Mentally Engaged

I’ve just spent the last ten weeks taking a couple online graduate classes in teaching literacy. The credits add to the continuing education that I need to renew my license and the courses can be applied toward a reading endorsement, or, if I have enough stamina and motivation, an MS degree, but I don’t expect to take it that far. I have to admit that the reading has been very interesting. I didn’t realize all the factors that contribute to a child’s learning to read and write. Even “environmental print” plays an important part. That’s the words on packaging, price tags, the McDonald’s logo, road signs, and billboards.

There are lots of things that can put children at-risk for reading. Besides learning difficulties, factors such as cultural diversity, being an English language learner, low socio-economic status, low family literacy, and lack of environmental print experiences can all challenge reading development. I have also learned that scribbling is important and that there are different kinds of scribbling that denote motor development. It just goes to show how much we take for granted in the learning process.

As mentally stimulating as these courses have been, however, I almost bit off more than I could chew along with subbing and spending time with Mom. I got a head start on the reading, but writing two papers and six half page responses to other people’s papers each week plus two ongoing projects caught up with me about halfway through the term. Part of my problem is that obsessive desire to make things perfect coupled with the random refusal of the technological “Blackboard” system to cooperate with posting my work. Now I am racing to finish up the last papers and final application projects that denote the end; reveling in how much “good stuff” I have learned while counting the days until I am free to immerse myself in the luxury of reading for fun again. Yet, even as I breathe this sigh of relief at the light that has reached my eyes from the end of the tunnel, I wonder what will be next to help me fill some of those restless hours of the day.

A Celebration

Time. It's easy to take it for granted. Wasn't it only last week that I sat in her lap in the middle of the night, my pulsating ear up against her chest while she waited with me for morning when we could go to the clinic for some relief? And I'm sure it was just yesterday that she told me she would dry the dishes so that I could go on out and play before the summer evening was over since being a kid didn't last very long. She made my wedding dress, held my babies while they slept, and silently prayed us through every uncertainty of life. Mom, we are not just celebrating your birthday; we celebrate YOU.

97 Years Young

Ninety-seven. It's a number that is hard to wrap one's head around in regards to age. Even with her frailty Mom's age surprises people. I think it is because her spirit is still young.

Family and friends were all good about remembering her with flowers, cards, calls, and emails. I am touched by the people in this community who took the trouble to send her good wishes.

Coletta and Bob came up for a few days. Here Coletta is giving Mom a wild ride on her walker (or go cart, as she prefers to call it) into the dining room for a lasagna supper. Steering seemed to be a problem.

SKYPE calls and phone calls came in all day. Mom loved it, but sometimes got confused when too many people talked at once. Here someone called in time to help us sing "Happy Birthday."

Three amaryllis plants will bloom by Christmas.

Happy 97th Birthday, Mom. We love you. You have touched all of us with your gentle, determined spirit of love.

What Notes?

Wow! I just subbed a class more harrowing than welding…fourth grade band. You know:  the year they typically get their first instrument of choice. Considering how much they learn by spring, it might not be as risky to sub later in the year; however, the second month of school is not a sane idea. Of all the classes, they were the most eager to actually practice with their instruments. Others brought homework to work on or divided into sections and practiced rhythms and theory, both relatively quiet functions. NOT so the beginners. Although they, too, divided into sections, each section in a different room, the noise was deafening. Not music, by any stretch of the imagination. Noise. They knew a couple notes, but not in any recognizably melodic pattern. And I must particularly take care to mention that the drums and the saxophone were especially pulsating amid the other squawks and warbles. Not a flute in the bunch either. How’s that for ironic? Seventeen fledgling musicians sounded like fifty. It was a lo-o-o-ng half hour.