Of an Age

 When I was ten years old I remember thinking about how long it seemed to have taken me to get to that age and that I enjoyed it so much I didn’t want it to end. I thought it would be good to stay ten forever. It was an age at which I was quite capable at many things, was lean and healthy, and had earned sufficient parental trust to be fairly autonomous. The town was small enough that I could walk or bike anywhere without fear for my life, and large enough to support a pool and a theater for entertainment. My $1 per week allowance allowed me to go to the early show on weekends for a quarter, buy Red Hots and Hot Tamales or a candy bar for ten cents, and still have enough money left to put a quarter in Sunday’s offertory basket and save the rest for a rainy day. School wasn’t too terrible and summer, which spelled f-r-e-e-d-o-m, seemed to stretch another nine months instead of merely three.

As we all know, of course, time marched on unbidden and I reluctantly, albeit slowly, left the age of ten behind. At seventeen I graduated from high school with a huge sigh of relief and looked ahead with anticipation to being on my own. That summer I reflected on how much had taken place from birth to seventeen; it seemed, and was so far, a lifetime of changes. I wondered how the next seventeen would feel and promised myself to take more notice of them as they passed.

Time began to speed up and the changes I took stock of at 34 were significant and life-changing: college, jobs, marriage, miscarriage, children, a home. It was alarming how quickly that second set of seventeen years flew by, but I liked the age. It was comfortable; having the energy of the twenties, but with more wisdom. My family nucleus had changed from having parents to being a parent and this altered my perspective of the world. I realized that my parents were fallible, that I could teach them as they had taught me, and that they were wonderful grandparents. Life was busy, but simple and I wanted more than anything to provide the same environment for my kids that I had had so they could experience the carefree childhood that I had treasured at ten. I wished for more room in the house and the budget and a car radio, but we were happy anyway.

My forties revealed my own glaring fallibilities, which allowed a greater understanding and sympathy for my parents. They may not have been right all the time, but I could now see how they got there and admire their tenacity, wisdom, and faith. In effect, they were still teaching me through example and I was finally humble enough to get the message. Sadly, this was also when I realized that they would not be with us forever. During this decade we survived teenagers and they survived us, we negotiated some changes in location, and I reentered the work force in a new field. I began developing a new dream of what I wanted to be when I grew up as our children continued to astound us in reaching for dreams of their own.

So, here I am in the middle of my fifth decade, which seems to be hurtling forward at the speed of light. I’ve moved from taking care of kids to taking care of parents; weathering memory loss, stubbornness, and letting go. It is a reflective age for me that is filled with misgivings, joys, memories, and forgiveness. I’ve travelled physically and mentally where I never thought I would go, and am still looking for new frontiers to conquer just to keep life interesting. Although I am no longer lean and lithe, as I was at ten, and struggle with mistakes and shortcomings, I still dream and wonder what’s next. In fact, I am restless for it and sometimes afraid. Yet, for whatever comes and all that was and might still be, I am thankful. It is my life and I claim it as good.

Sparklers!?

I carry all kinds of things in my teaching bag when I go on a substitution assignment. Besides the obvious planner, lunch, breath mints, and pens, there’s also a timer, a book of short stories, a “find the missing pictures” book, Mad Libs, a whistle, and, since bribing is allowed, a can of Tootsie Rolls and Hershey Kisses. However, today I found that a couple items were missing.

With all the advice I got before starting to sub, no one ever mentioned that I should also come prepared with a set of ear plugs, fireproof coveralls and shaded goggles, but I certainly saw the need for them during this morning’s welding class. Very impressive sparks were spraying across the room in two different directions as one student sanded a triangular piece of flat steel and the other crosscut a steel rod. It was hard to know where to stand so that I would not become tinder. Then, as I looked around the room to make sure everyone was on task, I was nearly blinded by four different welding and cutting torches that were in the hands of teenagers. I won’t even discuss the deafening noise since hearing loss seems rather secondary to being blown up.

Actually, aside from the one student whom the teacher had earmarked as the most responsible person in the class that I stopped from heating his pop tart with an acetylene torch, everyone did stay reasonably productive. Yet, doesn’t the idea of teenagers and torches within the same sentence still seem wrong on so many levels?

“Well, we didn’t start any fires,” I reported to the school secretary as I turned in my keys.

“Then it was a good day,” she replied without looking up or missing a beat. I believe she’s already seen it all and has come to terms with it.

Now, I wonder if fireproof coveralls come in pink?

Pancakes Please

Since today is Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent, yesterday was Shrove Tuesday, sometimes better known as Fat Tuesday. The latter name reflects the effort of soon-to-be Lenten fasters to cram into one day all the eating and fun that will be ecclesiastically frowned upon during the encroaching forty days and nights of Lent. Some communities, such as New Orleans and Venice, even stretch this magical day into a week-long mardi gras festival. Here, in my little corner of eastern Oregon, amid the wheat fields, foothills, and pea patches, however, we keep things simpler.

Tonight, our parish is hosting a Shrove Tuesday Pancake Dinner, replete with ham, pancakes, applesauce, and scrambled eggs. No masks, dancing, or debauchery here, just plain, down-home, clean-out-the-fridge type cooking with a side of ask-the-neighbors-over and visit-across-the-table hospitality. Much of the town filters in from work to plunk down a few dollars and fill up on the simple fare, the hall reverberating with chatter.

Frankly, I wonder every year why people come when it would seem easier to go home and flip their own flapjacks for free. But they keep coming anyway, people from other churches or no church at all, to support this little Catholic shindig. I suppose it is cheap enough that even large families can afford to give Mom a night off and basic enough that even the pickiest eaters will be content. And, too, it is a quick and easy outing for a school night.

I have also wondered why we put this dinner on, especially since there are so few of us to do the work. Who else, besides us, cares that Lent is approaching? Or is it to help pay our bills? The Octoberfest Dinner that we host in the fall is a larger money-maker, but maybe it isn’t enough.

Dorothy says that we host this dinner for the same reason that people come:  community. Our working together toward a common goal builds a sense of family among the people at church, and people come in order to acknowledge and support our place within the larger community of our town. She says we all NEED this dinner and I believe she’s right. It really isn’t about pancakes at all.

Ah-h-h-h. It's Starting to Make Sense...

Here’s to understanding those with whom we work or croon or share a jury room; those people who make little sense to us, but seem to be everywhere.

Rome: Through Stephen Wiltshire’s Eyes

Autism can be a huge challenge in life for the people who have it and those who love them enough to try to meet their daily needs. I know from some experiences in the classroom that it can be difficult to make the world align with an autistic child’s rigid expectations, but when it happens, the result is rewarding. I have also learned that what we label as handicaps might better be seen as gifts, because the two sometimes come hand in hand. Here’s an example of one man’s beautiful gift.

No more excuses. Just do what you can do.

Celebrating the Sun

Ah, the sunshine is back! We have had quite a spell of completely overcast skies and I am ready for a break in the clouds. Blue sky and sunshine always improve my mood. We get all kinds of weather on the eastern side of our state, but, thankfully, the sun doesn't hide for long.

Do Re Me

I subbed half a day this week at the elementary school for the music teacher. Although given the option of just showing a video to each class, I chose to try to implement the teacher’s lessons plans. She had left very good notes and I thought it would be good practice for me since I have very little experience in that area. However, I definitely appreciated the opportunity to opt out for a video if I found myself in over my head.

It really wasn’t in the spirit of masochism or martyrdom that I jumped in to try teaching songs that I had never heard before to people with ten-minute attention spans. I think I just felt that trying it with children this young, grades K-3, was a golden opportunity because the material is simple and they are so forgiving if you mess up.

So, with CDs to help us through the songs and students eager to teach me the dances that they were learning with some of the music, we did fine and all felt a sense of accomplishment in the end. It also helped to know at least three quarters of the students now that I have subbed in so many grades. That, and there was always that sanctioned video to bail me out; although, I’m proud to say, I only showed five minutes of it to two different classes because we finished our lesson early.

I must admit, as a post script, that had this been an assignment with older students, I wouldn’t have fared so well. They aren’t nearly as enamored with fifteen rounds of London Bridge Is Falling Down.

It's Puzzling

For the past two weeks we’ve been casually working on a 1000 piece puzzle that Danielle gave Don for Christmas. As its name, Wasgij?, (“jigsaw” spelled backwards) implies, this is no ordinary puzzle from the Piccolo Mondo toy store where Danielle works. Rather, it challenges the players’ accepted perspectives by portraying, not the picture printed on the box, but the point of view of something or someone in the picture. Huh? Yeah, that’s what we thought, too.

So, basically, the picture on the front is very little help other than setting up the context for whatever the puzzle will ultimately portray. Adventurous puzzlers must then resort to relying on colors, lines, and shapes to begin piecing the mystery together.

I have a kind of love/hate relationship with jigsaw puzzles. I am fascinated with them, but get so obsessed with finding the pieces that periodically I have to get up and walk away to avoid screaming. Intrepidly, Don and I started this new one and, about halfway through, began to hypothesize and then finally see what was happening in the picture, but it still didn’t get much easier. I must say that there was more than the usual sense of triumph when the Wasgij was finished. Although younger children could piece the puzzle together merely by matching and still benefit from the planning, comparing, evaluating, and predicting skills that they utilize, I think it would be even more valuable for challenging the developing abstract thought processes of adolescents. The idea of trying to analyze and predict someone else’s point of view based on building clues is a good mental exercise that would parlay well into a discussion on globalism.

For now, however, I’m just glad this mystery is solved and my sanity is still intact. I wonder what challenge will be next.