Well Said

 

Rollercoaster Ride

I have decided that this caregiving gig is an unpredictable rollercoaster ride. My days range from being so tame that I am bored to tears, to being a nightmarish, life-changing dilemma about whether to call an ambulance or not. I alternate between feeling sorry for Mom and, God forgive me, being irritated. One minute she is telling me how nice it is to be able to watch a movie together during our lunches and the next she is chiding me for not cleaning my toaster often enough. I think she is also fairly convinced that I don’t ever feed the fish or the cat and that, roughly once a month, my marriage is on the rocks because Don and I aren’t smiling when she happens to look over. *Sigh.* This morning she was concerned that maybe the doctor might have to remove her big toe because it is so sore. “It’s an ingrown toenail, Mom, not gangrene!” “Really?” she asks. *Oi.*

And yet, how can I really be mad at these mere aggravations when Mom so clearly has more than her share of frustrations? Although I didn’t think it was possible, she is slower and has become even more fragile over the last three months. Sometimes I hold my breath as she moves, watching with sadness how much effort it takes her to pick up a foot and shuffle it a few inches. It takes her a minimum of 3 ½ hours to get dressed on the mornings that she doesn’t shower. Of course, that includes makeup and at least three types of moisturizer because one must always be presentable. My feelings of guilt at these moments, for ever having been impatient, drive away the irritation and open the door to appreciation again.

Mom’s vulnerability reminds me how precious life is and, as I stare at her sleeping form in the chair or under her covers, holding my breath until I detect hers, I am thrown around the curve of that ever-moving rollercoaster into thankfulness that we have another day together.

Note: Last night, as I typed the last word of the last sentence above, Mom’s frantic voice barely reached my ears and sent me running into her bedroom. She had fallen and was shook up and in need of assistance in getting up. Thank goodness she was on the carpeted floor and not in the bathroom, so a scrape, some bruises and sore muscles should be the worst of it. Buckle up; we're headed for another go-round!

Glowing Pickles

Teaching, like raising kids and life in general, is a matter of going in as prepared as possible with at least two viable plans and then being flexible enough to ditch both when you have to and punt from the seat of your pants instead. I just finished substitute teaching six days for two different districts, grades five, seven, and eight. It was a nice rush of “busy-ness” that, in my restlessness, gave me something fruitful to do.

Four of the days were spent with the fifth grade class of the teacher with whom I student taught a couple years ago. He has a whirlwind personality and a teaching style all his own. I learned a great deal from working with him and now, when I have a chance to be with his students for several days in a row, I enjoy putting what I learned into practice, albeit with my own spin.

Teaching is as much learning as it is imparting knowledge, however, so I came away with some interesting new bits of information. For instance, I was sorely reminded that teaching fifth graders a new study technique should be done with a simple bit of information or the task becomes unwieldy and that, no matter how well the first procedure went, teaching a second one too soon will be disastrous. It also became apparent that, no matter how I might try to make up for the interruptions we had during our Social Studies time, there was no way to hurry up the process of reading without sacrificing comprehension. When my third attempt at reorganizing the lesson was endangered by an offer to join the sixth graders in watching a glowing pickle demonstration, I figured that even the US Constitution would have to take a back seat. I guess, you could say, I saw the light.

While none of the students may have been able to explain the Three-Fifths Compromise to the returning teacher the next day, I’ll bet they had plenty to say about how certain kosher pickles can glow at one end and spit and make the room smell like burnt brine when used to complete a circuit with about 50 amps running through it. I hope he accepted the trade-off as fair, since tomorrow is another day. I also hope the kids didn’t try the experiment at home, since pickles explode at about 100 amps.

In the Mood

Was I imagining things or did my ears catch the faintest strains of music? Nope, it was my imagination. Wait! There it was again. As I turned my head to search around me in the living and dining room areas, the sound disappeared. I glanced at the tv, even though I already knew it wasn’t on, and then held the discarded computer headphones to my ear to no avail. Staring at the telephone accusingly, as if the elusive sound was somehow humming through the wiring and occasionally escaping from the receiver or wall outlets, I finally decided I was mildly delusional, which didn’t seem too implausible. Giving up, I grabbed my coat and headed toward Mom’s bedroom in the attached apartment to let her know I was going to get the mail. Nearing her closed door I discovered the source of the phantom strains of music and paused for a moment to let a chuckle escape my throat and to rearrange my face into a “nothing is unusual” expression. Preparing myself for a blast of sound, I opened the door and stuck my head in to announce my intentions. Bracing myself against the force of the Big Band music that was dancing away, I had to repeat myself twice just to get Mom’s attention since she was sans hearing aide.

Once she detected my voice and made eye contact, she laughed a little sheepishly and told me she had turned on the cd to divert her mind from its “black thoughts.” Indeed, I had noticed before she was aware of me that, even though it was her shower day and already 10:00 a.m., she was still in her nightgown, sitting on the edge of her bed with her head down. I had thought for an instant that maybe she was dozing, but after she spoke I realized she must have been deep in thought instead.

The term “black thoughts” always makes me first think of evil thoughts, which is completely incongruous with my Mom, but she has used the term several times lately in reference to depressing thoughts. So I laughed with her and said that music always helps me feel more cheerful, too.

It saddens me that she has these moments and I know that they increase in occurrence as each birthday brings her closer to 100. She is so amazing for her 96 years, with a good mind and clear health, that those of us around her are sometimes lulled into the feeling that she might live forever. But time and arthritis are taking their toll and her mortality peeks through her tough exterior more and more often, distressing us both. Mom mourns the things she can no longer do and I mourn the eventuality of her not always being around to try.

I think it is okay to think about these things; to think about death, rue our mistakes and inabilities, and begrudge the weight of our crosses. Acknowledging our difficulties is necessary, but when we start to let them overshadow the positive, then enough is enough. Mom is right. Turn up the heat, turn up the volume, and start dancing to whatever toe-tapping beat lifts your spirits! Quit dwelling on what can’t be done and savor the joy of what can. Life may be different now, but it is certainly not over.

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Champagne and Cheesecake Celebrations

I went to a wedding recently that launched me into a reverie about the variety of such blissful occasions that I have attended. Some were lacy affairs that served a dainty fare of shrimp and petite fours while others, like mine, were down home celebrations with a barbecue and homemade ice cream. Some took place in parks, some in churches, and one in a pig barn (free of pigs, of course). Smiling brides wore veils, or flowers, or floppy hats, three-inch heels, Nikes, or flip-flops; but no matter what their wardrobe, the grooms always appeared white and solemn, as if holding their breath until it was over.

Although, some of the ceremonies might have been more a reflection of the bride or her parents than of the happy couple, each matrimonial pair found a way to reflect their own joy. One of my friends jumped off her wheat harvester and into her wedding gown just minutes before walking down the aisle, then flew off to a new life in New Zealand. Another couple interrupted their procession out in order to greet and hug friends and family on their respective sides of the aisle as they went.

One thing that makes these events fun are the innocent little foibles that don’t hurt anything, but make the day memorable. For instance, at a rather elegant wedding in a state park, the bride wound her way around a small lake before coming down the aisle while a small string quartet played airy music. The perfect visual touch of meandering geese, however, soon went out of control as the long-necked residents took umbrage at the parade of maids going through their midst and began squawking, scolding, and chasing them out of their territory.

Most recently, a barn full of onlookers were unexpectedly charmed by four very small attendants. The oldest boy, not quite four, pulled his baby sister and girl cousin up the aisle in a wagon, the latter flipping wads of flower petals behind her. After depositing them with Grandma, in the front row, he turned the wagon around and went back to fetch his toddler cousin. The sweetness of this quiet moment was suddenly shattered when he pulled up in front of the exit and called out, “Next” - disintegrating the spellbound audience into fits of giggles.

My own wedding was no exception. The ceremony went perfectly: the flower girl went down the aisle on cue, I didn’t trip or step on my dress when getting up from the kneeler, and neither of us fainted or threw up. Since we were skipping a reception in favor of a family barbecue, we greeted everyone as they came out of the church and breathed a sigh of relief as we waved goodbye to the last of the cars pulling out. That is, until we realized that we were being left stranded across town at the church in our wedding clothes without transportation! “Wait!” we shouted to Don’s parents, running for their car as it started to drive away. Ah, yes. Memories.

It just goes to show that “perfect” is in the eye of the beholder. As in the rest of life, we must follow our hearts in making it meaningful and allow laughter to soften the harsh edges. However we choose to celebrate it, real joy should not be contained, but allowed to spill over and infect everyone. At least no one used black electrical tape to spell “Help Me!” on the soles of the groom’s shoes so it would show up when he knelt at the altar. Oh, wait. Um. I guess that did happen…

Sunday Drive

The folds of land around me that roll down from the nearby mountain range are once again lush with the green of winter wheat grown thick and rich from recent rains. As my car crests yet another rise, I am treated to the 360 degree expanse of more velvet hilltops that eventually spill into a blue valley with the faint glint of a spring rain-swollen river cutting its length. In this part of the state, where cities are few and towns are far apart, travelers are reminded of the hugeness of the earth and the grandness of nature that is often taken for granted.

I must say, Oregon does have it all, from sand dunes and ocean waves to high deserts, lush valleys, forests, and snow-capped mountains. Here’s to taking time to appreciate what we have and what we are part of and taking the personal as well as political steps necessary to protect and maintain it.

Celebrating Danielle

We love you! (Slide show here)

What the..?

What?! I thought it was April...

Guess I'll bake some:

It's Ironic

Life has a lot of little ironies. I suppose that’s what makes it interesting, isn’t it? Yes, frustrating, too, and aggravating and a tiny bit humorous, but, at the very least, not boring. They are those shake-your-head moments that leave you speechless except for the wry twist of a grin that tweaks one side of your mouth when you think about it. You'd swear for a moment that it must be some kind of April Fools joke, but no, it isn't; it's just life.

For instance, when I started back to college to get my teaching degree, schools in my area were hurting for teachers, but, ironically, my graduation coincided with the present economic downturn that has caused severe school cutbacks and not even a whisper of any job opportunities.

There are more such twists of fate that cause me to pause. Such as, how an avowed nontraveler ended up across the globe for three weeks. How someone who graduated summa cum laude could think jogging barefooted on the treadmill was a good idea. How an alert driver who is diligently trying to swerve around potholes can hit them dead center every time. How an animal lover can love leather shoes. How a vegetable hater can suddenly crave broccoli. How a chocoholic can be allergic to chocolate. How a duck hunter can adopt a drake named Frank.

Why?

Why do they do it? The neighbors. Some of these people have actually started mowing their lawns. I mean, please. What’s the rush? If it is just to make us look bad, they already did that last fall by mowing the week after we stopped. We give; you win. Go back inside and be industrious somewhere else. Everyone knows that once you start mowing in the spring, you can’t quit until fall, so why be a glutton for punishment? It could still snow, you know, and we get frost until June. It’s not like there is going to be a barbecue in the rain or lawn chair suntanning opportunities during our 60 degree highs. Come on. Get real. Read a book.

SSMO Power

I recently spent a few hours with the Sisters of St. Mary of Oregon. It was the annual Covenant Day where lay associates, like me, recommit ourselves to praying with the sisters and carrying out a common charism of service in our daily lives. The nuns realized about twenty years ago that, with the number of new vocations declining, they should consider reaching out to lay men and women who shared the same ideals and practiced the same values so that they could connect with the world in a broader way. The journey has been an education for all of us.

Two friends and I were among the first of seven people who answered the invitation those many years ago; now there are over fifty lay associates, not counting about fifteen who have died, including one of my two friends. The three of us were originally the only ones from Eastern Oregon. Although more from our neck of the woods eventually joined us, most of the associates always came from the Portland-Vancouver area, closer to the SSMOs. Because we traveled four hours to get there, we were invited to stay the weekend at the convent. It was enlightening for both the nuns and us.

I think it was hard at first for the sisters to adjust to being invaded by strangers, albeit only a few. We were fascinated with everything and wanted to check out each corner of the convent: the dome, the balconies, the bells, the beautiful grounds, the various sitting rooms, the communal bathrooms with two dozen sinks lined up in a row, the phone closet, the craft room, the dormitories where high school girls and novices had once stayed. We laughed too loud, stayed up too late, and got lost too often, not always staying where we were supposed to be. Poor Sr. Catherine, our contact, was always walking a fine line between upholding the proper decorum and having fun with us.

In turn, we found out that nuns were as individual as the rest of us. One sister, with whom we shared a living room, was an avid Blazers fan and became quite animated during the game. Another loved crafts and had quite a few projects going. A third was athletic and went running every morning, another liked to fly kites, and another took care of the flowerbed outside the kitchen, admonishing anyone who dared to pick even one of the beautiful buds that resulted. As regulations relaxed, some of the women had gladly thrown off wimples and veils and exchanged habits for regular clothes in the traditional navy and white of their order, while others stubbornly clung to the familiar. One nun in her 80s still wore her habit daily, but occasionally pulled on top of it a bright red pullover sweater that she loved. What a rebel. Another sister donned worn street clothes several times a week and visited the homeless along Burnside. Some taught at the school that they ran, some worked at the nearby nursing home that was managed by a different order, and a few worked in parishes. Whatever earnings they made were pooled to provide for the entire convent and big decisions were made by consensus. In their spare time, they took care of their cooking and laundry, the grounds, the school, their extended families, the retreat center, and the retired nuns in their infirmary. They disagreed, they were quirky, they laughed, they prayed, they communed, and they moved mountains. And, boy, could they sing. They were educated, and smart, and determined, and daring, and who wouldn’t want to be connected with them in some way?

Although it has been a strange association to try to explain to people, (no, I’m not becoming a nun; I’m just going off to play with them periodically), it became quite important to me. Hearing from the sisters throughout the year about what they are doing and knowing that they are watching my back with prayer, as I do for them, fortifies a bond between us. When I make a student feel valuable and cared for in my work as a teacher, or when I take Mom for a day of shopping or help someone with memory loss wash their hands, I am joining forces with some very strong-willed, compassionate, radical women who are also using their various gifts to make a corner of the world a better place.

For me, going back to the SSMO convent is like making a pilgrimage to a second home. I know the secrets of the physical place, the faces of its heart, and the pulse of its longing. I plug into the spiritual flow of these women who are so different and yet so akin to myself and return renewed and re-grounded.

SSMO Power: I need it in my life.

Spring Has Sprung

Or so the calendar says. Since today is supposed to be the first day of spring, I walked around to gather evidence. Sure enough, the signs are definitely here.

Grapefruit are now gracing my breakfast menu.

The eternal shadow of overcast skies have given way to the bright contrasts of the sun’s rays.

Temperatures are soaring between frosty nights and light jacket days.

Ankles can now be lost in the unshorn grass that is flushed green from rain.

Branches trimmed by hard winter winds are stacked and ready for mulching.

Our slumbering neighbors are alert and coming over to visit again and…

…friends who winter in the warmer South are back and singing in the trees.

The pond is bubbling freely and the goldfish are no longer sluggish.

Trees are budding…

…bulbs are blooming

…and the Oregon Grape bushes are awakening.

The world seems new again as we shake off the cold and grim winter greys and don spring shades of green. As surely as the Earth follows its track around the sun, life in eastern Oregon orbits the seasons. Students are reveling in Spring Break, farmers are preparing for spring tilling and planting, homeowners are reconditioning their lawnmowers. It is predictable and comforting; assuring us that the pain and loneliness of even the most brutal winter will not last forever. Life does renew itself and hearts do lighten. What seemed impossible in the dismal light of our season of waiting will reveal new avenues of hope in the dawn of spring. Be happy, be hopeful, and find joy. Spring has indeed sprung.

Happy Birthday, Jennifer

Since I am having trouble posting the slideshow, please click on the link below to view it:

We love you, Jen!

Things There Should Be a Law Against...

The Lawrence Welk Show

TV evangelists

Phone solicitation

Email forwards that spoil their goodwill message by threatening you if you don’t pass them on to ten more people.

Dirty public restrooms

Extreme perkiness before 4 pm

Push lawnmowers

Meetings

Allergies to chocolate

And, did I mention Lawrence Welk Show reruns…and reruns of reruns?

Dust Bunnies

This week I have been cleaning a few corners here and there around the house. I don’t know what has come over me, but I don’t think it will last long. For some reason, when I walked through the house the other day, I saw it as a visitor would and cringed at some of the intermittent chaos that is my own doing. My dresser, for instance, was a collection of piles and dustbunnies, while the closet in the guest room was much like Fibber McGee’s proverbial chamber. Ironically, most of the guest room bedding was carefully piled next to the sofabed rather than residing on the closet shelf just a few feet away. So, I decided to tackle a new vignette every day until I no longer feel like a slob.

I should probably do the same thing with other parts of my life. It seems to me that the act of living is messy, leaving strewn emotions and untended dreams piling up in corners, lost relationships gathering dust under beds of distraction. I have a tendency to ignore such clutter until I trip over it. Who or what have I put on hold, neglected, or hurt? Is there someone who needed me to listen, but I was preoccupied? Or needed me to act, but I held back or missed the cue? Have I become too self-centered and missed the opportunity to do good for someone else? Why do I want things that seem to conflict? How can I soothe my restlessness? Do I focus too much on criticism and not enough on joy? Why is that? Where is my joy? What are my dreams? Who is my treasure? Where am I going? How will I know?

Yep. It is time to clean house – one corner at a time.

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.

Skyping

Little by little we are becoming more entrenched in technology. Although not nearly as electronically fluent as our kids, we have, nevertheless, toddled into the twenty-first century in a few ways. Our latest venture is with Skype, a free video conferencing system available over internet.

Mom has had more success with the speaker feature of our latest wireless phones than ever before, but I hoped that video calling would work even better. My goal was for her to have an easier time conversing with family because she would be able to see faces and read lips. Indeed, the back and forth dialog goes more smoothly because Mom can see when the other person is beginning to speak so that she doesn’t try to talk at the same time and she can understand them better because of being able to read lips as well as hear them speak. The added bonus has been that she can now also enjoy the great grandkids more now too. Whenever they wander into the room, they will stop in front of the webcam and wave and say something to her and she can respond back easily. It is so much more natural and carefree than being told to “say something” on the phone. It makes me realize that exchanging smiles can be much more valuable than exchanging mere words. The whole essence of each person comes through so much better when we can experience body language and facial expressions.

Of course, as with anything else, there are some difficulties. Mom’s biggest concern was how she looked. “Oh! They can SEE me? But, I don’t have any makeup on yet!” she protested the first time. That can be a drawback alright. It won’t do to accept a video call in your underwear, although Mom gave Coletta quite a start once by appearing with a mud mask still on her face. It certainly was worth a good laugh, and we can always use more of those. I think Skype is here to stay.

Rhetorically Speaking...

Why does my compulsion to have things in their place not carry over to the top of my dresser? Morning after morning I glance at the chaos, pick up my watch and walk away, yet a misplaced dish in the kitchen sends me, scowling, to replace it immediately.

Why does Mom ask me in the stillness of church, in a whisper that barely qualifies as one, to repeat the joke the priest just made in the beginning of his homily? I understand that she doesn’t want to miss anything, but does she really think no one else will hear me but her?

Why do friends north of me want me to go “up” there and I want them to come “down” here when my town’s elevation is clearly higher than theirs?

Why do I beat myself up every morning on the treadmill and then snack my way through the afternoon? Do I not get the connection?

And, most of all, why does Mom ask me a question when she is too far away to hear my answer? Sometimes, she isn’t even wearing her hearing aide! Does this make sense? I mean, talk about an exercise in futility.

Pictures In the Sand

I recently watched the movie, Merry Christmas (Joyeux Noel), which portrays a very moving account of the first Christmas of WWI when Scottish, American, and German soldiers tenuously lay down arms and spent the next 24 hours in peace. Although it was just a song common to each culture, Silent Night, that broke through the initial barriers of war to spur a guarded and temporary ceasefire, the ensuing hours of mingled celebration opened doors to similarities beyond tradition that began bonding the soldiers as human beings, blurring the lines of hate and suspicion even further. A ceasefire on Christmas Eve, however, was not the real miracle. It was the reluctance to re-shoulder those arms or take aim again at the enemies which seemed less so after seeing pictures of their families and sharing their stories and gifts from home.

This change of heart along the front in 1914 did more to strike fear in the breasts of those safely orchestrating the war from the rear than did the growing number of casualties. Imagine what an epidemic of human understanding and peace could do to the war effort when there clearly needed to be a winner and a loser. But troops were moved and platoons disbanded and WWI continued. And now we find ourselves in the latest of a succession of wars with new enemies and new targets.

I do not question the decision to go to war. Not only is it too late for that, but I also believe that there are some things worth fighting for and I know that the freedoms and bounty that I enjoy are a result of those who sacrificed their lives to ensure it. These brave people must never be dishonored. I do, however, want us to never take these things for granted or forget that militancy is not without devastating cost far beyond a body count. In trying to do whatever we feel is the right thing, I do not want us, as a people, to be caught up in the hate of ignorance and fear. Even among apparent differences, I want to never forget to look for commonalities that bond us as children of the same world community, for peace is not possible otherwise. I want us to remember that our decisions and actions affect not only the lives of those who freely make the choice, but also those of innocent people who did not choose.

Kseniya Simonova, 24, winner of Ukraine’s Got Talent, uses the temporary medium of sand to transcend the barriers of language and unite us in our humanity. In war, everyone loses.

I Can Do It

Startled, I heard Mom’s notebook hit the floor and turned to make sure she wasn’t following its path. She had parked her walker and, using the handle bolted into the door frame, had turned to face the three steps, which Don has made into four half-steps, leading down into the attached apartment. Recognizing that the notebook hadn’t fallen, but was carefully tossed to the bottom of the stairs, I realized what she was doing and resisted the overwhelming urge to go and help her. Rooted to my spot, I watched as she transferred her cane and then her grip to the set of parallel handrails and carefully eased her way down the steps. Once both feet were safely on terra firma, she retrieved her cane, worked her way over to her notebook, and then slowly bent over and picked it up with her free hand before taking it to her desk.


This arduous process is typical for Mom these days. At 96, everything is an effort. Her arthritic knees crunch and hurt when she moves, her balance is terribly unsteady, and her bent fingers and diminished muscle tone make it difficult for her to lift or grasp things. Rushing to her aid is a natural impulse for all of us, but I have found that it is better for her in the long run if I balance it with watchful patience; a quality with which I struggle.

Since I can take those little stairs in one or two strides, it is much easier and quicker for me to transfer items to and from her rooms. When she is sitting comfortably in her chair in the living room, where everything she needs is right around her, I can fix her lunch and bring it to her little table before she can even rise to her feet. Similarly, I can unload the dishwasher and put everything away before she even makes it to the kitchen. When Ellie rings the bells to go outside, Don and I jump up or stroll in from another room to meet her demands with much less effort than it takes Mom. Not only is it faster for us, but we feel like we are helping her in a small way after all the years she helped us and our kids. However, as with everything, there is a gray area.

Too much of this help can have a negative effect; can become almost enabling to the effects of age. I have learned the hard way that when Mom is not allowed to do enough for herself, she not only loses strength and stamina, but also becomes depressed that she isn’t contributing. She feels that she is causing us too much trouble and that we would be freer to do things if she wasn’t around. We have managed to convince her otherwise, but it made us take on a new perspective ourselves.

We still do things for Mom, but we are careful to make sure we don’t rob her of every reason to get up and move around. I may still let Ellie in and out twenty times a day, but I don’t jump up to do it if I see Mom getting to her feet. We clean up the dirty pots and pans, but leave a few glasses on the counter for Mom to put in the dishwasher if she decides to putter in the kitchen after dinner. Although I carry bulky things up and down the stairs for her, I don’t always rush to her rescue over little things now that I know she feels a certain amount of pride in her successful struggles. “I did it!” she proclaims as she straightens up with the notebook in her hand. Once again, she has not let the nineties defeat her.

I Can't Decide

“Seldom right, but never in doubt.” That is the motto of someone with whom I used to work. It suited her to a tee, but it certainly doesn’t describe me. Okay, I may rarely be right, but “doubt” should be my middle name because I can waffle over anything: what restaurant I want to go to, which shirt to wear, who to vote for. It is pathetic how long I can drag out making up my mind about some things.

Don is much the same, which means that major family decisions are torturous. Buying a new computer or car is an idea that has to be kicked around at least two years. For one thing, we both see all the gray areas in any discussion and until we’ve sorted through all of those, as well as the major issues, we cannot rest with our decisions. All in all, it isn’t a bad way to be; plodding, but thorough. Once our minds are finally made up, we have usually made a decent decision; if we live through the agony of the process, that is.

Lately, I have been trying to decide whether to pursue a special education endorsement. Talk about gray areas. I have made a pro and con list, researched programs and costs, discussed it with a variety of people, and even watched for signs from Heaven, but the answer doesn’t seem to be very obvious. Will this endorsement prepare me to step through doors that will soon open for those who are ready? Or is my life going to go in a completely different direction anyway so it doesn’t even matter what I do about this particular issue? Egad! Where is that Decision Fairy when I need her?

Now, what shall I fix for dinner?

A Month in Pictures

From a briefly white Christmas...

to a New Year of frozen fog...

through an Epiphany of hail...

to rain-sodden disillusion with a promise...

to Hope.

Undoing Christmas

I hate putting away Christmas decorations. Whether I rush to get it done in a day or drag it out for a week, it is a tedious, melancholy process. Un-decorating means the anticipation is over, the celebration is done, and everyone has gone. Collectively, with the help of advertising, Americans tend to now heave a sigh and twist to face the next holiday of choice on which to focus, but I find it a little harder to let go than that.

Part of my reluctance is that the articles in question never go back as easily as they came out of their containers, and seldom do they fit as well. I diligently mark the contents of every box, but either the items mysteriously increase in size or they somehow multiply, I’m not sure which. I also have to sheepishly admit that I hate to throw away some of the pretty bows and handy boxes that we are left with after our rip-and-tear-sessions. I’m sure they’ll come in handy next year, if I can just figure out where to stuff them for the next eleven months.

I guess sentimentality is the other part of my dislike for taking down decorations. The house is emptier, the winter weather is less charming, and people begin to smile less as they trudge back into their normal routines. However, maybe I should look at it differently this year.

According to my new mantra, I should “seize the moment, celebrate, and savor” this end-of-season drudgery. Let’s see…hmmm. Um, nope. Still leaves me cold. See ya next year Santa. Don’t be gone long.

New Car Old Friends

Don and I spent our post-Christmas/pre-New Years break researching, number crunching, and hemming and hawing about new cars. Finally, in a typical rush of indecision, we decided the stars were aligning in a pattern we couldn’t ignore and found ourselves on the road to Fossil; the K-family childhood home and the birthplace of one of the few low-pressure/high-integrity car dealerships left on Earth. The result was coming home ten hours later with a nicer car than we’d gone to get, at a better price than we had hoped for, warm butts from the pleasurably heated seats, and smiling faces as we realized we’d just gotten our first “grown up” car.

Besides the successful venture, however, something even more important happened on this impromptu trip that doesn’t always occur when we visit our roots. Sometimes when we go back, we return feeling sad because of all the changes in people and icons. Family homes might be different or completely gone, friends have died or moved away, and what was once familiar and comforting seems not to acknowledge us any more. On this day, when our minds were diverted with the usual torture of decision-making, we were surprised to experience a genuine homecoming.

Although there are several Chevy dealerships nearby, it was a very natural decision to drive three hours to Wrights Chevrolet. Herb had started the business and hired Don’s mom to do the bookkeeping when the kids were little. Eventually, Herb’s son-in-law, Bill, took over the business, and now Bill’s son, Billy, who at 44 has long since outgrown the nickname, is running the sales department while his dad has semi-retired to the parts department. Since they close at midday on Saturdays, we left home early and only expected to see the two Bills. Instead, we were met by the whole family and spent three hours visiting and maybe one hour actually doing business. One of the retired mechanics who used to like to harass Don and his brothers even stuck his head in to greet him.

We couldn’t believe that everyone stayed there the entire time and stood outside to wave goodbye when we finally left two hours after closing time. Memories were shared and pictures and stories of kids and grandkids were passed around and repeated at least twice. After dragging ourselves away, we also made sure to swing into Nornie’s, a family friend, at least long enough to give her a hug and once again exchange family news.

Don and I left Fossil that day with a lot more than a car. It was nice to know that even though many things have changed, we still have roots there. We are actually missed by some people who are part of who we are. It goes without saying that we would never have forgotten them, that they hold a special place in our hearts, but it was incredibly nice to find out from their actions that we meant something to them, too. And, I must admit, that is even better than heated seats.

Seize, Celebrate, and Savor

Besides partying, it is traditional on New Year’s Eve to review the past year and make resolutions for the new one. Although reflecting on the past is interesting, I’ve always had trouble with the resolution part. I mean well at the time, but carrying out my pledge seems to get lost in the shuffle of everyday reality. Perhaps it is because my decrees are too unwieldy (lose 80 pounds), too general (don’t get diabetes), too negative (quit being a blob), or just plain too unrealistic (look and feel like I did at 20 by this summer).

To be honest, I don’t even try any more. I get tired of failing and so I set smaller goals for myself throughout the year whenever I manage to evoke an epiphany of some sort. The Advent and Lenten seasons help with that, as well, especially with reflection concerning who I am as a person. So, this year, as we slide quietly from 2009 into 2010, I am going to have a little fun with the traditional process.

Things I learned in 2009:
   Even at 55, I am still a daughter who can be chided for not cleaning the oven often enough and who is worried over when I am too quiet.
   Stoneware breaks explosively when left on a hot burner.
   First graders never forget what they experience.
   Love and respect in the classroom creates bridges, regardless of special needs.
   My house can store a lot of stuff.
   Even though I am often physically lazy, I still need to be mentally and creatively active to be happy.
   We never grow too old for wanting to please our parents.
   Laughter is still the best medicine.
   Not everything can be adequately explained or understood.
   A few good friends are better than a truckload of casual acquaintances.
   When living in doubt, my faith becomes a choice.
   Family is my foundation; when it’s broken, so am I.
   Keep both hands on the steering wheel for when those stray truck-size tire treads come rolling down the road.
   Mom is still drawn to standing in doorways when I want to come through.
   Life still hurts sometimes.
   I am socially inept, but extremely adept at waffling over decisions.
   I receive more joy than I give.
   A massage and a milkshake exponentially improve my attitude for a long time.

Things I want to be conscious of in 2010:
   Portion control: in food, material possessions, and self-indulgence.
   Laughing more.
   Enjoying Mom’s companionship and making her laugh.
   Self-expression.
   Savoring the moment.
   Smiling.
   Seeing beyond my boundaries and taking risks toward happiness.

My 2010 Mantra: Seize the moment, celebrate and savor.

Something's Fishy at Valencia's Central Market

We were surprised by a flag throwing performance in Italy, but we never saw this. I guess we didn't frequent the right market...



You've gotta love a country that reacts to a surprise opera in the marketplace by breaking out the wine and passing it around!

Oops. That Can't Be Good.

Just a Reminder to Relax and Have Fun!

Sometimes I stress out trying to make things too perfect, which is utterly impossible in my world, so this is a reminder to myself that being together and having fun is really the whole point. Mishaps will add to the humor and everything else will slip into place when it is supposed to. Merry Christmas!
TSO Wizards in Winter 2007

Thank You, I'd Like That

Christmas is all about gifts. We search high and low for the perfect “somethings” for those special people in our lives simply because we want to illicit that sharp intake of breath and exhale of surprised joy. We scour toy stores in order to obtain the one item for which a child has pinned all his or her hopes on Santa to bring, lest he or she be disappointed in their hero. We trade homemade gifts with neighbors and we even share a little something with coworkers because even the most irritating people look less so against the halo of light emanating from our Christmas spirit. We make sure the homeless have a place to sleep and a proper holiday meal, we toss change into Salvation Army pots as we shop, and we donate gifts to names on the community tree. It all adds up to a lot of giving, a lot of buying, and a lot of gifts. Although this seems to be a testimony on materialism, I can’t help but see a different perspective here.

From the Christian point of view, Jesus is a gift to us from God; a gift of Himself given to lowly and privileged alike. Not earned. Not bought. Not deserved, but given anyway...and, what’s more, given with a love that expects nothing in return. Such a perfect gift, given in such perfect spirit. In our best moments, our giving can come close to this same spirit. Yet, it has occurred to me that this Christmas theme of giving is only half of the story about gifts. Acceptance, the theme of the final week of the Advent season reminds me that the giving of gifts is not complete unless the gifts are received.

Now, I’m not sanctioning a “gimme, gimme, gimme everything I want” kind of attitude, but just a gentle consciousness that people in our lives work hard and sacrifice to give to us all the time. Yet, pride or embarrassment or stubbornness often keeps us (er, me, let’s be honest) from accepting it.
“Ah, no thanks, I’m fine.”
“Oh, no. I can do it. Thanks anyway.”
“Naw, that’s too much trouble.”
And the most beautiful, selfless gift that people offer us, but that we tend to either take for granted or shrug off as not necessary, is their time and themselves.

So this year I am going to enter Christmas and the New Year with a spirit of acceptance as well as that of giving. I am reminding myself that I can’t do everything alone and that I need to say yes to help sometimes. For faith, hope, love, safety, freedom, friendship, family and the miracles of everyday life, I am thankful and blessed and I send wishes for all of the same out to every one of you. Don't forget, miracles happen to those who believe in them...

Straight No Chaser: A Cappella

These guys are having way too much fun. Loosen up! This is proof that everything does not have to be perfect to be great; different can be fun.

The Sound of Joy

Christmas is almost here!