn't harp on me about it, and she replied, "Because I know that with you, it wouldn't do any good, but one day, you'll pick up a cigarette and say 'I'm tired of having these things run my life,' and you'll put them down and walk away."  Her prediction wasn't far off the mark:  the first time I tried to quit, I did it.  It was the only time I tried;  I gave up two packs a day and didn't look back.  Of course, the whole first year is a blur since Laura was diagnosed with cancer three days after we quit, so my mind and my time were fully occupied.  But I've not seriously considered having a smoke since.  I know I'll never go back, never have to battle that particular demon again.

Except.....except, there are so very many things to be addicted to.  I already wrote about my hard-core crush on sugar that led me to have bariatric surgery last spring.  That has helped me lose weight, but it's not a cure-all.  I struggle EVERY day to get all the protein I need and avoid things that have no nutritional value.  One of the shocking things that came out of my surgery is that I can eat real food and feel full very fast; carbs, on the other hand, don't fill me up at all, so I really can't keep them around---I'll eat them without even realizing I'm doing it.  I didn't lose a taste for sugar and have never experienced the "dumping" syndrome some have from consuming too many carbs after surgery:  a kind of sickness that sounds very much like having an episode of plummeting blood sugar, with sweats, wracking nausea, and nerve tremors from head to toe.  It's an awful feeling, but I almost wish I'd have it so that I could get my body to not crave sweets.  Instead, I try to focus on just drinking protein and eating yogurt as often as I can when I feel that urge to gobble down some chocolate.

I never had a problem with alcohol, and I haven't had a drink in years because of meds that I take.  There is, though, one other addiction that still jangles my nerves from time to time:  the memory of one person I haven't seen in 23 years.  I don't dwell on him, yet occasionally I have a nightmarish dream where he surfaces in some way I find happy and subsequently leaves a fading contrail across my consciousness for several days.  I can't for the life of me figure why, for I know enough to know that if I ever saw him again, I would dislike him for an almost infinite list of reasons.  For instance, when I knew him, he more than once told me that women were responsible for wrecking the American economy and idealism, because we refused to go back to home-making after World War II was over and soldiers returned home.  "We" took jobs that men needed; "we" complained that men were shiftless and undependable; "we" were meant to be caretakers more than rule makers.  He even told me that I (all women, really) should have remained at home under the "care" of my father until I married, instead of being out in the world on my own working as a professional.  Knowing myself now, I can't believe I didn't see the many red flags that throws up.  I was just that blind to his flaws, I guess.  Thank merciful God I was NOT so blind as to do what he asked, which was to walk away from everything and everyone I knew to go with him.  Still, here I sit speaking of him all these years later, racing through writing this so that my addicted spirit won't dredge him up to drag him through my dreamscape tonight.  If he is the one addiction I never shake, I'll consider it a win that at least, at last, I knew even the sound of his name was bad for me. 

There are so many things that chain our souls and our selves:  debt, drama, drugs; bad marriages and lonely weekends and warm, soothing drinks to numb the pain of both;  romance, caffeine, a new dress; pills or purchases to keep us wrapped up in cottony softness.  I know the pleasure of breaking some of my chains.  The others I'll keep rattling as a warning: some day, I'll be coming for them, too.

Hey, Guys!

 I was never what you might call a girly girl.  It seemed silly to me to be a big German-build farm girl and then to try going around acting prissy.  It wasn't that I didn't want to be into pretty things, makeup and ruffles and all that;  I really craved it.  But I felt like a fool and a faker, certain that people would laugh at me behind my back if I tried to act girly.  As a result, I developed a kind of tough, remote exterior that was off-putting to some, especially other girls.  Shopping, makeup, hair:  all that stuff was just beyond me.  I have only had a few really close girlfriends; on the other hand, I've had a lot of boy friends, which is not the same as boyfriends, of course.

Maybe part of the issue was that I had a little brother who I treasured and spent a lot of time with.  He was more into outside stuff, but we often played games together and had almost no conflicts.  While I had some good girl friends at school, I spent a large portion of my elementary years riding all over the pastures at home on our motorcycles with Bo and our friend Danny, who was like another brother in our family.  We tore around jumping pond dams and daring each other to act out stupid stunts.  In the winter, Dad or Danny's step-dad Kenneth would pull us over snow and ice on an ancient pickup hood, or we'd play pool in the basement rec room.  Danny taught me how to bridge a deck of cards when I shuffled.  After I changed schools for fourth grade, we were neck-and-neck academic competition for each other, in the same class for the rest of our school years.  Our parents hung out together, so we were the best of friends until Danny discovered alcohol much earlier than I did.  Although we hadn't seen each other in probably ten years when he died, his suicide when we were just 30 was heart-rending.

I didn't start dating until I was in college, and that was also when I discovered having close male friends as an adult was practical and fun.  I learned a LOT more about the world from guys I worked with both at Rogers and NSU; plus, there was the added bonus of always having someone to dance with!  My academic team at Rogers included Steven, a computer geek, and Don, a pre-med major.  Steven gave me a very basic intro to technology; Don, the entree into a class called Word Origins that taught me worlds about the English language.  And this isn't even counting the wide range of people I worked with at the on-campus radio station.

At NSU, I found Wally and Dean, who I spent ridiculous amounts of time with at the river, at the lake, at Granny's Attic (anyone familiar with Tahlequah in the '80's knows that establishment), and at concerts and clubs in Tulsa.  We had more fun than any three people should have in a lifetime.  John and Anthony were like an older and younger brother; Tom was an unofficial mascot for all kinds of groups; a dozen other guys came and went in that twilight culture that college was as I worked straight through to my Master's degree.

Unfortunately, what I didn't realize at the time was that this was not a permanent state of affairs.  I dated none of these friends, though I loved them all dearly in some way or another.  And once college was over, we all tended to drift.  Girlfriends and wives don't usually take well to their men having female friends, no matter whether we were friends first.   One friend was deeply hurt that none of us in a large circle of long-term friends came to his wedding; when it was finally brought up, we had to tell the truth:  his wife didn't send invitations to any of us.

As an adult, I've only found it harder to make new male friends.   The married ones don't have time or a need for it; the single ones think I'm hitting on them, an idea that I find appalling and humiliating.  And that's really a surprise to me.  I don't prance around and act flirty (see paragraph 1); I wouldn't even know how to do that.  I don't need a man to run my life, but it would sure be fun to find one to run with again.

The Writing on the Wall

I was deleting some of my old files off the school server the other day when I came across a document named "Bathroom Rant."  I had forgotten it until I opened it and started
reading.  The document was dated five years ago, and I remember making a two-page poster of it and posting it in the bathroom in our new wing after the first time someone defaced it.   Before deleting it, I printed it out so that I could record it here.  It seemed like a good topic for a short blog. 

Ladies:

For 7 years we have enjoyed this bathroom in practically the same condition as when it was new.

The stall doors work, the sinks have good water pressure, the soap and towel dispensers produce their products efficiently, and we have nice mirrors to primp in.

Please, do not feel you need to add to this.  Your written comments as to who is "hott" (or "nott")  are of no interest to the rest of us.  We would like to continue to enjoy a clean, neat environment where we can contemplate our own thoughts, not yours.

You may certainly express them elsewhere, though.  Might I suggest, an essay?  Then you may truly rhapsodize over your love in a pure and beautiful way, free forever from associations with toilets and all that they imply.

Thank you for reading.

Ms. Welker

(P.S.  This is the ONLY think I have ever "written" on a bathroom wall, which I will continue to be proud of.)

It's only now, long after the fact, that I realize the futility of my rant:  anyone silly enough to write "So-and-so is hott" on a bathroom wall wouldn't read past the first line.  But I felt better after putting it up, I know.  

It'll always be a mystery to me, why young people feel compelled to deface property in any way----but especially writing their love's name in a toilet stall.  Shakespeare could've made something funny out of the topic.  It just makes me aggravated that we haven't come any further than that as a society. 

Stand Tall

I was reading an autobiographical story in my favorite literary magazine, The Sun, this morning.  The author wrote about her lifelong addiction to frequenting thrift shops for clothing, furniture, and toys, especially when she was a divorced mother of two boys with little to live on. The clothing she favored for herself was gauzy tops and jeans; more than once she was told that the image she was projecting would not help her advance professionally in office politics.  But that was how she saw herself until that image was transformed by a Chanel suit, size two, selling for $25.  She said that she was "five feet tall and bone thin" when she found it, and when she put it on, she no longer felt wispy and ineffectual.  It changed her entire demeanor.

I don't know why that struck me in a way that made me feel fortunate, but it did. 

I have always hated being tall, as long as I can remember.  My mother, who is very petite, was my ideal; I wanted to be little and cute, not tall and tragically clumsy.  I was always one of the tallest members of my class, or any group of kids; it was difficult finding clothing long enough.  Mom and Grandma, and then I myself, made a fair number of my clothes, which helped with having pants and dresses the right length.  Early in my high school years, I remember Mom sewing wide bands of braid to the bottom of my jeans to make them long enough (thank God for odd 70's fashion trends).  I think it was my junior year of high school that I wore moccasins to school every single day after the first day of school, because then my jeans didn't need to be so long.  That didn't help the fact that I couldn't find the fashion Jordache and Gitano jeans that were so popular by then in the right length.  By the time I went to college, the blessed unisex trend of shrink-to-fit 501 Levis saved me, followed by sweatpants worn pulled up our calves and then capris and Keds sneakers.  By the 90's, stirrup pants made a reappearance from my childhood, and I transitioned from those to wearing the flattest shoes I could find until I had to start wearing orthopedic shoes.  That was about the time that I began special-ordering tall pants so I could have them long enough.  No way could a teacher go to work in high water pants, not with teenagers.  Much too brutal. 

I heard about my great "fortune" from short people all the time, especially my mom and grandma and great-grandma, all of whom needed stepstools to reach into cabinets. the tops of closets, even the lower branches of fruit trees.  Mom complains still about how pants and shirts are much too long for her, but I remind her she can always cut them off; I can't add a ruffle to the bottom of my pants or anything.  She doesn't buy it, and I don't blame her---lots of current styles overwhelm her little frame.  I guess I never saw their short stature as a problem because they all have been powerful, indomitable women who did whatever they needed to do when it needed to be done. 

But not until today when I read about that struggling mother gaining tangible power from her bargain-basement suit did the power I gained from my height coalesce in my mind.  I never have felt physically threatened anywhere that I can remember, not by men or women, despite the fact that I am fairly shy and still a little timid, though less so than when I was younger.  I have no problem drawing myself up into my full height if faced with a potentially dangerous situation.  Although I used to wear heels when I taught college, I've never once felt the need to do so like some of my shorter-statured peers have in order to appear more in control to students.  My long legs probably were the better part of my ability to do the splits and kick the top of the door frame the way I used to do to wheedle some good behavior out of my kids.  And now that I've started the dreaded height-shrinking that so many women face, I guess I'm a lot more grateful for the extra room I have to shrink from. 

The past 50 years of standing tall have surely been worth the fashion angst.  I'd still take the joy of being able to fit into a size two Chanel suit, though, no matter what the price.