Rattling Tiles

I'm playing Mah Jongg today, subbing in a Monday game that's been going strong for 40+ years with few interruptions or replacements.  These ladies play for keeps, no nonsense and purposeful - they want to win.  Stakes are high; everyone starts with five dollars and if you're having a good day you can walk away with eight or ten dollars at the end of three hours.

I started playing the game thirty years ago.  I was 26, married with one child and in between miscarriages.  A group of us, roughly the same age and circumstances, begged one of our older friends - she was 45 maybe? - to teach us.  Her mother had played and taught her.

She agreed and we met at her house one rainy Saturday in February - don't ask how I remember this so vividly since I can't remember my phone number most days.  It was cold and bleak, but the four of us who came to learn didn't care.  It was almost as if we were bewitched by tiles we learned were craks and bams and flowers and big jokers.

Once we mastered the basics we began playing in earnest.  Three times a week, sometimes, and at night when all husbands were occupied with Quarterback Club or Monday Night Football.  Or Wednesday night poker. 

Our routines were simple.  Housekeeping chores and children out the doors by 8: tennis from 9:00-11:00, then lunch, brought to us by smiling waitresses who loved our shenanigans - we were known as the "fun" group.  We would rack the tiles and have the first game underway when the food came, but we never stopped to eat before someone had won.

We played until 2:30.  Carpools waiting and dinner to prepare.  We all left at the same time because we all lived the same life.  Good ones, predictable and calm.  We might complain of husbands who forgot the trash or to lower the toilet seat, but our landscapes were so perfect we couldn't imagine anything ever changing.  We got home in time to help with homework, prepare pitchers of martinis and dinner and ask our husbands about their days.

We have remained close friends for all these years, and now we laugh at how naive we were then.  And how lucky.

We played through my pregnancies, first teeth, last graduations, divorces, marriages, birth of grandchildren, death of parents and children, illness, great fortune and devastating news.  We were dinosaurs, the last group of women who would collectively stay at home and wonder at the others, those who didn't have a road map that included housekeepers and yardmen and supper clubs and groceries delivered because food shopping cut into our playtime.

We were delusional.   Young women of a certain age and lifestyle who still believe in happily ever after are the smuggest of smug.  Fate rears its head and says "gotcha" and suddenly the life you thought you'd always lead is nothing like your reality. 

So when I rack the tiles today I'll think about the person I was when I first learned the game, in the very room I'm playing today, and miss her for a millisecond.  I liked her.  She was so young and thought she knew everything. 

She wouldn't even understand the Cliff Notes of the life she would lead.

Where did God get iceberg lettuce and why hasn't it evolved?

My baby boy and I just ate an early dinner/late lunch at a decent seafood restaurant in town.  He chose a shrimp po'boy and I had a shrimp and crab salad.  We've both ordered these before and haven't been disappointed.

His sandwich was great - they held the mayo and added cocktail sauce.  JT doesn't do mayo.  My salad was a mound of terrific steamed shrimp and lump crabmeat in a better than average Greek dressing, with tomatoes, green peppers, and spring onions.  So far, what's not to love?

The damned salad was served over iceberg lettuce. 

Really?  None of your suppliers offer anything other than this passe green that pretends to be lettuce?  No leaf lettuce, or romaine, or curly endive - all they have is something that could be mistaken for a head of cabbage?

Growing up I ate the monstrosity of epicurean hell with abandon - it's the only kind we ever had at  home.  Quartered and served with Roquefort - my dad's favorite dressing.  Topped with bacon for everyone else - my hatred of pig flesh extends to my early years.

I loved Sunday lunch that included this rarity - it was a fine break from the pot roast we usually had because the salad was always served with baked chicken - I think there was a rule about it.  Along with the cluck and salad was my favorite - mashed potatoes.  And dessert was usually a trip to the local ice cream store. 

My mother is not a cook.  A wonderful woman, but her abilities and imagination in the kitchen are both limited.  So when she stepped out of the meatloaf/pork chop box her last resort was always the above described meal.

I prayed for these Sundays.

Fast forward twenty years, with varied lettuce selections in the grocery stores, and I reached salad heaven.  Never did I purchase iceberg again.  My life has been richer because of it.

I am a food snob.   I do not eat pigs in the blanket, nor do I partake of cocktail weiners in grape jelly/barbeque sauce.  My palate is particular - food of this ilk would not get past my molars.  There is nothing wrong with the people who do enjoy these staples, but it's not for me.  Too many good things to eat to waste time on Grovian horribleness.

And iceberg lettuce?  I wish I could send every head to those starving Chinese children I heard about at every meal I refused to eat growing up.  Along with the milk I refused to drink.

Please, by all that is good and holy, boycott the iceberg.  Your taste buds will thank you.

And don't get me started on boxed mac and cheese.

June

I don't know why I love June so much - she can be difficult.  Some Junes come to us green and vibrant, tied up in a blooming bow of such grandeur that it almost assaults our senses.  Everything is alive and happy to be part of the general scheme. 

Others arrive blustery and blowing hot rain down on newly planted wonderfulness and stay around for weeks, almost as if to say March didn't do its job and I'm here to make up for it.  I've seen and loved both versions of June.

What fool doesn't love the first June?  We work together in tandem, training vines and dead-heading daylilies, cutting hydrangea for drying and lopping off petunias to encourage new growth.  We start the day with coffee and hummingbirds and end it with a good glass of wine and an old dogfriend.  We are happy in our unity.

But I love the fierce June, too.  Even I recognized long ago that I have no control over weather and gave up trying.  On the days that June is being contrary I merely find books and a light quilt and repair to my chair.  June clamors on around me as I read and doze and glance at All My Children - did Susan Lucci make a deal with the devil?  At the end of the day, June and I have both been true to ourselves and we're both happy.

One year when my children were young it rained every day in June.  Every day.  Young children don't do well when they can't go outside - they need the freedom to be foolish and run and rip and tear up turf and toys.

This year our annual HUGE Fourth of July party was in danger of being a wash, literally.  My daughter got up the day before the Fourth and proclaimed, in the serious manner that she perfected at 2, that she had just done a Sun dance, and the weather would be fine for the holiday and could we please have corn?

The next day broke and so did the weather.  The sun blazed down on our horseshoe and badminton games, ice cream was ready to make and burgers and hotdogs sizzled on the grill, along with my youngest son.  (Sunscreen wouldn't stay on him.)  Friends and family sat on the patio and picnic table and were amazed that the weather was perfect after such a rainy month.

My daughter looked up from  her third ear of corn and said, "I told you I did a Sun dance."  That was enough for her, and she was the only one in attendance not at all surprised at the perfect weather. 

At the end of a tumultuous May I'm not sure what to expect of this June.  It stormed in the Grove for hours yesterday, and when I got home it had barely sprinkled.  That's another thing about the month - it's unpredictable.  Whatever this June is meant to be, I'm ready.

It's been a long year, and she has arrived exactly when she was needed.

Alpha and Omega

The end of another school year is always a time of reflection - the good, the bad, the ugly.  This year had an abundance of all, but also had many laughs, good new friends made, personal accomplishments and setbacks.  In general, another year in the life.

I end this year with a mostly positive mindset.  Some changes in the workplace are very promising but others bring sadness.  Good friends leaving for greener pastures and former students leaving because they were asked to. 

There's the rub.   We all want to go out encircled by friends and co-workers wishing us well and proclaiming sadness at our leave-taking.

A colleague who is exiting this way will be missed.  She and I have taught together for 15 years.  I taught her children, and counseled them, and remain close to them all.  We saw each other through divorces and teenaged problems and raged against the machine.  We are compadres, partners in a common fight to end ignorance.

Another friend is retiring.  She is planning to move her 94 year old, blind mother in with her.  That tells you all you need to know about this kind, slightly scatty woman whom I've wept with when her husband died, and laughed uncontrollably over foibles of youth. 

Our assistant principal, a woman I thought I had NOTHING in common with when she came, became a wonderful confidante.  We shared a two minute meeting of the minds most mornings and I discovered early on that we share a love of literature and good theater, as well as travel.  I will miss those daily affirmations of the spirit.

A former student didn't fare as well in her mode of departure.  She was pink-slipped, non-renewed, fired anyway you look at it.  She's bitter, sad, upset, blindsided - all the emotions you would feel if this happened.  She's young and will recover;  I wish her only the best.  She will be a better person because of what happened, I think, and I pray she finds a job soon.

Every person who travels the road alongside you leaves a mark.  I was lucky that I learned at an early age that you don't have to be friends with everyone, only those you choose.

I've chosen well.

Eulogia

I walked down the hall for the 432nd time today and a long, gangly boy ran up to me.  He's someone I've seen in the halls, but I don't know his name.  Always smiling, always says hello.  A most pleasant young man.

"Mrs. Thurman, I'm so glad I have you first semester next year."  Enthusiasm seeped from his Clearasil.  I replied that I knew it would be a great semester, blah blah blah.  Typical flotsam thrown out to a student you don't know but who seems eager to learn.

He said, "After Beta Club induction I went home and told my mother that I had just met my favorite teacher.  I love history and you are funny."

Great relationships have been built on less.  And if I tell you that it made my day, you'll understand why.

I love teaching.  And I love these goofy, bright, energetic, maddening, contradictory, beautiful, awful, kind, feral, righteous, demonic, adult-children I have the honor of spending my days with.

It's just the shit that goes along with it I hate. 

Summer is:

• sleeping til 5
• shorts, tee, flops EVERY DAY
• Mah Jongg at will
• fireflies
• geraniums that look beautiful slightly past their prime (so am I)
• hydrangeas
• listening to only sounds I love
• no lesson plans, morning duty, pizza/corn/fries Mondays
• no one asking me to buy a Boston Butt, or cookie dough, or wrapping paper
• fresh cut grass
• dinner outside with my baby boy
• dinner outside with my favorite ex-husband
• more angst from Elizabeth (genetically programmed I think)
• new love for Alan
• daylight til 9
• honeysuckle
• magnolias
• gardenias
• neighborhood kids playing in the sprinkler
• visiting with their parents while wishing we could do it
• lunch with great friends
• all beaches
• too many talks with my MR yard man
• daylilies!!!!
• farmers market veggies
• grilled fish
• gym when I want, if I want
• books
• coffee on the deck with the hummers
• chasing Harper Lee around the hood
• tomato sandwiches
• sun and shade
• reflection
• rest
• rejuvenation

Thank you. And Amen.

Memories

Last night I attended a party to welcome home a Favorite Daughter.  Her family and friends (and even one lucky teacher) all gathered around to hug and kiss her and tell her how much we've missed her.  She was gracious and allowed us to baby her and listened to our stories about what all has happened since we saw her at Christmas, and then headed to get a beer.  She's 21, after all, and can only stand so many niceties.

As I enjoyed the wonderful meal her family had prepared - her Dad fried fish outside and her Mom made amazing homemade wonderfulnesses - and then went to their backyard to watch a bonfire and roast marshmallows and catch up with many good friends I remembered why I've been so willing to drive fifty miles every day to teach.

These people.  These solid, true Christians who would do anything in the world they could if you asked.  These fabulous creatures of clay and dreams who grew up with one and had an abundance of the other.   These mothers and fathers who had it better than their own parents and were determined that their children would surpass them.

They worked and went to church and made sure their bills got paid and made lives to be envied.  These are the people who've sent their children to us to teach what they need to know to take them away from the life their parents have led.  They sent them knowing this, and wanting nothing more. 

She will take the MCAT this summer and is hoping to enter medical school after graduation.  It's gonna be tough for her.  Small college degree, so much competition for slots in med schools.  I pray she scores high enough to realize her goals;  it's all she's ever wanted to do.  She's smart - she has a back-up plan in case she doesn't get in.

And that's what I'll miss when I no longer traverse the Highway of Broken Dreams - the bright kids and great parents who have made it a joy, at times, to be a part of a small community of good people. I spoke with many former students who were there to welcome home a bright star in the terra firma that is the Grove.  Every one of them college educated and employed, and all part of my life. 

It was a fitting benediction.

My hair and I...

...have had a love/hate relationship for almost 57 years.  My hair doesn't exactly love or hate me - inanimate objects don't have feelings - but the role it's played along my spiritual journey speaks volumes about my disdain or pleasure with my crowning glory.

I was born with no hair - an omen.  When it came in, judging from baby pictures, it was just peachy.  Blonde, wispy, and impossible to manage.  So my mother started trying to tame the beast.

The growing years - 3-12 - show the same look in every photo.  Long and curling on the ends.  Not because the hair wanted to curl - it came in stick-straight and has remained thus lo, these many years. 

No, Mom made me spend my youth in a torturous way, sleeping in curlers every night so that when I awoke she could brush my hair and the smallest of small waves would remain on the ends of my hair until I reached school.  Then: massive fail.

Washing my child-hair was also treacherous.  Leaning over a cold sink - topless because I hated water running down my clothes worse than I hated water running down my skinny back - I suffered through as my mother scrubbed my hair with Prell until there was no speck of any mere hint of dirt.  The woman loved clean.

After that came the real torture - combing through the wet, tangled morass that was my head covering.  Tears?  Every damned time.  Finally making it through the pain, I looked forward to the damned pink-sponge-roller-sleep I had to endure - anything was better than the combing out.

As I grew so did my opinions about my hair.  When I was twelve I declared hair independence - Mom would no longer be allowed to touch my hair, and I wanted it cut.  I got my wish and for a couple of years my bob and I were happy.  I washed it at night and slept, curler free, and awoke to straight hair that I pushed behind my ears.

Then the teens hit.  Suddenly, I wasn't as blonde as I had been.  Enter my new best friend, Sun-In.  Spray that on, sit in the sun, and instant highlights.  I loved, and I miss, Sun-In.  And those years.

The 60s hit in a big way my last couple of years in high school and the hair grew.  Long and straight.  Everyone wanted my hair.  Still blonde, thanks to my best friend, and straight?  Horse tails had nothing on my hair.  As my friends set their hair using orange juice cans or lay their hair across an ironing board and used an iron to try to achieve straight locks, mine was natural.  I did nothing to it but wash it and let it air dry.  I was envied and vilified for having perfect hair.

The summer before my senior year was traumatic - break up with boyfriend, falling out with best friend, basic high school drama.  So I did what any other normal 16 year old does, I cut my hair.  In all honesty, I missed the bob.  Easy?   Nothing to it.  I've kept the same hair since, with few alterations to style.

I think this screams something loudly about me.  What, I'm not sure, but I have to think my hair style remaining fixed speaks to my dislike for change, and the style itself says that I really am a no-nonsense type.  The upkeep involved in staying blonde?  My appreciation of all things past.  And the constantly pushing the hair behind my ears.  Don't mess with me.

Or maybe it's just hair.

Life's not fair...

...and life's not funny.

When I was five or six I proclaimed loudly to my father about the unfairness of something; what it was is lost, but at the time I felt deeply some slight, I'm sure.  He told me, as all parents do, that life isn't fair.  He must have been amused by my overly dramatic response and laughed.  I cried, "It's not funny!"  He said, deadpan, "So life's not fair and life's not funny."  It stuck.

This week has brought home the sentiment.  It's pink-slip time in the world of education and someone I teach with got one.  It can't  have been a total surprise - there have been warning signs - but no one enjoys being told they aren't good enough, and that's what pink-slips do.  They proclaim to the world that you have had a major "Fail."  Circumstances, nuances, and behind-the-scenes goings-on don't enter into it - you've been fired.

I hope the young teacher finds a job soon.  She has a small child and like all of us, needs to work.  But the work environment hasn't been good for her for awhile, and just knowing she doesn't have to go back there should mean something.  Once she's had a chance to regroup I think she'll see this. 

Another non-tenured teacher, who is abysmally dreadful in almost every aspect of her work performance, did not get a pink-slip.  I'm sure she's gloating and all self-congratulatory, but she needs to watch her ample ass.  The winds of change will blow this year at good ol'  Hick High - people are being watched by someone other than the God they all claim to worship.  A new assistant principal who won't take any shit, from anybody, but certainly not someone like the admin in charge right now.  The teacher union and a new superintendent are aware of problems in our happy little home.

Things are about to get interesting, and my Daddy's old saying is about to be made relevant, again.

What's in a name?

Everything. 

Parents-to-be spend eight or nine months picking out the perfect name for their baby.  Don't you wonder at their mental capabilities when you see a birth announcement for yet another Dakota or Madison? 

Really?  Out of all the names in the world you chose one that scores of other new parents have just named their blessed bundle? 

I had a small class one year in which four of the seven girls were named Ashley.  All spelled differently.  Misspelling a name doesn't make it any more palatable.  In the same class were three Brandons.  At least they were identical in spelling.  Probably because they were all incredibly stupid and needed to be able to copy their name from some other Brandon - who knows what the birth certificates said.

When my oldest son played baseball he had three Shanes and two Jasons as teammates.  It got confusing. 

And the trend to make up names?  How many Jadens and Cadens (or Kadens) can one teacher take?  And if it isn't Madison it's Addison.  Dropping the "M" and doubling up the "d" is a small derivation that makes absolutely no difference.  It's cutesy and imitative.

Maybe I'm radical about name choice because I've always hated mine.  My birth name was what I'm called today with a consonant at the end. (I was supposed to be a boy.)  At 12 I begged and begged until my parents changed my birth certificate - I now have a female name.  Not one I like, but at least no one thinks I'm male.  My children were all given family names - strong and no-nonsense monikers. 

Children should have names that will grow with them.  I'm not advocating a return to the Mabels and Earnests - God forfend - but honestly?  Do you think that we will ever see the CEO of a Fortune 500 company named Jaren?  Or Jarin - I've seen both.  Luckily it seems that Savannah is waning, along with Kaley and Haley and even Jaelie. 

Did that mother hate her newborn on sight?

If your fondest dream is for your daughter to grow up and perform on a pole, name her Brittany or Tiffany or Destiny.  You've sealed her fate.  And make sure she marries/reproduces with a Dakota.  Ignorant bliss will be theirs, along with pitifully named children in perpetuity.

Mornings

Five AM is obviously my prime time.  I feel better physically, rested, ready to start a new day.  My most productive time, by far.

Unfortunately the rest of the world isn't on the same circadian rhythm.

If you get up at this time you are almost like a pioneer shoving west, or a member of Magellan's crew, or some sad little hunter and gatherer in search of breakfast.  Why is this the time I love?  Normal people don't.

When you get up so early you can hear your own thoughts more clearly.  Telling you what you should do, and what you should have sawn off your arms before doing.

And you get to see this:

And this:

 

And listen to this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dpyhl85MYmU

Started my day off right.  We all worship in different ways.  And my baby is on the same circadian rhythm as I.

Quilts

My grandmother was a quilter.  A wooden frame hanging from the ceiling in her back downstairs bedroom was testament to her craft.  It was lowered by wire attached at each corner, and could be rotated the same way.  My grandfather built it for her years before I was born, and as far back as anyone can remember it was there. 

My mother and aunts grew up in that bedroom.  They dreamed little girl dreams, I suppose, and played elaborate games of make-believe.  They are close today, in their seventies and eighties, but sometimes still bicker as though they were six. 

My grandmother spent evenings in their room.  Picking apart seams she wasn't happy with and laying out tapestries.  But talking with her girls, listening to their arguments.  She was an artist - painted well into her 80s - and her quilts show her incredible eye for all things beautiful.  Especially my granddaddy.  That man was something.

As a child I spent summers in that back bedroom.  My brothers were relegated to the upstairs to be watched with a jaundiced eye -  those boys could tear up a steel ball.  I, it was assumed, would read myself to sleep, quietly and somberly.  Absorbing whatever book I was reading, becoming Jo March, or Lou Gehrig, or General Lee.  I've always done that - lost myself so in someone else's words that it almost comes as a shock to realize I'm me when I reach the last page. 

My grandmother always came to tuck me in before she went upstairs, Granddaddy long gone to read and listen to the radio.  She would ask if I needed water and pull the cover up to my chin and fold it back.  The fan would be on, droning the hot air around so that it was almost cool.   Open windows and night sounds in the country comforting to a little city girl. 

In the morning, very early, the smell of breakfast was a delicious alarm clock.  Bacon, biscuits, sharp cheese, eggs, and always "coffee."  A large cup of warm milk and sugar with a dollop of coffee.  Late summer breakfast would be peaches and cream.  Sliced perfectly and arranged on my favorite plate, transparent blue glass with an etched rim.  My grandparents tended to make much of us, the grandchildren who never lived close enough for regular visits.

My grandmother never quilted in my bedroom those years I became me under the roof of an old farmhouse that will always look like home to me.  She cooked, and cleaned, and shooed pesky little boys outside, and rubbed leftover biscuit halves on my patent-leather shoes to make them shine for church, and taught me to love growing things in dirt, but she never lowered the quilt frame and spun stories for me as she had her girls.  Did she recognize my ingrained sense of apartness?  Or was it simply that quilting was something she only did in the dreary winter months, fireplace blazing, sitting in a back bedroom of a big house, alone with her scraps and quilt frame?  I'll never know, another question I never got around to asking. 

She died under one of her own quilts, older than me, and thinking that her Jim, dead thirty years, was on his way home from work. 

I have two of her masterpieces and to say that I treasure them doesn't begin to describe what they mean to me.  One is made from corduroy, weighing far too much to use except in the most bitter weather.  She made skirts and dresses for her five daughters from the fabric and she was never one to waste a thing.  The other one is shabby and threadbare, faded blues and yellows.  It's the one I still read under in the winter.

I think of her often, and my granddaddy, and those days in that bedroom, safe, happy to be with family and my books.  No one telling me to go outside to play because it was a beautiful day, or asking that I help with laundry, or requiring much of anything of me except to be me.  Not like the Alabama cousins, all freckle-faced and open, running and jumping and constantly leaving havoc in their wake - my brothers assumed that role the minute we crossed the state line.  I was the changeling, the different, the quiet. 

Under a frayed blue quilt I still am.

Different

I have three children.  And they are as different as night, day, and whatever the third option is.  They love each other, and are way too much fun as a group - I laugh as childhood roles manifest in these very tall people.

My oldest would have made a great Stoic.  Nothing fazes him.  Solemn from birth, and easy.  I thought all babies slept all night at four weeks.  Hated school, hated books and reading.  Would ride his bike for hours, or dig in the back yard until dark.   His career choice doesn't speak to his personality - postal service employee - and he reads everything now.  My most inscrutable child, and the one I share the least common ground with.  But my soul.

My daughter was a miracle baby.  Three miscarriages between she and her brother and no child has ever been worshipped more.  Looks just like her daddy but is my clone in disposition.  Her grandfather used to say she was me, cubed.  All things being equal, she might have been better off if it were reversed.  She feels everything, deeply, and frets.  She's always fretted.  From socks that didn't feel right to my lack of concern over hair-ribbon placement before school.  With two other children clamoring for attention.  Reads, thinks, writes.  And is my breath.

Then my last.  My heart.  My sweet child.  Who battles demons.  Addictions.  Brilliant.  Beautiful.  Driven.  And in recovery.  I pray, constantly, for my baby, my sweet boy, my angel on earth.  Loves Sinatra and Miles Davis, and has probably read every book of any worth.  Speaks Latin and Greek.  And can't be kind to himself.  He will mend, I know.  I have faith.  And my baptismal name was Monica.  Her heart broke for her son, too.

They can't even agree on what to call me, the woman who suffered so to give them life.  (A family joke; they were all C-section.) To my oldest I'm "Mother."  My daughter, almost 29, calls me "Mommy."  And to my baby boy I'm "Darlin'." 

I like it that way.

Randomness that isn't.

A friend got news today.  Not good news, not bad news, just affirmation of something she's suspected - and she's a great suspector.  Verifying what she had hoped was false but knowing in her heart what the answer was.

Parents are given the children they are supposed to have, I'm convinced.  I always say my children aren't perfect - and let's not even start itemizing the imperfections -  but they are the perfect children for ME.  Smart, and smart asses, seekers, learners, bull shit detectors. 

But they are also eminently themselves.  Kinder than I, oh so much brighter, more environmentally aware and concerned.  They also read deep dark books and laugh at my beach reads.  And most everything else I do.

They love me, though.  And I them.  It's a physical thing that is part of every cell in my body - I can no easier watch them being hurt than I could do my own tonsillectomy.  An old saying is that a mother is never any happier than her least happy child and it's true.  There is nothing we won't do to "make it better,"  whatever the "it" is. 

So when I'm faced with the grown-up problems they have now I hurt even more.  They aren't 4; a hug and vanilla wafer won't do the trick.  I still try it from time to time - especially the hugs - but their journeys aren't mine.  Their lives are to be led by them - I tell myself this hourly - and all I am is a loving bystander.

I know that my friend faces some tough times, which is fine.  She's more than capable of anything life throws her.  The road maps we get when babies are born aren't adequate for every situation, and the advice we get from others - even professionals, sometimes falls short of what our guts tell us to do for these amazing creatures we are blessed to have.  So she'll soldier on, with a lot of help from her husband, and be a grander person than she already is.  Knowledge is power, I know.

I just wish I could give her a hug and a vanilla wafer right now.

Glimmers

Another blogger - (could we please change the name of what it is I'm doing?  Makes me sound like a scrapbooker.  Or knitter.  Neither of which I can or would do.) - posted earlier about the career we've both chosen - education.  She and I are at the end of another school year, frustrated, tired, and underappreciated.

Teachers are the only people who go into a workplace knowing that most of what they do is for naught.  Your end product, regardless of the dedication, sweat, hope and ability you bring will only be as good as the raw materials you have to work with.  The natural resources in our area ran dry long ago.  Right now we're working with slag.  Our students' apathy permeates the lab in which we are supposed to create active learners with a pall that is almost visible.  And they are fine with that.  Their mamas and daddies are fine with that.  Just let them make cheerleading, or football, and don't expect toooooooo much from them.  They're poor, and have a baby, and have to work.

Here's the thing.  Lots of people are poor.  And have babies.  And work.  But not everyone is sorry and shiftless and unconcerned about anything going on in the world outside of the gas station on the corner and Dollar General.

And let's face it - praying them smart hasn't worked.  Nor has our method of sex education - faith-based - really worked for the area.  Bring in some heathens who don't go out every Saturday night and get shit-faced before going to church to be seen on Sunday morning!  Doesn't make you a damn bit holier than me, just less honest.  No one's buying it, and it hasn't worked.  The community isn't God-fearing - they're only name droppers.  The lack of compassion for anyone other than the local yokels is astounding.

Do I sound bitter?  I am.  Years ago I envisioned a career that would allow me to share what I love - knowledge - with those people I find so fascinating.  Adolescents.  Hasn't actually worked out that way, but there have been moments...

I recently received an email from a former student.  It came exactly when it needed to - horrible day in an institution where the status quo keeps anyone from advancing,  an incubator for sloth and hypocrisy masked as a school.  I feel isolated most days - few opportunities to talk to people I actually like and share common ground.  I do, however, have a lot of time to spend listening to our janitor's latest CD, available for purchase in the office, and hear about yet another blessed event shared by a student.  And also enough time to clean up the campus.  But that's another rant.

I'm sharing the email to offer hope, and remind myself of the ripple effect.  It lasts longer than you imagine.
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"Just wanted to take a moment to thank you for the impact that you had on my life and education. There are a couple of gateways in a person's life where a teacher can make all the difference. You were at one of those gateways for me. You respected us as adults and expected adult things from us, but still encouraged us to enjoy our last days as kids. That is no small feat. While I don’t know if this is what you always wanted to do, I do know that your students (myself included) are better people for your choice."

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What I do does have an impact and how I do it is appreciated.  By those capable of learning.  I tell myself this, often, almost as a litany.  It's sometimes the only thing that makes me drive the Highway of Broken Dreams.

Self-inflicted morning depression

The cosmetics/anti-aging shell game continues to baffle me.  Should I buy a spray gun to airbrush my foundation?  The bare minerals I use, conveniently packaged in a child-proof container, (and I'm no child) seem to work just fine for this no-nonsense chick.  Yet the industry continues to spend billions trying to convince me and other hopeless innocents that one tube/box/vial/pump bottle will magically transform me into my better self - no wrinkles, no sagging jawline, no blemishes.

I use "philosophy" and the reasons are endless.  And depressing.  First off - the stuff works for me.  I do think my wrinkles are being held at bay as well as possible without me walking around looking like I spread a can of Crisco on my face.  And "Amazing Grace," the cologne I use, is, well, amazing.  Again, personal preference.

The names of the potions and lotions though?  Start my day off on a down note.  "Hope in a Jar,"  "When Hope is not Enough," and my favorite, "Save Me."  
These are skin care products folks.  I don't need dunking at Lourdes - wouldn't work anyway - there are too many years on this face/neck to effect much change.  All I'm looking for is a good moisturizer.  My soul is fine.

And the wrinkles and sags?  Earned 'em all.  Don't like it, but at least I know what I'm working with.  And all the airguns in the world won't change that.

Children...

...are permanent.  They should grab DNA from the baby's butt as soon as he or she appears and clone it in a lab.  Use it to hold anything from broken fingernails to space shuttle tiles. 

Once you are a parent you are never again a mere person.  You are a mama or daddy and whatever you do is driven by that train you boarded as soon as they were born.  You never make another decision that isn't based on your appendages.

The stickers.  And they do, regardless of how old they are. 

And just as a personal preference, if you take your daughter to the beach don't post pictures of the two of you on facebook, she darling with her curls and sharpei legs and you gross in your "Party Naked" wife beater.  Not cool.

Rant over, on to a great song - teach your children well.  If you screw that up, it really doesn't matter what else you do.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p6pphVs8bF0

Unknown Growth Patterns of the Human and Vegetable Kind

The irony of planting unidentifiable seeds that a friend gave me today - Mother's Day - is not lost on me. I soaked them as required, put them in the ground, and have no idea what to expect. Are they sun or shade lovers? Did I plant them deep enough? Do they like fertilizer or will I overdo it? Will they have blooms or strictly foliage?

I won't know for sure, even, that they will be okay when I see the first green. Someone/something could squash them with a misplaced foot or weedeater. Blackberry winter could come with force and freeze what's growing in the blink of an eye. Squirrels might have them for lunch. I might forget to water enough and they could shrivel. Gardening can be treacherous.

One thing's for sure, I will be surprised. And I like surprises of the spirit.

Blogs, generally speaking...

...are boring, and mine is no exception. I haven't posted anything in over a month. Not because I have nothing to say, but I couldn't find it. Forgot the name, forgot which email I used to create the silliness, and forgot the cardinal rule of blogging: Thou must bore others to tears with minutiae.

In the last month I:

• didn't cook 
• had a pedicure
• weeded my garden
• read 9.3 books
• spent too much time on FB
• got mad
• got even
• got over it
• wept with joy
• wept with fear
• wept with happiness
• wept with frustration

Is that enough mental vomit or should I continue? Okay. I:

• remain estranged from family members who are toxic
• don't regret anything about the estrangement
• desperately want a change in work conditions
• contemplate reconciliation
• worry about everything
• seek clarity

I'm sure that blogging isn't for me. As I read my own words I realize why so many scoff at the medium: it's ridiculous and self-aggrandizing to spend even a few minutes reciting your own thoughts, feelings, and observations. There is this thing called living. Plan to try it.