Teacher, Keep Faith

Summer's sunny activities are slowing bit by bit, and teachers are streaming back into classrooms that smell of floor wax or fresh paint or just that indescribable, unique scent in your own individual building.  The excitement of decorating, organizing, and preparing is easy to coast on for a while.   Then you have to remind yourself that, as the Peace Corps used to say, you're going back to the toughest job you'll ever love.  It's daunting---and a career inundated with chaos at this particular moment in history.  You might be intimidated, especially if it's your first year as a teacher or your first in a new school.  It doesn't have to be scary; you only have to keep your focus. 

You will see the best and worst of human nature played out before you every day.  The beautiful and terrible will visit you often, sometimes in the very same event.  After a while, it could become easy to take these miracles for granted; try not to, for appreciation of miracles is essential to receiving them.  Perhaps more than anyone, teachers are blessed with an abundance of them.

Anyone can be afraid, but you are bold.  Learn to look in the face of anger, pain, frustration, fear, and horror without flinching.  When you do, your students will trust you, and you can help heal those things within your power.  Do not grieve for those which you cannot heal; there is only one perfect power, and you aren't it.

Hold fast to the motive that brought you to teaching in the first place.  No matter how much you change or how much you adapt your work, that motive will continue to inspire you if you allow it to remain pure.  Tune out nay-sayers, burnouts, short-timers, cynics, and the endless hoard of reformists who have neither the knowledge, skill, nor ambition that you do.  Listen instead to those who encourage and uplift you and your profession---even when you must do the encouraging and uplifting yourself.

Wear your sense of humor like a protective skin.  This will enable you to laugh at yourself when the lesson you planned so carefully fails utterly, and also when you get a Christmas card that says, "I love your class.  I really love it when you get mad and your face turns red."  Humor will get you through rowdy classes, long meetings, short weekends, and boring anythings.

Learn the art of humility.  Approach everyone with the attitude that you each have something to share, something to learn, and something to teach.  Be humble enough to ask the cosmos, "Please let me get this just right.  If not that, at least let me do more good than harm."  Don't be too proud to ask for help, nor too afraid to follow your own vision. 

Keep your mind and your heart open.  They are elastic and will accept as much as you choose to fill them with.  When a student breaks your heart (and they will, though usually not on purpose), realize that theirs was broken first, and remind them that there's more room in a heart once it's shattered and mended.  To be broken is a sign of life and humanity, not of weakness. 

Make your students feel special by truly believing they are, and they will return the favor and forgive you almost anything.  This includes standing your ground and doing what you feel is best for them, even if they don't agree, and also admitting when you are wrong and apologizing if necessary.  Believe that they are worthy of your best self, every day, every hour.

Maintain your sense of self.  If you don't know who you are out of the classroom, it isn't likely you'll know who you are in the classroom, which leads to chaos for everyone.  Bring your personality to work, but don't make work your personality.  You were drawn to this profession because you are outgoing, intelligent, curious, creative, and giving.  Plugging those qualities into other outlets away from school will bring even more energy to your classroom.

Think of yourself not just as a teacher, but as a lover: of knowledge, of ideas, of expression and connection to others.  As you would downplay the annoying habits of your beloved, downplay the bothersome details of our work by focusing on the benefits: young minds and spirits waiting for the intellectual spark you strike, young hearts that need hope, young lives craving direction.  As with many great loves, the bad parts fade with time, while the good parts grow exponentially.

Keep your arms wide open, and all the world will come to you. 

Write Your Own Life

We all construct the narratives of our lives, often at the very moment we are living them out.  "She stepped out of her car into the balmy night air, tossing a look over her shoulder to make sure no one was coming up behind her.  The wind lifted her hair as she took long, deliberate strides to the side door of the building."  Something like that---much more mundane, usually.  Perhaps, if you're like me, you tend to glamorize whatever you're doing, much the same way my three-year-old self used to stand on the steps of the Methodist church across the street from our house and imagine myself in a flouncy, Loretta-Lynn style stage dress while I belted out country songs for the whole street.

It's interesting to see how those narratives play out when more than one person is involved. The two-sides-to-every-story cliche is so true that it's undeniable.  Every teacher has seen a vast number of examples.  "Buddy has a hard time focusing due to ADHD."  (Buddy is either a comatose lump of teenager or a whirling dervish.)  "She's just so social that schoolwork is a low priority."  (She has not turned in an assignment in the last six weeks.)  "Axl is brilliant."  (Axl is a smart-ass.)  "We don't let the kids have sugar."  (The kids chug down two Mountain Dews, a Snickers, and a packet of powdered-sugar doughnuts at lunch just before my class every single day.)  "Suzy loves to read."  (Suzy gets very angry if she is given a book that is NOT of her choosing to read for class.)   And so on.  It's enlightening to see the two sides, and often hilarity ensues after the parental moment has passed and we don't have to keep a straight face.  I've learned a world about two-sides differences this way.   Hopefully, most of us try to operate in a little more realistic view of ourselves.

That's what I want to share with you in this blog, the last of the rigorous schedule of weekly blogs that I've posted for two years now.  This blog makes 108---which doesn't actually compute from 52 weeks in a year, but at least I'm ahead in number and not behind.  Anyway, the point is that I've learned so much about self-searching, honesty, and presenting myself in as true a light as I can draw.  It's difficult, but not impossible, to bring myself to heel and really see who I am.  Sometimes, I don't like it much; I'm vain but lazy in my logic and closed off to new ideas at times.  Occasionally, a flash of inspiration strikes me and I'm pleased with what I'm able to capture.  Rarely was it ever boring to try to put my thoughts into words, knowing that whether one person or a hundred read it, I would be accountable for what I sent out into the blogosphere.  Always, always, I was surprised by part or even all of what I learned about myself.

No power on earth would have kept me on this weekly schedule for two years if I hadn't known that someone would notice if I slipped up and didn't post.   I can't stand the thought of not following through, even if no one is watching.  So if you were out there reading, especially if you were commenting, thank you for keeping me on the path.  Thank you for reading even if you didn't comment; just knowing that I had a few people reading every week, and others that read once in a while, kept my motivation rolling.

This isn't the end of the blog.  For one thing, I will still be posting from time to time when the mood and the muse strike.  But more importantly, I hope you'll be inspired to write your own life, to learn about yourself for yourself or to share with your children or to sharpen your craft and your abilities.  Even if you won't post it for the world to see, you could make it into a wonderful project for the future.

Most English teachers use the five steps in the writing process to teach composition:  pre-writing, drafting, revising, editing, and publishing.  That last step is a little misleading; it doesn't have to mean publishing for pay.  It can be sharing with another person, keeping a "best" portfolio, preparing a booklet of best writing, submitting to the school newspaper, reading aloud....or posting on a blog (among others).  I had not practiced the craft of writing regularly for more than 25 years, since I finished my Master's degree.  Thanks to this blog, I've practiced all five of those steps 108 times.  More importantly, I have the valuable insights that allowed me to see into my nature that I didn't have before I began writing

You should see yourself!

I'll be writing to you here sometime down the line and posting the links on Facebook.  In the meantime....write on!

Never, Ever

It's always seemed smart for me to play my emotional cards very close to the vest.  I don't like to have a lot of people knowing what's going on in my head, and certainly not in my heart.  It's earned me a reputation as a lot of things:  cold-hearted, mean, ugly, or lesbian.  The truth was that I was always just as man-crazy as any other girl, but it was so painfully clear to me from my earliest memories that I was not meant for a great love that I just played it off as unimportant to me.  It was the picture of self-preservation. 


I know a number of single people---particularly single women who mourn the apparent fact that there are no good men left in the world.  They are all married, or spoiled rotten by an overabundance of available women, or they are gay, or they have so much baggage they need a porter to follow them around every minute.  I've mulled this over with girlfriends for....about 30 years now.  Yes, I've dated, but largely they were missing something required to meet the "good" requirement; "perfect" was completely out of the question.   And I was stupid enough to look for one when I didn't really believe I could HAVE a good one.  In fact, I couldn't even tell you what I was looking for.  When I was asked from time to time, I could never, ever even picture the perfect man for me to save my very life.


Then, without warning, that pattern was broken by what I can only call divine design.  I found not just a good man, but a great one, and as I was often told would happen, I found him right in my very own church---although we had been sitting on opposite sides for a number of years. 


His name is Galen, and he is the best of men:  kind, thoughtful, funny, and real.  You know how you can always tell the true character of a person by how they treat the wait staff in a restaurant?  He is the perfect example.  In fact, one of his pet peeves is the public treating waiters and waitresses poorly.  No one ever seems to set him off or make him impatient.  The worst he might say is that the person might be distracted or just having a bad day.  He smiles, thanks them, tips them, and is considerate of clearing out so they can seat more people, making more tips in the process.  He's also one of those people (unlike me) who are born huggers, usually from the first time he meets people.  Some use that as a trick to disarm others and win their trust too easily, but he is 100% genuine. 


G is a gentleman in a way that is almost old-fashioned now but so very charming.  I never have to open my door when we take his car, and that is literally a first for me.  In the past I always thought it was kind of odd when I saw other men do that, but I understand it and appreciate it wholly now.  Before it seemed to say, "Oh, let me get that for you, you poor thing," but now it feels like, "Let me show you that you matter to me."  I LOVE that.  He sent me flowers after our first date, one of the hallmarks of a gentleman in my mind.  But he has sent them on other occasions too, including once when I'd had a very difficult week this spring. 


One of the things I love best about Galen is that though he appears quiet and very soft-spoken, he has a quick wit and a gift for comebacks.  He makes me laugh with his mock-grandiose comments; the first one I remember followed a statement I made that complimented his complexion and how he could wear the color he had on better than anyone I knew.  He replied, "Oh, you know, I look good in any color, really----and I'm humble, too."  It caught me off guard, so I stay on the lookout now for any openings I give him for smart-aleck remarks, but he still pulls them off. 


There is no way I could underscore Galen's spiritual similarities to mine enough.  I've always struggled with figuring out how to make a humble spirituality make sense to others---and he is exactly the same.  We don't believe in passing judgment on others for their beliefs, we don't believe that one cookie cutter fits the whole world, and we both DO consider ourselves Christians who should primarily be concerned with our individual relationships with God, not anyone else's.  Nothing in my relationships has ever come close to that.  Believe me, it's not lost on me what a blessing this is.


The things about G that I admire the most are the things that few people are usually aware of.  He used to be a lay chaplain, and he still serves those he ministered to by seeing them, having lunch with them, or speaking with them on a fairly regular basis.  He's modern enough to think that women shouldn't be forced by society or societal pressure to take their husband's last names, but he's still traditional enough to enjoy being a gentleman.  He works seven days a week most weeks, a work ethic you know I appreciate if you know my family at all---but he can relax and enjoy his time if he doesn't have to work.  He always seems to be singing; he may have more songs in his head than I do.   He loves kids and dogs (cats maybe not so much, but I can overlook that little flaw  :-)  ), and I do believe Allie has him wrapped around her finger.  She may be wrapped around his, too; it's very seldom that I see her anymore that she doesn't ask me first thing, "Where's you' boyfriend?  Where's Ga-en?"  What more ringing endorsement is there than that of the small children we love? 


Tuesday is Galen's birthday; this is my little paean to his character, his strength, his heart and mind that are so good and true.  We aren't perfect, but we're perfect for each other.  Happy birthday, honey, with all my love.  Here's to 51 more!

Picture This

I used to be quite a prolific photographer.  OK, OK, what I am really saying is that I was pretty annoying with a camera.  I would take photos that really didn't come out of any need; I was just using film (and always getting double prints in case there was some gem hiding on each roll).  We traveled a lot, and I liked to take pics in those situations, and even won a first place ribbon at the state fair for a photo I took in Montana when I was only nine or ten.  But in social situations, especially in large groups, I would be the one taking a million pictures because I was so socially awkward, even with family.  I'm not sure when that died down, but it must have been a combination of things that led me to it:  loss of interest, the advent of new technology, smaller groups, very little travel, more self-confidence.  I just don't enjoy spending my time behind a camera as much anymore. 

Just a couple of weeks ago I returned from my first-ever cruise, which took us to Cozumel, Grand Cayman, and Jamaica.  I took a few photos at each spot, and some on the ship, but for the most part, I was just enjoying seeing everything.  Everywhere there was something to marvel at, whether it was the turquoise water, the coral, the shopping, the gigantic pool at the resort in Jamaica where we spent the day, or all the entertainment on the ship.  There were new people to meet and visit with at each meal, which would have irritated me at any other time or place but was just so upbeat every time---and why not?  Everyone was eating great food and sharing stories of their daily adventures to see stingrays or waterfalls or beaches.  I didn't feel the need to photograph the new people who we met for one meal and pretty much never saw again.  But I found myself just wanting to enjoy the experiences, too, and not to worry so much about recording every moment.

I really started considering this the last couple of days.  My two Callaway nieces, Emeri and Allie, just spent the last two nights at my house.  We hit the Pryor pool on Thursday (I foolishly thought I might still get my water aerobics class in, but it was too much fun just to play with the girls) and went to the water park here in Broken Arrow yesterday.  Last night, after we all had a good nap and the girls watched a movie, we went out for some Mexican food at El Tequila.  I got out my camera and took just a couple of pictures of them.  A nice woman at the next table asked if I wanted her to take a picture of all of us together, and I politely turned her down, since I had no makeup on, but it got me to thinking about the fact that I just don't record every moment on film (SD card) anymore.  Was I letting the girls down by not taking a picture with them that they can look back at in 30 years and say, "Oh, remember how Aunt Cathy used to take us to the pool?" 

I think I got my answer.  In my mind, I flashed on a picture of me as a toddler in Spring Creek with my Aunt Jayne and cousin Karen, who was a teenager at the time.  For many years, I didn't know this picture even existed, though I've seen it enough times now that I can picture it in my head, the looks on each of our faces.  But even without the picture, I remember the joy of being with them---they were a part of my father's rowdy, laughing family, and we spent many a day, especially at Christmas, at their cabin, the first on Saline Creek, and later behind Cavalier's place on Spring Creek.  I remember the sound of Aunt Jayne's voice, her funny faces, though she has been gone for several years now.  And, too, I remember my grandparents on both sides, their smiles, the shape of their hands, the scents of food or wood or soap in their homes, not because I have pictures in my possession but because I have memories in my head.  I have the creak of the floorboards, the pop of the fireplaces or gas heaters, the feel of my great-grandma's arms around me.  I have pictures I can see, yes, but I have more pictures in my heart than I could ever afford to print.

Someday, I hope my nieces and nephews, siblings and students, friends and family, will be able to say the same.  I hope Instagram keeps people connected now, but that there are infinitely more memories to be carried for a lifetime just a synapse away.  I'm going to keep on taking pictures when I think I need to, but mostly, I just want to live my memories first-hand.

Unstrung

I sometimes wonder about the way we choose the things that order our lives.   For many of us, it's work.  The hours of our employment dictate our waking, our sleeping, our family time, meal time, and fun time.  The job also defines what we are capable of financially:  homes, cars, vacations, and lifestyle in general.  It may even determine much about what we call our personality.  For example, a female teacher in a fairly conservative state such as Oklahoma will have to think twice about dressing in very short or tight-fitting clothing, no matter how good she may look in it or how much she might wish to show off her hard work at the gym.

I'm thinking about this because I'm now deep enough into summer to feel the freedom of my days, no alarm clock ruling my time for the most part, no early-to-bed to answer that pre-dawn call.  Without class to shape me, I can wear shorts every day, use virtually no make-up, and pin my hair back with little attention to a professional appearance.  While I love the few months' reprieve, I also have to admit that it doesn't make me the most accomplished person for those summer months.  But I'm puzzled as to what would be a happy medium in between.

There are those people who are focused through some different filter, who string their lives together in an orderly fashion that they find gratifying or beautiful.  The culture that I grew up in is shaped entirely by the seasons; you can only produce a crop in a growing season, and each crop by the weather that it requires.  This was not a lifestyle I could manage as a way of life, though I love it.  I remember how it made my heart hurt to see fields of stubble after a wheat crop was cut.  It was like the end of an achingly gorgeous song that you can only hear once a year.  One of the most difficult times of a ranch life is calving season, yet I loved to see the newborn babies stumbling around on their spindly legs grow into frolicking calves kicking up their heels as they raced about.  Agriculture is a gamble in the best of times; as a foundation for living, it was too much of a crap shoot for me.

I know more than a few people whose lives are founded on their political principles, and I wish I had their courage.  I stand by what I believe, but I also know that circumstances change, people change, and I won't commit myself fully to a life based on politics.  I try to take Emerson's advice, roughly paraphrased here:  Speak what you think today in hard words, and tomorrow speak what you think in hard words again, even if it contradicts everything you say today.  You will change your mind, because if you don't, you aren't growing.  If you're misunderstood as a result, don't worry.  Every great man that ever lived was misunderstood.  So politics as a basis for framing life doesn't seem workable for me, since I don't want to be pigeonholed.

Spiritual beliefs are the foundation for many, but I keep my own counsel on that.  I don't believe that I need to be throwing around my spiritual beliefs for everyone else to judge, nor do I need to judge theirs.  That relationship is simply between me and God.

What is left?  Family---yes, certainly, although it's always in a state of flux.  Children keep parents busy for the first 18 years, and then everyone has to sort out their structure to fit a new dynamic.  Fashion?  From Smartphones to Hummers to leather boots, we all try to make our statements about who we are by the accoutrements of life, but as a basis for living, it's pretty hollow.  Social class?  No, no, no---some of the finest human beings I've ever known would be uncomfortable in four-star restaurants, and that is in no way a reflection of their character.

It seems I've decided that these few months when work doesn't dictate my schedule or my life are the ones I have the most respect for.  I don't accomplish as much, perhaps, but I like who I am, and most importantly, I can sleep the sleep of a clear conscience....even without my days being strung precisely together like a necklace of perfect pearls.

The Literary Adventurer Goes on Holiday

Dearest Readers,

  You don’t know me, but we share affection or love or trust or acquaintance with one Cathy Welker. As she is off enjoying ocean breezes and following her bliss, (join me in a great sigh of joy and appreciation of her fella!) I am here to serve as a sad substitute. I was a student of Cathy’s in the late nineties and I can assure you with a sober face that she saved my life in more than one way.

  Dramatic? Yes. I was a drama kid. Sue me.

  All hyperbole aside, I spent this week in anticipatory throes of angst trying to decide what to blog about. I tossed around a few ideas: Mothers – how I have many (6!) and the role they play in the life of a woman. Children and education and how a super-liberal, big-mouthed mother raising two boys in Texas is quite an adventure. I even imagined just recycling from my own blog which you can find HERE if you’re interested after today.

  But then, yesterday, I had my 14 week appointment with my midwife to finally hear the heart of my third and last bean and behold…no heartbeat could be detected.

  I shared this news with my dearest loved ones through a combination of text and Facebook posting. And I was surprised at the number of responses I got from people recounting their own miscarriages. For the record: this is my second. My first was a few years after an abortion and I had some very clear feelings of being struck down by a less-than-merciful God.

  Upon reading these stories of pain and loss by so many of the women in my life for whom I have always carried a bit of awe, I began to realize that I am most certainly not alone in this world or even this particular experience. By which I mean – I have always viewed myself as an outsider who experiences the world in a collection of emotions and responses that no one else has ever felt in such a way. I live a hyperbolic existence. I have always lived in the margins of the page. I am a footnote or an appendix or a bit of fringe. I have never been the stuff found within the meat of the book. 

  In short, I have always been WEIRD. Other. Especially these days in Texas.

  So when I raced through these pages of text from women for whom I hold the highest esteem – these poised and perfect ladies. These perfect paragons of femininity and grace. When I knew that they too had felt the hole punch open in their heart and abdomen where once potential had lived…I was so grateful…

  And then I got pretty pissed.

  Because WHY AREN’T WE TALKING TO EACH OTHER?!? Why aren’t we having more conversations about what matters. Sharing war wounds and battle stories? Why aren’t we younger women seeking out mentors? Why aren’t the older women sitting us whippersnappers down and FORCING us to listen to what you have to say? Because we need it. Oh my GOD do we need you. We need to know you felt what we feel. We need to know you loved the way we love and lost the way we lose and that even if the hair and the skin showing and the music is different: you were HERE. You lived the life we are living.

  Because we will listen. Or at least I will. I swear it.

  We need you, ladies who are not our mothers and grandmothers. We need you to help us not feel like Facebook and Tumblr and Instagram are our only lifelines in this world. Because they are good ones, they truly are. They’ve kept me and Cathy friends these many years past my time as her pupil. They allow me to read her words of wisdom each week and remember how lucky I am to have six mothers.

  And younger women – the responsibility does not fall just to the wiser of women. This responsibility also lands squarely on our shoulders as well. We must seek out women who possess the best of what we long to have. We must seek out advice and companionship and affection and even discipline. We cannot grow if we contain ourselves inside vessels of friendship that offer no space for change and no diversity of thought.

  Your social media page is controlled by an algorithm that streamlines your people, products, politics, and thoughts based on WHAT YOU ALREADY KNOW. Do you really want to live your life exactly as you are now? I don’t. I want to push and be pushed. Teach and be taught. Love and be loved.

  A hand reached across a linen tablecloth, a clasp of fingers five on top of five…an embrace of new Chanel and old mingling together…a ten minute tea on the front porch that turns into an evening…these things…these are the things that will save us. 

  Thanks for your attention, dear reader, Cathy will return soon with adventures and tales and (I hope) a bit of euphoria from so many days in the surf.

Two Sweet Words

What are the two sweetest words in the English language?  I vote for "Friday payday" every month when that day rolls around.  The promise of getting my monthly allowance is so exciting....until I sit down and parcel it all out to my bills.  That kind of wrecks the wonderful feeling.  Then there is another standby:  "half price."  Ah, yes, there's the money factor again.  The idea that I could get two of whatever for the price of one is intriguing.  Too bad it's almost always something I will never, ever need.  Sometimes, I buy it anyway.

But right now, the two sweetest words for me are "summer vacation."  It is so for every student and teacher in the state, as well.  Especially now, when we're just on the cusp of all those days stretching out before us, it's so happy to contemplate.   I do sometimes wonder what everyone else's mind goes to for summer vacation. 

Is it staying up all night reading books or watching movies, or is that just me?

Is it running barefoot through the grass until exhaustion overtakes you, as it is for so many little ones?

Is it finding the coldest creek or the deepest lake and spending the whole day on it or in it, getting lobster-red and loud with your friends?

Is it hitting the road with mountains before you and relentless heat behind you, or exciting sights in unfamiliar cities, or setting up camp on a beach for a week and never thinking of any worries at all?

Is it taking an extra job to ease the money worries and frustrations of the school year?

Is it family activities and excursions on weekends, zoos and parks and movies, testing everyone's nerves but bonding over the activities?

Is it a continuation of daily life, only with a higher electric bill for the air conditioning?

Is it a respite in the yearly grind of 60-hour work weeks, an oasis in the desert of exhaustion?

"Summer Vacation" will always mean a little of each of these for me.  They are only different stages in the vacationing process.  That doesn't mean they don't overlap or repeat.  For example, I would happily run barefoot in the yard (especially if there were a sprinkler involved) any summer day, if I didn't live under the threat of losing a foot.  I don't do as many family excursions as I used to, but I still have my nieces a couple of days over the summer to run around and have fun with.  The last vacation trip I took was in 1995, for a few days in Nashville, but tomorrow I head out for a cruise that has me so excited that I don't know if I'll sleep tonight at all! 

Whenever there's talk of year-round school and that summer breaks are really outdated, I panic just a little.  I'm not ready to give up any of those definitions of summer vacation; it's not just that it's so enjoyable, but that it's so necessary.  Rewind, recharge, restore---those are the real definitions of my two sweetest words for today:  Summer Vacation!

Happy Memory Day

Here's a confession:  I didn't know until I was in my 30s that Memorial Day was started as a remembrance for those who died in service to our country.  To me, it had always been Decoration Day; many family members would travel the state to decorate the graves of and memorialize our late relatives.  We put out flowers for Welkers in Pawnee, Skedee, and Adair, and for Browns, Yateses, and McCoys in Pryor.  It remains an annual pilgrimage with whoever can make the rounds.  Tomorrow, my mother and sister and I will do the honors for the eastern part of our clan.

I've noticed a trend in the last couple of years in the media: public service announcements reminding people that this holiday weekend is not just a time for picnics and camping.  Instead, or in addition, we should remember those who have served and died.  I could not agree more.  There is no way I'd ever have been functional in the military, but I have the utmost respect for them.  They have provided me with freedoms that I will never even realize, that we all take for granted on a regular basis, and that we can never repay to them or their descendants.

But I think this holiday down-time can be used on the opposite end of that equation just as successfully, and much more effectively than using the time only to think somberly of those who have gone before.  I learned this from my family, too:  that time spent together to travel the state on Decoration Day weekend is a precious time for us.  We laugh together, have longer talks without cattle and chores to distract us, and we catch up on our lives.  I see so many families that almost never interact with each other because everyone has a cell phone, computer, mini-tablet, or DVD in front of them, no matter whether they are at home, in a car, or even in a restaurant.  In other words, we're checking out of our relationships without ever having them.  Why wait to memorialize our people when we are too busy to have one in the first place?  Let's just lay the flowers out now and get back to our devices.

Of course, this is a ridiculous argument to present, but I stand by it.  Mainly, that's because I got a little wake-up about that just a bit ago when my guy and I were leaving a friend's house where eight of us enjoyed a little cookout and outdoor dinner.  The setting was lovely and comfortable and the evening was absolutely perfect, warm enough to call summer without a drop of sweat brought forth.  We all enjoyed the cool evening air as we talked.  As we drove away, Galen, who normally works second shift six to seven nights a week, commented on the lovely night and said, "I hate to think of how many times I've worked through evenings like this."  I knew right away what he meant.  Although he's grateful to have a job where he can work overtime if he wants or needs to, no one should give up all the beautiful times in life. What is more beautiful than loving our people now, while they are here waiting for our time, instead of honoring them after they are gone?

Nothing, nothing can come close to that beauty.  Yes, we should spend time memorializing those we have lost and honoring the fallen.  But the time we spend on, yes, picnics or camping or whatever we do to make memories, is perhaps even more valuable.  I want to honor the living at least as much as I honor the lost. 

On a Spring Wind

I walked out of the Quik Trip at 61st and 145th last night around 9:30, sugar-free frozen drink in hand.  The strong spring breeze, cool and damp but full of the promise of summer, greeted me.  A short, middle-aged woman in a florescent green t-shirt that read "Tuff Enuff" ambled toward the door as I started across the parking lot.  It was a perfect confluence of sensory experiences that conspired in a single instant to send me back more years than I care to think about.  I felt almost as though I had run into a wall called 1986:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EcXT1clXc04&noredirect=1

The evening, the wind, the Styrofoam cup, the t-shirt's proclamation, even its color---all shouted something so very close to "YOUTH!" that I nearly stopped to listen.  I didn't have to. As I walked on to my car at the gas pumps, I thought of how many things call us back to younger days.  The taste of orange Kool-Aid, the smell of Play-Dough, the paper cover on crayons surely make us all think of childhood.  I can't hear K.C. and the Sunshine Band without imagining the soft green walls and blue and green flowered bedspread of my bedroom in my early teens.  And I can't think of Styrofoam (Sonic) cups, day-glo clothing, a spring wind full of expectation, and a good dance song without remembering one thousand wonderful days when I lived and worked with dozens of other college students---many of whom I still consider good friends, though I seldom see them---while I completed my master's.  It was the kind of wistful but happy memory one might have about a long-ago love that was not meant to last but was poignantly and fondly remembered. 

And then I thought of how frustrated I've been lately with my students.  Immature.  Whiny.  Lazy.  Irresponsible.  Rude.  I've thought all these things of them lately---or for a while, in some cases.  What I do for them they won't understand for a long while.  For them, their lives are full of making the same memories I had last night.  True, I remember the classes I was taking at that time, and the classes I was teaching as a grad assistant, but I was older than my students are now.  Surely, though, I was no less cavalier in my attitude toward life than they are. 

Tonight I stood in the lobby at our gym and watched them come in for their prom, beautifully done up, excited with the promise of the fresh spring breeze, ready for good dance songs, and even dressed in the same colors as 1986, and I heard youth calling again.  Their youth called out, and I smiled and told them how lovely they looked, and I thought how much they would experience before one day they saw youth staring back at them in a young person's face.  I signed them out as they left, climbed in my car, and drove the 40 miles back west, singing along with their songs, glad to have the years both behind me and ahead of me.

The Darkness

I used to tell my students, both secondary students and the college English majors who were preparing to teach, that it doesn't do one bit of good to correct people's grammar, especially if you weren't in a classroom setting.  No one will welcome it, and a fair number will resent the living daylights out of you.  Some would even take it as a personal insult, as though they were being looked down on.

In the classroom, things were sometimes different.  First, one would assume that people who are in class expect and hope to learn something.  This was the most rewarding part of my experiences teaching for Northeastern in Tahlequah, Tulsa, and Broken Arrow.  My students wanted to improve, accepted that they needed to brush up some skills, and knew that I could help them.  Second, they knew there was no judgement involved; we were working together to better their understanding of the language.  I loved that moment of recognition on a student's face, when he/she finally understood something that had perplexed him or her forever---for example, when to use "me" and when to use "myself"---that was really simple, but no one had explained in quite the right way before.  I was really good at that, putting grammar into little bites of knowledge that were understandable and useful, that could improve that student's skills both in writing and in personal speaking, such as job interviews, that could drastically improve that person's situation.

Well, let's flash forward to present day, since I haven't taught any college classes in the last ten years.  I recently had a conversation with a person who was struggling with a family relationship; the two have different faith and values, though they have an unbreakable bond and love each other fiercely.  After thinking things over for a bit, the best advice I could think of was something like this:  It's a lovely thing to bring someone who is lost, hopeless, and floundering in the darkness into the light, into a place of reconciliation and acceptance.  It's quite another thing---impossible, really---to try to pull someone into the light when they don't even realize they're paralyzed by darkness.

I am most certainly not the first person to think of this, but it became a personal epiphany for me as well.  Almost as soon as I had the thought, I flashed to my profession as it is now.  Today's students are not ones that I can do much for.  I war with myself internally about it almost daily.  They simply see very little need of improving their language skills, or themselves, for that matter.  Too many of them have been told all their lives that they are perfect and anyone who tells them different is wrong and that they should never listen to anyone who says such a thing.  Too many students have come to believe that there is no need for improvement in their lives; they are just exactly where they need to be.  Too many think it's a ridiculous concept that I could have any insight into their lives or the world at large.  I'm too old or too uppity about technology or simply just a stick in the mud.  In other words, they're so deep in the darkness that they can't even see it.

I can't pull them kicking and screaming into the light; I must do what I can for whoever is yearning to come out into the sunshine and fresh air of a life improved as much as possible.  I must push back the darkness as far as I can with whatever skills and tricks I have at my disposal.  I must not beat myself emotionally for those who choose not to accept what I want to give them.  Most importantly, I must remember that I can only do so much; God or life or fate or whatever we want to call it will do the rest.

That is the one bit of comfort I can take right now.  I hope there is more to come.

Busy-Busy-Busy

Buzz, buzz, buzz go all the new insects, frenetic with energy after thinking they might never get born from the long gray winter.

Buzz, buzz, buzz goes my brain, frenetic with things to be done, now that we finally (maybe) have broken away from the long gray winter.

Flip, flutter, flash go the fresh spring leaves, showing off their crisp green tops and their silvery bellies.

Flip, flutter, flash go the fashion trends, showing off fake tans with too-short shorts, high-low skirts, and just too much of everyone's bellies.

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh go the Oklahoma winds, driving out the cold, bringing in the warm, firing up the tornadoes.

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh go the shoppers, buying grad gifts, fitting prom gowns, firing up the warm weather party season.

Run, run, run go the bunnies, enlivened by the tender new grass and my tasty delicious rosebushes.

Run, run, run go the teachers, enlivened by the thought of summer just a few precious weeks away.

Sing, sing, sing go the birds in the fresh spring leaves, swaying in the Oklahoma wind, eating all the new insects, screeching at the bunnies.

Zing, zing, zing go my synapses, fried by another school year, close---only close, not arrived---to the glorious end of May. 

Money In, Medicine Out

Since when did the medical community agree to pay off the national debt?  This is the conclusion I've come to.  There can be no other reason why the majority of some people's income must be used to pay exorbitant medical bills. 

I thought last year would take the cake for my out-of-pocket medical expenses, and that things would go down considerably after that.  After all, I did have a fairly major surgery.  In case you don't trust my point of view, I paid over $7000 in expenses last year---almost 25% of my take-home pay.   In the last month, I've had another little run-in with the medical community.  So far, I've been asked to pony up $1800 ABOVE what my insurance will pay.  After an outpatient procedure at the hospital this week, I'm sure there's a lot more to come. 

Is this an exaggeration?  No way.  It's been this way for a long time.  I remember my grandmother's $4000 Life-flight ride from Pryor to Tulsa...and that was 15 years ago.  Just a couple of days for her in the hospital, and a couple of stents, totaled up another $50,000.  I remember one of the last times I went to the emergency room for a migraine and drug interaction, about the same number of years ago.  I got a bill for $600---for two shots!  I would love to know what was so incredibly valuable about that stuff; was it weapons-grade plutonium?  Am I now worth $600 more than before the shots? 

Of course not.  That's the real irony of modern medicine:  except in rare cases, they aren't adding new hardware or improving on the original model.  It's just maintenance.  For that kind of money, though, we should be better, faster, stronger----bionic.  Or at least we should be better-looking.  Oh, yes, they can certainly do that, but there's no guarantee on that kind of body work.  Poor Kenny Rogers had a face lift and came out looking like a playground pervert.  And Burt Reynolds?  It gives me the shivers to see  pictures of him now; he's just no longer The Bandit.  He looks like he's been in a strong Oklahoma wind for way too long---very painful to look at.  Oh, and all the silicone implants in this country must have done wonders for the chiropractic industry; otherwise, how do people like JWoww and Pamela Anderson keep their back ends in alignment with their front ends?

The stories go on and on.  One family I know paid off each child's birth about the time the next one was born, and they are at least three years apart.  Another friend was hospitalized for two weeks and had no insurance.  They saved her life, apparently so that she could literally spend the REST of it paying off the bills.  Insurance companies don't seem to care that hospitals hike up prices for those that have insurance; I've been told that myself and seen it in action.  The premiums themselves are beyond understanding.  But who dares to go without insurance?

I'm beginning to smell a conspiracy here, and it stinks.  It seems the only way to deal with it for now is to pay the bills, laugh, and quietly wait for the day when some doctor desperately needs me to proof the text of some journal article he wants to publish.  I think $2000 per column inch is perfectly reasonable, don't you?



PS---I have a WORLD of wonderful doctors who have saved my life several times over in different ways.  Plus, I know countless good and kind people working in the medical professions.  This is certainly no reflection on their work; I am most grateful for them.  It's only a tiny little rant about the money aspect of the whole game.  Like religion, medicine is a difficult field to reconcile financially. 

Truth and Consequences

Imagine that you were told that your duties were to be changed at your job.  For whatever reason, you would be losing a part of the position you enjoy.  You would probably be unhappy.  You might be angry.  Perhaps you'd even know the reason why you were released. 

Now imagine a whole town demanding to know why this happened.  What would you say; how could you react?  Would you tell the truth, from your heart of hearts?  And if the media stepped in and stirred this up big-time---whoa!  Things could get out of hand.

Finally, imagine your employers giving in and telling everyone why you were released.  How many nanoseconds would it take you to file a lawsuit for the bazillion employment and privacy laws they had just broken?

If you follow small-town politics, you know that occasionally, everyone in a community has to lose their minds over athletics.  It happened (not for the first time) this week at my school system.  Four coaches were released from their coaching duties; they weren't fired, just had their duties changed. 

I don't know anything more than anyone else does---that is to say, rumor and speculation is all I am privy to, just like everyone else.  As with many things related to school, I found out about this from my kids.  I don't have a dog in this fight, and I barely know the people involved.  It's none of my business why this happened. 

And then there's this:  It's not anyone else's business, either.  Certainly, no one can demand to know the circumstances of someone else's employment and seriously expect an answer. 

If I found myself in this situation, I think that I would know why this might have happened.  I tend to self-reflect a little too much and worry about making the right decisions for my students, and I believe that is a place that all good teachers operate from.  And I would surely be horrified if the whole town, even in my defense, were to demand to know why I was reassigned.  After all, it happens frequently in education. 

That's what gets me about the current hubbub:  schools are about education, not sports.

Where is the righteous indignation for the state of education in Oklahoma?

Where were these people when we rallied at the capitol three weeks ago, to demand action and budgets that properly reflect the needs of our students?  We are dead last in the region, and next to last in the nation, in our financial commitment to our students.  Why isn't that what's stirring people up so much that they write fantastically hateful, ridiculous comments on news station stories and post them on the internet for all the world to see?

Why do people lose it over games, which only a few students will get to participate in for a handful of years, but don't see how the treatment of all teachers and whole school systems affects lives for a lifetime?

I haven't had time to fully assimilate it in my head, but this whole thing keeps me thinking of a poem by one of those pessimistic Naturalists, who believed that the most difficult thing to deal with was probably what would happen.  Stephen Crane, who wrote The Red Badge of Courage, also wrote many more poems like this one:

The Wayfarer

The wayfarer,
Perceiving the pathway to truth,
Was struck with astonishment.
It was thickly grown with weeds.
"Ha," he said,
"I see that none has passed here
In a long time."
Later he saw that each weed
Was a singular knife.
"Well," he mumbled at last,
"Doubtless there are other roads."

Stephen Crane

The message is simple; the truth is painful.  Those closest to it are hurt the most.  It's easy to look at anything---a path full of painful weeds, someone else's decision---from a distance and raise hell, cry foul, and demand our own way.  It's another thing to be close to the truth and cut by its razor edges. 

Cat-astrophe

I'm gonna get a few ugly messages about this one. 

I might deserve them---I'm not at all sure what might come out as I write this.

The longest-lived creature on this good earth has got to be the domestic house cat....or perhaps it just seems that way.  As a farm girl who had a small herd of outdoor pets as a child, only one of whom lived for more than a few years, I certainly never imagined just how many years an indoor cat could lie around furring up everything, nor how dang demanding your average feline could be.  And I sure never thought about the fact that keeping a cat stocked in litter, cat pan liners, treats, medicine, and Iams cat food (because the cheap stuff makes them sick) would cost roughly the equivalent of an Ivy League education after the years start to stack up.

See, I find myself with a little issue here:  I have two cats that by age (14 years) should be on the very last of their nine lives, but who show only one or two very, very bad signs of aging.  Otherwise, they are fairly lively and limber for being, pardon the expression, so long in the tooth.  I am beginning to wonder whether I should arrange nursing care for them for after I'm gone.

In case you aren't aware, I do believe the pet-to-people ratio should always be at the least equal, but preferably in favor of the people.  It just gets into weird territory if the people have more pets than family members.  It gets even weirder if you're a single female high school English teacher; the simple fact that I have two cats has made me the Crazy Cat Lady to 10 years of students.  (No, men don't seem to get this same association; one of my co-teacher friends is a single man who has had a truly staggering number of dogs at times, but no one calls him the Crazy Dog Man.  Why is that?)  I'm not the crazy cat lady; for that matter, I'm none of those things except a little crazy at times. 

No, in seriousness, I have two cats because those 14 years ago, my bestie Laura and I were sharing a house, and we both thought having a pet would be good.  She was a dog person, but I didn't like the idea of an indoor-outdoor animal in Tick-Heaven Tahlequah, so we thought about a cat, but hadn't come to any decision.  And then one weekend in Arrowhead Mall in Muskogee, just wandering down to Sears at the east end, we noticed some kittens in the window of the pet store.  They were the tiniest kittens imaginable.  She thought the black one was adorable.  I fell in love with the gray one.  They were sibling tuxedo cats, and they seemed to go together like a matched set.  That's how I came to have two cats.  Laura loved her little black and white Figaro, like the Disney cat, and I knew who my cat was from the first:  Fitz, after F. Scott Fitzgerald, in a very dashing gray tuxedo.  They were so tiny that they would crawl into both sides of a Kleenex box, the kind with the rounded opening on the top and the front, and go to sleep. 

Those cats saw a lot of life in that house.  Fitz learned how to open the screened door to the deck and run out into the yard, so I had to put in a hook-and-eye closure to keep him from busting out when we weren't looking.  They ate about $600 worth of silk flower arrangements and killed every plant in the house.  They completely took down our Christmas tree the first year we had them; after that, we had to tie the tree to the wall and use things that couldn't break to decorate with.  Although those things pissed us off, we laughed endlessly at their usual cat antics:  chasing after nothing, leaping wildly after toys, climbing door frames, chirping at the bug or birds through the screen door, and the hysterical way they would come skidding into the kitchen if we asked "Kitties want treats?"  Less cute was the way they learned to steal money and hair accessories and jewelry, though most of it ended up in the middle of Laura's bed, like they were offering penance to the "nice" human in the house.  They protected her right up to the end:  when the funeral home came to get her after she passed away, we had to take them right off her hospital bed that we'd installed in the living room.  And she returned the favor, asking nothing of me before she died except to never separate the cats. 

I never have.  We have been without her for almost 11 years now.  I've tried to figure out what to do a few times, because I'm not enough for two cats who were used to having two available laps to sit in, and now they have not even one lap, one human who pays enough attention to them.  I'm gone from home at least 13 hours most days during the week; when I AM home, I am either working or sleeping most of the time.  I know they need more from their people---or rather, their person.

That may be why Fig and Fitz have been developing new problems.  They are not easy problems to solve, either---issues at both ends of the cat, so to speak.  So far, it's cost me several hundred dollars, with no real answers. 

So how does one know when it's time to say goodbye to an old, furry friend?  Is it reasonable to let them continue struggling, knowing they've been by my side for a truly shocking number of years?  Is it inhumane to say "enough is enough" and let them rest?  I only know that as long as they are here, they will be a living, breathing link to the happiest and best part of my past.  Even as they continue to hide my barrettes and barf on my newest magazine, I love them for their lazy green eyes and funny antics---and for the rough equivalent of a European vacation that I've invested in them.  They have been well worth it. 

Blessed

I've owed this blog for.....well, perhaps for my entire lifetime.

Over my 50 years, I've spent countless hours---whole years of them---feeling down, particularly feeling down about life and how it has treated me.  I often thought to myself how unfair it was that I didn't ever get what I wanted, which tended to focus on either being beautiful, being loved, or being Patsy Cline, and sometimes all of those at the same time!  (I never claimed my dreams were small.)  Most of the time, I would put on a good face and go with it.  Inside, however, I was resentful, angry, or just plain sad, seeing myself as one of those people who would just never have the good life that seemed to come so easy to others.

And then there are times when I realize I just need a good, swift kick in the ass, and I'm just the person to deliver it.

I have had SO MUCH to rejoice over in this life that I am ashamed I even had to admit to that paragraph of self-pity you just read.  No, I'm not beautiful or widely loved or anything like Patsy Cline, even though I can do a pretty fair job of singing her ballads.  No, I'm not a rich lady of leisure who's able to use her wealth to help the less fortunate.  No, I'm not above petty feelings like envy and anger and fear.  But I'll tell you what I am, and what I do have, and how I can feel.

I'm an average middle-aged, Heinz 57 American woman, part Cherokee, part French, part German, and a whole bunch of other things.  I'm a daughter, sister, aunt, niece, and cousin.  I've been working for pay since I was 13.  I'm a teacher, one of the lucky few who love what they do and were born to do it.  I was so fortunate to find that profession when I was young, so I'll be able to retire while I'm relatively young, which is how it should really be, if it's to be the best for the kids.  It's a young person's game.  I am a church member and a thinking Christian liberal.  I know and respect people of all kinds of religious persuasions, and I like to learn from them whenever possible.    I'm a reformed smoker and a non-gambler, but I'm not a goody-goody anymore.  I'm a relatively balanced person with some good, some bad, and some just-bad-enough-to-be-interesting. 

I have a family, a loud, busy family full of strange and wonderful characters, and we all, miraculously, have enjoyed relatively good health and happiness.  I have two parents with strong personalities: Mom is sweet but tough as nails, Dad is tough but full of boyish pranks.  I have a baby brother and a baby sister, both of them burning with intensity, though you might never know it.  I have seven---SEVEN!---magical nephews and nieces whom I've held, hugged, rocked, kissed, played with, read to, and teased mercilessly.  I have a separate family of my own "children," a handful of special former students that will always hold a most precious place in my heart.  I have the most amazing man in my life who loves me fearlessly and without question, as I do him; and it only took us 50 years to find each other.

I will probably always struggle with envy, fear, and anger.  But I feel the elation of experiencing the first warm breezes in the spring.  I feel the joy of holding a newborn's cheek next to my own and knowing that there is nothing else on earth like being next to that newly-made child of God.  I remember the happy tears that I, the stone-faced cynic, cried as my sister married her husband.  I remember, too, our laughter and encouragement we gave that baby sister the day she took her first steps so many years ago.  I know the anguish of loss from death---my grandparents, my aunts and uncles, my childhood friend, my best friend---and from heartbreak.  But I have known laughter, oh, my:  the laughter of inside jokes and wisecracks and wild storytelling.  I know the bubbly silliness of a two-year-old, the one-too-many-glasses wine giggles, the bawdy joke guffaw.  I feel the energy of the whole world coursing through my veins when I can get a teenager to ask just one good question about something we've read. 

I have hurt for nothing in this life that I have needed, and I know it.  I don't always remember it, but I know it. 

What am I?  What do I have?  How do I feel? 

Blessed.  Blessings.  Blessed.

The Royal Treatment

I unwittingly stirred up a hornet's nest this week.  Perhaps you noticed.  I made the (apparently ridiculous) statement in one of my classes that there were no fairytale princesses .  This happened when we were discussing Realism in literature and why it followed the Romantic movement. Romantics were dreamy, creative, imaginative, and a bit bizarre---Poe was a Romantic, for example.  The Realism movement came along in part because of the Civil War.  The way I explained this to the class was that just like we outgrow the Disney movie stage of our lives and move on to more realistic, grown-up topics, the Realists took over as the Civil War traumatized the country.  No more Disney princess, a lot more scary movies or action movies.  After all, everyone comes to the realization that they won't become princesses.

Well.  

I was widely informed by a number of girls that they most certainly were princesses.  They had always been princesses.  They would always BE princesses.  They were the princesses of their parents or of their boyfriends, or even both.  And I could never claim that they would never be princesses.

This is what I've feared all along with the princess clothing, princess furniture, princess attitudes, and Toddlers and Tiaras phenomenon.  There is an overwhelming attitude of entitlement from so many kids that I find by turns heart-rending and infuriating.

But this comes from a very simple place:  the one that I was brought up in, the best raising I could ever have asked for.  For the rest of my life, I will wonder at the great wisdom my parents had and how they did such a reasonable job of bringing up my brother, my sister, and me.

We could have had a lot more things that we did as kids, but we never lacked for the things we needed.  Mom and Dad taught us to appreciate what we had, to be gracious and thankful, and never to expect things to be handed to us.  This wasn't cruel; it taught us a work ethic.  There was NO entitlement.  I remember the perfect example:  the Christmas that I was twelve and my brother was eight (this was before Sheri was born), we got checking accounts.  We had our own checkbooks and were expected to keep them up-to-date.  From then on, we were paid for any work that we did on the farm or at the business, Dad's grain elevator and feed store.  From the money we made, we bought things that we wanted, such as records and (I have to admit my age) 8-track tapes, clothing we especially wanted (concert t-shirts, for example), books for me, ammo for my brother, things like that.  We still had all our basics covered, of course, but we learned money management early and with the protection of still being young and at home.  Some of the people I've told about this think is sounds a little cruel or over-the-top.  But what is cruel about teaching your child how to survive?  It seems much more cruel to me to NOT teach this to children.

Here's another example.  I've written before about how I loved music from my earliest memories.  By the time I got to be in fifth or sixth grade, I really wanted a stereo for my room.  I was old enough that I liked to barricade myself in my room and read whenever I could, but the only stereo was in the family room.  Maybe Mom suggested it, maybe Dad; I don't remember.  But every fall I would help Mom pick up pecans, sometimes for weeks in a row.  I decided that I would pick up enough pecans one fall to buy a stereo---the kind of system we'd have, back in the 70's, with a record player, 8-track, and AM/FM radio all in one, enormous speakers included.  And I did it; with a little boost from my grandparents contributing an afternoon of their picking, I sold enough pecans to buy my first stereo.  It was the most glorious thing imaginable to me!  I remember the look and feel of the burlap covering the speaker fronts as though it was still in my room today.  The heady scent of the plastic hinged lid to the record player was intoxicating.  That was my most precious possession for many years, from junior high to making the ritual trip to my college dorm rooms each year, until it had to be updated for cassette tapes.  No other stereo compared to that one---except, perhaps, the first one I got with a CD player that had a remote to it.  And I paid for that one, too.

How many "princesses" learn the joy of working and earning things?  How can they become responsible if they are treated and pampered as royalty?  What happens to them when they are pushed by whatever circumstance into the real world, where no one will recognize their eminence?  Will they know how to support themselves, and heaven forbid, their children, if life goes horribly wrong?  These are the things that plague me about the Princess Complex.  These are the reasons I pray the little girls in my own world will never think of themselves as princesses.  Instead, I want their strength, confidence, and wisdom to come from true experience and ability, not over-protection from the vagaries of life.

Life is for real, not for royalty. 

Wisely Spent

Spring Break is quickly winding up, and I have done none of the projects I planned on accomplishing during this lull before the last two crazy months of school.

My taxes aren't done.

My house isn't clean.  (But who am I kidding with this one?  My house is never all clean all at the same time.)

My closets aren't emptied of all the things I can't wear anymore, nor are the multiple bags of things I've already culled delivered to Goodwill.

My paperwork that I need to have done before I go back to work on Monday isn't even started yet.

I wasn't always this way.  There was a time when I was the first to get things done that needed to be done (well, except for the housework, if I'm honest about it).  It was that first-child overachiever syndrome: get it done first and get it done right.  I was most obsessive about being on time wherever I went---in fact, I was driven to be at least five minutes early for anything.  When there was something to be completed, I was certainly not able to take a nap....such as the three-hour nap I took this afternoon. 

But as I've written before, life changes us.  My concept of time and priorities changed when I lost my best friend.  Suddenly achievement didn't seem all that important anymore.  Time was relative.  My understanding of relationships was broken open, revealing that people had been, would always be, more important than blind objectives.  Work would always be there; people wouldn't.

So where did my time go this week?

I fed and held my newly-minted nephew Ty, formerly known as Elvis, marveling at the perfect miniature he is of his sister Allie, touching his long fingers and tracing his little ears.

I bathed and read to Allie, shared yogurt with her, tickled her, tried to coerce her into using the big-girl potty, and laughed at her drama. 

I spent a little time with my Texas niece Emeri, whose spring break is always the week before ours, chatting about her big STAR tests coming up---the Texas version of high-stakes testing, even for elementary students like her.

I attended my childhood church with my family.

I visited four of my doctors to avoid missing days at school.

I had a couple of delicious couch naps, snoozing away to the television, but stayed awake to watch and delete some of my DVR programs that stack up so fast.

I spent an afternoon and evening with dear friends who are, like me, much consumed with living life as fully as possible, but wanting to share every minute.

I had lunch with, or fixed lunch for, my wonderful guy every day this work week.  He works second shift six to seven days a week; it was a luxury to spend that much time with him.

I made quiche and mini meatloaves to freeze for the frantic end-of-school weeks.

I went to water aerobics.....once.  (Insert rueful grin here.)

I swept a winter's worth of dirt and salt out of my garage. 

I tried to do things I just WANTED to do, instead of things that had to be done.

It was a most successful spring break, I realize now---not time well spent, necessarily, but time wisely spent.  You understand the difference, dear reader.  I hope I'm always wise enough to spend my time on the people and things that matter; taxes and housekeeping will never make that list.

In Good Taste

I have a confession to make:  I love, absolutely LOVE, Cool Whip.  I keep it in my fridge all the time now to mix with my yogurt, and since I know I'm not going to be sharing it with anyone, I usually scoop out a spoonful into my yogurt cup...and then another (heaping) spoonful just to eat.  I know it's trashy---trashy behavior, and to many, trashy food.  Purists insist that only whipped cream is fit to eat. But I just can't help it; that light, creamy goodness is reminiscent of childhood and a world of recipes that I grew up with that featured it.   I've come to realize by dint of Cool Whip and other assorted delicacies that I just do not have the most sophisticated palate.  I'm OK with that, but it takes me down several pegs in the eyes of some of my more urbane friends.

It's more than just growing up on good Southern country food (fried, buttered, and oiled up in every imaginable way), although I have built my body on chicken-fried steak, Crisco, potatoes, and cheeseburgers.  No, this comes down to a few simple culinary rules:  (1) anything good will almost always be better with Velveeta in it, and (2) fat and sugar make even completely non-food items tasty.  I'd use a Twinkie as an example for that last one, but I loathe and despise them.  However, I feel pretty confident that there are no natural food products in them, yet their fans are legion.

Velveeta:  if you aren't a believer in this "processed cheese food," I don't know if I can ever truly understand the workings of your mind.  I think I've mentioned before that I didn't even know there was such a thing as macaroni and cheese in a box until I went to college, where Kraft mac and cheese is the foundation of the food pyramid along with Ramen noodles.  No, I only knew macaroni and cheese to be made with pasta, Velveeta, milk, butter, and a little salt and pepper.  It was my favorite vegetable for any meal.  Maybe it's not strictly vegetable, but it's closer to that than it is to meat.  I can't count the number of casseroles I knew how to make when I was younger that featured Velveeta as a main ingredient, accounting for my great love of casseroles even now, though I don't make them anymore.  Nachos?  Use Velveeta.  Crockpot full of cheese and Ro-Tel?  Velveeta.  Hashbrown casserole?  Velveeta to the max.  Anything Mom made with it, I would volunteer to cut it up so I could sneak a few cubes, since we weren't allowed to eat it just by itself.  Bad for ya?  Oh, yeah---I estimate I have approximately 23 pounds of Velveeta in my arteries alone.  Still, that melting, bubbling golden nugget of oily deliciousness will draw me in every time.

Fat and sugar:  witness my family's favorite cake, the chosen birthday cake of almost all of us, the red velvet cake.  We do NOT denigrate this food of the gods with cream cheese icing, though we love that, too.  No, the frosting for this cake is the original recipe, a cooked-pudding frosting of Crisco and milk that has to cool before you mix in the sugar and create a pure crystal-fluff blanket of lard and sugar to complement the not-so-sweet cake.  Nothing compares to it!  My best friend's mother used to get her to eat brussel sprouts by pouring sugar on them.  How much did the green accomplish with the sugar along for the ride?  I will myself only really stoop to eating vegetables---okra, squash, tomatoes---if they're coated in cornmeal or flour and fried in a good oil.

I know that at the very least, my tastes in food are childish, and at best, well, they're better than when I was a child.  I know I'm a country bumpkin and not stylish in my choices.  I know I have no business at a meal that uses more than two forks in the place setting.  I know I'm never going to be a culinary pioneer.

Just bring me a corndog and shut up about it already.  BTW, don't eat out of the Cool Whip bowl in my fridge.

Hello, Goodbye

Hello, time-stealing day of the year, coming to change my circadian rhythm and throw the whole country off-kilter and on edge for the next week.  I know there are many who love you, but I don't see why.

Goodbye, normal day- and night-time; you must be sacrificed for the sun-worshipers who need their hour in the evening instead of the morning.  These are the people who have never worked all day on a farm or in a pasture, building fence or painting a house in the brutal heat of a summer day.  They just don't know the joy of that cool early hour in the morning.

Hello, slapping the snooze button one or two extra-fierce times in the morning, muttering words that I hope Santa and Jesus never hear from my innocent tongue.

Goodbye, snuggling gratefully under the covers when I realize I've awakened a half-hour early and can dream blissfully for just a few minutes more. 

Hello, sleepy students wandering into first hour exactly as though they've stumbled out of a Walking Dead episode---with just about the same amount of brain function.

Goodbye, bright morning sunlight pouring in the glass doors of the east wing, just past my classroom, greeting students who are awake enough to have fed and dressed themselves in (mostly) reasonable clothing.

Hello, research, you old so-and-so, bane of my existence, my spring torture and torment, destroyer of worlds and god of chaos.  Oh, how I loathe you.  Though I have mostly defeated your extended reign this year by tackling you early, I get alllll those papers this week, just in time for the long evenings I need to grade you.  You are the suck-tastic ruin of all my glory in the classroom.

Goodbye, easy winter grading with, let's just say it straight out, NO FLIPPING RESEARCH.  EVER.  

Helllllo, testing.  Spring = testing.  Testing = agony.  Therefore, spring = agony.  I cannot make the case any simpler than this.

Goodbye to you, winter, the gift of time to cover all those bazillions of objectives to be introduced, practiced, mastered, tested, reiterated, and left for dead when the next series comes along.  No, of course we don't leave them.  We take our roadkill with us, knowing the State will come looking for evidence of it.  It will be properly tagged.

Eventually, of course, I will adjust.  We all will adjust and (though you sure couldn't tell it by the weather here today) we'll welcome spring with mostly open arms.

Hello, being able to drive home from the gym in the amber evening sun, burnishing the whole Oklahoma landscape to a bright gold.

Goodbye to getting home in the dark, ready for bed at 8 p.m.

Hello Bradford pear trees, and daffodils, and jonquils and lilacs and honeysuckle.  Hello, beautiful soft green grass.  Hello hay fever, allergies, and Allegra---oh, Allegra, we are so happy to see you again.

Goodbye to frozen drippy noses, peeling skin, and cracked fingertips, and Kleenexes in every pocket of every jacket.  (I have become my mother and my grandmother, with tissues even tucked in my sleeves at times.)

Hello, sunshine.  Welcome, warm breeze.  Goodbye sleet, sneet, snizzle, snow, thundersleet, ice, black ice, and everything broken or wrecked by such as these.

Hello to short sleeves and capri pants.  Goodbye, sweaters, gloves, scarves, coats, hats---surely this must be how a snake feels to shed its skin!

Hello, Spring.  We thought you might never return. 

Spring Forward?  Spring on!

Oh, Brother!

The first good friend I think I really had was my little brother.  I don't remember when he was born---I was a few days short of four years old---but I've seen the pictures:  a long, bright-red baby with a  shock of black hair.  That's a far cry from the boy I remember.  My first vision of him goes back to a sturdy little tow-head with a burr haircut, his summer style that Mom gave him every year, and perfectly round, blue-blue Welker eyes.  He was sweet and smart and an outrageous story-teller; now, at 46, he isn't really that much different, if you know how to look for that little boy.

The first spark of memory I have of Bo is vivid and scary.  He was scarcely more than a toddler, and he came in the screen door of our little house in Skedee with blood running from one hand.  My beloved little terrier, Frisky, had somehow gotten into a fight with the old heeler dog, Blue, from across the street.  Bo tried to separate them because he was trying to protect my dog from his much bigger opponent.  Few people might know it, but that is completely typical of the tender-hearted little boy I knew who has grown into a strong, thoughtful, often brilliant and sometimes headstrong man who still has that tender heart. 

Grandma Brown liked to tell how Bo would go to the grocery store with her during our summer visits with our grandparents, how he would ride in the cart pointing out things and saying, “Cathy likes that,” not to get what HE wanted, but to truly point out what I liked.  He set himself up for his own family by being so selfless, even at such an early age.  A few years ago, when I was feeling despondent, he told me what kept him from feeling that way:  “When you have kids, you feel like everything will be all right as long as they are OK, as long as they have things a little easier and better than you did.”  Everything I've observed about his adult life as a husband and as a father to four proves that he's lived that motto.

Katie's (his only daughter) wide-eyed, storytelling, sparkling full-of-wonder personality reminds me so much of the tall-tale-telling boy Bo once was and often still is.  He always caught the biggest fish, saw the longest snake, knew the funniest story, and told the most ridiculous lies about all of it with those great round blue eyes full of innocence.  I think some of the customers at the elevator came there hoping to see him as much as they came there to do business.   I have a vague memory that he was so known for telling fish lies that when he really did catch The Big One, his legendary fish that was longer than he was tall, in Canada when he was 5……no one believed his story!

I have a million memories of that comical boy:  feeding him a mud pie when he was barely more than a baby, telling him it was a hamburger and the sand on it was salt, and for years after he refused to eat hamburgers with salt; his asking any time we passed a drive-in if we could stop at “the stop and eat”; the way he straggled and staggered in his cowboy boots like he was a little bitty drunk old man; his refusal to take naps, so that Mama had to convince him to “just close your eyes for a while to get the red out” (he also, inexplicably, would get drunk-looking bloodshot eyes even as a toddler!); singing special songs in church; playing around the construction at the new house, where there were worlds of treasures laying around.

As we got older, our world expanded and so do the memories.  We seemed to do everything in tandem with Danny Thomas; riding motorcycles stands out, as does sledding.  Bo was probably still in grade school when he and Danny started hunting and fishing together.  I remember one night hearing him talking in his sleep and going into his room to see what was wrong, and he yelled, “It won’t fly, Danny!”  He couldn’t have been more than 8 or 9.  We both loved to play games at this age, too.  We gave the pool table a workout and could sit in the floor for hours, legs bent out to each side and backwards, playing Life and Operation and, oh, that game with the long toothpick-looking things and the marbles in a tube---Kerplunk!  That was it.  I remember Saturday mornings in the winter, haying the cattle with square bales in the pick-up, seeming like we were 20 feet up in the air.  I have a very distinct memory of being in South Dakota the summer he was 8 and I was 12, and we were coming back from the field one day in the Scout with Dad and Gene.  Dad said it was time I learned how to really drive by myself, and Bo made fun of me because I didn’t drive by myself yet, and he did.  He was still so short that he would have to half-way stand up to drive, but he was fully in control of things.  He could already, at that age, run much of the equipment there.  I don't think it ever left him less than cool-headed, even when the farm drama got tense, such as the time the combine caught fire as he was running it, sometime when he was a teenager. 

Things speed up so much after that, and not just because we were both mobile.  By the time I was in high school, he was so busy with farm work and fishing and hunting, and I was involved in music lessons, reading, and helping Mom with Sheri and the house.  The time we spent together was family time, meals and vacations and church.  But unlike so many families both then and now, we were not distracted by a million activities that kept us from seeing and knowing each other.  Mom insisted, thank God, that we all sit down and have dinner together at night.  We weren't allowed to read at the table or eat in front of the TV.  We might have the radio on in the car, but we didn't tune each other out.  What we did, we did together. 

I've only come to love and respect him more as we've grown older, though we only see each other a few days a year now.  His dry humor cracks up everyone who listens.  You never know when some straight-faced silly observation will fall into your lap and after a second, the whole room starts laughing.  There is NO other person on earth who has the card-playing mojo that he has; I swear he cheats, but my sister-in-law says he's ALWAYS like that, so I guess he just attracts good cards like static electricity attracts cat hair.  Thank God he isn't a gambler, because he'd be completely dangerous.  He has an earnest thirst for knowledge that makes the teacher in me so proud.  Everyone thinks when we are in the same place, at his house or the ranch or at mine, and we stay up half the night talking, it’s because we are arguing politics.  It might start out that way, but more often he just amazes me with his observations, wisdom, and stories about life and history and the world in general, and those are the only times we really get to talk.  We're infuriatingly opposite in many of our beliefs, but I'm so proud that we still communicate well enough to have our discussions. 

I am in awe of my brother.  I love his strength of character and his work ethic.  I aspire to have his knowledge of history, geography, and the Bible.  I envy his wit and cool demeanor.  I respect his beliefs, even the ones I don’t share.  More than I can ever say, I love him and am so very proud to call him…..my baby brother.

 

Scaredy Cat

There's a vampire movie paused on my TV, and I'm anxious to get back to it.  This immediately follows my first viewing of The Blair Witch Project---yes, I'm only about 15 years behind.  The best thing I can say about that movie is that no one will ever, ever remake it (though the current trend is to remake EVERY movie more than 10 years old).

Now, if you knew me when I was under 30 or so, you might be a little surprised that I'm watching witch and vampire stuff.  Frankly, I'm a little surprised myself. 

I was known---WIDELY known---all the way into adulthood as the most chicken-shit spooky movie watcher in the world.  There were a few people who took a great, terrifying pleasure in scaring the hell out of me when we watched anything that could be considered scary.  I was easily spooked even when the movie wasn't scary!  Notably, I remember when my cousin Bettina and I saw Beverly Hills Cop at the Allred Theater in Pryor when I was about 20 or so.....and I screamed (loudly) when Eddie Murphy got shot.   Bettina slumped down in her seat like overcooked spaghetti; it was her hometown, after all, and she knew quite a few people there that night.  Come to think of it, I'm not sure we ever went to a movie together again after that. 

My nervous-Nellie-ness goes waaay farther back than that, though.  I don't know what tipped her off, but my mother didn't let me watch anything, ANYthing, the least bit scary.  No, that's not true:  I do remember her and Theda Rae, the neighbor who babysat me, watching a scary movie on TV one night when I was very young.  I remember sitting on Theda Rae's lap for part of it.  The movie was about a girl who was a Satan worshiper.  I can picture this scene so clearly, though it had to be around 47 years ago.  The girl was asleep in her bed with a candle burning.  There would be a shot of her sleeping, then the table by the bed with her photograph and the candle...then a shot of a statue of Satan standing there in her room.  Repeat:  sleep, photo, statue; sleep, photo.....and the statue, its glittering eyes turning to look at the girl in her bed! 

I blame this movie for a lot of my Satan-terror when I was a kid, but also for the Hershey's-syrup-and-purple-satin-bedroom nightmare (that's in an earlier blog) that makes me laugh just a little too maniacally these days.

But after that, I wasn't allowed to watch even things on TV that were scary.  Remember that TV movie that Elizabeth Montgomery did in the late 70's where she played Lizzie Borden?  I remember being banned from the family room that night because there was NO WAY Mom was going to let me watch that.  I sat in the living room, pocket doors closed, contentedly reading a book and eating popcorn.  But I'm still a little pissed off about missing that movie.

When I went off to college, of course, there weren't nearly the kinds of movies we have now.  But I just about refused to see all scary things; I'm not sure I saw Halloween or many other psycho killer things, but I know I saw Nightmare on Elm Street....stupidly.  Freddy Kruger was the perfect sort of villain for my brand of hysteria.  Shoot, even bad Stephen King stuff, like Salem's Lot, scared the shivers out of me.  The original George Romero Night of the Living Dead---oh, crimeny.  It makes my eyes water even now to think about how bad that freaked me out...or maybe it just makes my eyes water in embarrassment to admit that such a BAD movie scared me.

Somehow, though, I guess life teaches you there are much, much scarier things than vampires and zombies.  Ghost Hunters started it, and then various other TV shows got me more desensitized to the supernatural.  And then one day I noticed that my DVR was full of True Blood, Walking Dead, American Horror Story, and other oh-so-charming pieces of modern culture.  Maybe I have lost my fear of those things because I'm long past childhood, the refuge of the mysterious and unexplained.  Maybe I just outgrew the fear.  Possibly I'm scarier than anything I think could ever come after me!  Or perhaps it's just the medication: better living through chemistry. 

This is not to say I don't believe in the supernatural.....well, a little.  But that's another blog.  Besides, my big bubba tom cat just heard a noise and went off growling to protect me, so I'm pretty safe.  And I have to find out what's going to happen to the vampires who are running out of their blood supply on Daybreakers.  Don't tell me how it ends----and don't call my phone and scare me into screaming.  You know who you are. 

Moon on Fire

Leaving the gym each night this week, I watched patiently for the waxing moon to the east; I knew it would be full soon.  That moon, she greets me with a warm smile every time she arrives.  I always try to give her a friendly "Hey" when she puts on her show.

For those of us with a dark spot in our being, night is our real home.  Sunlight is too harsh and revealing, so the forms of light we trust and adore are the gentler moon and stars.  We can stare at them as long as we like and they will not hurt us.  Their cycles are not unlike the cycles our own lives take, the waxing and waning of our moods, the meteor showers of happiness.  Many times, one thing or idea or person in my world has outshined all else, as Venus does at times---surely everyone who has ever lived has felt that way.  No doubt there are people who have never seen the Milky Way, looking so thick and frosty that you wish you could sip it through a straw.  I feel so sorry for them; they only have to look up to know it's there.

The Poets, of course, know the value of this easy metaphor, this fickle moon who shares herself willingly with anyone who will pay attention to her.   The Bard himself loved to use the occasional lunar reference for his lovesick characters.   There are those lesser poets who often get a little over-wrought and feverish about it---but still, they hit the mark in a way we all want to hear:  "I'll come to thee by moonlight/ Though hell should bar the way."  What girl wouldn't swoon at that?

One spring night long past, some 15 years ago, I was driving home from a regional speech contest where I was a judge for the team I had just given up the year before when I changed schools.  The day had opened a chasm of loss and love I had for those kids, my Roland babies, and I drove nearly 50 miles, weeping aloud, windows down despite the cold to try to calm myself.  At some point I looked out my car window to the left.  In the western sky was the tiniest little splinter of a moon.  I wasn't even sure it was real at first.  In an instant, I was reminded of an evening in the spring of '93.  I was driving home to Skedee from Austin to surprise my baby sister, who had the lead in the school play.  It was long after midnight, and I was about 20 miles from home on a straight but hilly stretch of Highway 15.  As I came over a hill, a bright orange light leaped into view.  I thought at first that I had come upon a house fire, or maybe a hay-barn fire, and very close at that.  I had never seen such a light at night outside of a city.  But a fire?  No---a colossal, pumpkin pie/carrot fire full moon.  I wanted to stop, get out of the car, and try to touch it:  it was just that large and real.  I was awed that I got to see it, sped over hills hoping that it wouldn't have disappeared.  And when I saw that meager little sickle moon, the night that I was so heartbroken and grieving for my kids, I recalled the earlier trip in an instant.  I thought, "How sad.  That's all that most people get in their lives, that little sliver.  But I've had the moon on fire."  I had been driving along mourning for things lost to me, then generously received a gentle reminder of how much more I've had and understood, all courtesy of that loving moon. 

So I look forward to her show every chance I have to see it, wondering what message she will bring me:  a muse for an art, an eye-catching presentation, or even a crucial insight to dry life's tears.