Shiny Brights

 

I still have my parent's ornaments from their first apartment (a fifth story walk up) in New York in the early fifties. I sometimes just stop what I am doing, and just gaze at them absent- mindedly. I  notice them nestled, and shimmering in my tree. Some have flocked writing  (hard to see) while others now wear dull metallic age spots with honor.

    Nothing lasts as long as those Shiny Brights.  Many an ornament set I've bought at either a variety, or drug store has bit the dust yet the Shiny Brights live on. Come to think of it- even some of the Shiny Bright boxes ( although some of them are hanging in pieces) are still miraculously intact.

   I love looking at those ornaments.

Caffeine Thoughts

   

    On a weekend morning I love to just sit outside, and smell the wet grass with a huge cup of coffee in front of me. Lately, the mornings have been so cold that the steam wafts off my coffee in curly wisps disappearing seamlessly in the brisk air.  I sit pensive at the black wrought iron table missing the summer cushions but still grateful for winter. My fingers grasp the sides of the cup eagerly, and I think of nothing or sometimes just a few things. . . 

     Some of my best thinking happens on those mornings.

Patterns

 I said "good-bye" to my mother when I was three years old.   Of course, I didn't know I was saying, "good-bye,"  to her. I just thought she was taking a camping trip with the other siblings, and honestly I was happy to be pawned off on my grandparents.  There were four of us, and I was relishing the thought of some one-on-one time.

    Coincidentally, I had an eerily similar parting with my alcoholic sister just a little over four years ago. I haven't seen, or been with her, since she dove, full bore, into her alcoholism.

   The irony isn't lost on me- nor are the familiar family patterns that are often repeated generation after generation.

   Right now, I am just busy holding both.

Rain, rain don't go away. . . .

 

I hear it now.  It sounded eerily like water dropping down- rushing down.  Can it be?  Oh, how we need California to take a big, long drink.  Even the sound on the roof is familiar but yet somehow it's not.  The soft rushing has been so long awaited, and almost yearned for. I bend close to the slider on my window and throw it open eagerly. Yes, it is rain after all.  My nostrils take in the wet air in cold, dank whiffs with relief.  I can feel my shoulders dropping.

Therein lies the truth

 

Once they met I'm guessing the attraction must of been pretty strong because they wrote each other twice a day.  She in upstate New York pursuing her Masters in music, while he pummeled through Chaucer, and Congreve down in Harlem at Columbia.

   He always said they met because she looked just like his old girlfriend in France ( WW11 had just ended). And he took it upon himself, to come up and tell her so while she was playing the piano at a party.  As an adult I began to question the description of their meeting- and wondered what woman would tolerate a line such as that?  Apparently,  she was not only unimpressed, but also told him his pick up talents were sorely lacking.  Now, that I believe.

    This is my favorite picture of them.  My father always said it summed up their relationship perfectly.  He's orating on about something, only to turn and discover my mother was sleeping.  She always handled him effortlessly.

   After my mother got sick the pictures, and the stories were few and far between. My siblings were left to try to cobble the truth together, or something that looked like it.

Holding Both

  

   Just returned from nine day trip in the south visiting w/two pivotal women in my life that are both suffering from dementia. 

   The irony of the fact that both of these women have supported me, helped me, guided me at key points in my life and now they are completely helpless, and solely dependent on their caregivers, is not lost on me.

   Don't get me wrong, there is nothing I wouldn't do for these women.  And as I sat with them, read to them, held their hands, and just loved them- all I could feel was my love for them.  I wouldn't trade that experience for anything in the world, but I still came away from those visits with the cliche feeling that "life sucks."

   No matter how mature I am (or that I think I am) and the fact that I "get" the concept of life and death- it still is HARD.  Seeing someone you love in diapers, and falling asleep mid-sentence is the pits.

   However, being there for them, and loving them unconditionally is a feeling like no other.

Treasures

        

    What a YEAR!!  No.Words.   We just wrapped up fifteen months of online learning and arguably the hardest fifteen months of my professional life- EVER!

    And you know what the silly thing is?  The crazy thing is I probably would do it all over again for the kids. That's how we roll, don't we teachers?   We do it for the kids. These kids are so damn resilient, and so unbelievably positive. Of course, by the end of the year they got me drinking the kool-aid.

     On the last day reflecting in a morning meeting about our "bests/worsts,"  one student shared, "The best part was meeting all you guys.  The worst part? Not meeting you  guys in person." This has been the best year of my life,"  another girl shared.  I gulped.  She had spent the whole year online.  That afternoon I found these treasures she had left me in my teacher mailbox.  Here she was, yet again, sharing just one more tiny piece of her-as if I could ever forget her.

Pressure Cooker

Remember the scene in the graduate when Dustin Hoffman is floating in the pool and this aggressive guy at the party just says, "Benjamin, I just want to say one word to you. PLASTIC?"

    Well, I do.  That scene resonated with me. I remember when I graduated from college how much pressure I felt. Deer in the headlights does not even begin to describe my panic.  I remember all the well meaning people that hinted, or  just came right out and asked, "What are your next steps?". When I absolutely had no clue.

   What a painful time it was, and it came flooding back to me like a tsunami when my visiting daughter broke down into tears yesterday.  I found her on her bed, cruising social media and keeping tabs on fellow graduating friends and their prospective jobs or internships post graduation. After convincing her to unplug, take a walk with me, and convincing her that this is a BIG time for uncertainty for graduates we headed downstairs for that walk.

   I realized I had no fix for this one, and I would just simply smile and hold my breath.

Sweet Memories

 

 I planted these bushes the year my Dad died.  Now every spring the star jasmine comes in full force and I never fail to remember him just for a minute second, as I hurry by and take in the sweet heady smell.

    As a child we walked the red, orange and crimson lined streets in West Lafayette, Indiana at dusk. We looked forward to these walks. We would follow just a few steps behind as my father pointed out, and correctly identified, each plant, rock and tree.  My sister and I tried very hard to feign interest, but truthfully our thoughts were really more preoccupied with what kind of Dilly bar would we choose at the end of our walks.  Dairy Queen was always our destination at the end of our twilight strolls.

   I think my Dad would like his hedge.

Little Things

   

   I love my son's laugh.  I never get tired of sitting on the side of him and watching that smile spread across his face, and his head bob back in forth in spontaneous laughter. Watching his profile and seeing that squinted joy is like Christmas.

   I feel like I'm almost cheating by enjoying this so much? I  guess remember only too well the darker times, and the many afternoons with his bedroom door shut firmly.  

   On the couch, I mentally promise myself to never take his laughter for granted again, but also at the same time- like the practical mother that I am- to forgive myself if I do.

Jelly

      Every time I pass by this sleeping rug I admit I am SO jealous. Why am I so envious of this live, 12 lb stuffed animal/dog?  Well, to sleep that well, so long, and so arbitrarily is to be coveted, for sure.  She looks so relaxed and so content. (Meanwhile, I'm next door ready to toss my MacBook out the window).  And then there is her concrete-looking, supine position that also has me colored green with envy.

    What I wouldn't give to sleep through Covid, or all the other awfulness in the world.   How I long to just wake up to only lengthy warm, and tingly stretches.

   I guess it really is a dog's life?

Fortitude

 

   I never get tired of looking at this trivet.  My mother made it in her second stint in rehab. It's a symbol of her strength, and resolution. It's a symbol of her not giving up.  My mother had a blood clot, and it traveled through her body while at a high elevation.  What really happened- no one knows- but we do know she went almost six minutes without oxygen to her brain. Two different hospitals in twenty four months and in the end her brain capacity was about that of a twelve year old.  On one hospital record a nurse wrote that my mother appeared angry when reading a letter from my older sister, twelve year old Lois. Lois had written to my mother to ease her worries, and had shared that she had finally figured out how to make a bed, and had it all handled. She urged my mother not to worry.  This made my mother more determined than ever to get home.  And to her credit, she did finally get home but sadly it was not mean to be. This outcome had nothing to do with my mother's perseverance- let us be clear, 

Winnie

 

    My daughter Emma has a mysterious attachment to Winnie the Pooh that simply cannot be explained.  She has been in love with that character since birth.  From preschool (wouldn't leave the Little Tykes Pooh car on the playground) to even sleeping with a Mattel hard plastic figure clenched in her hand- this girl thought she had been born, and kidnapped, from the Hundred Acre Wood.

   And so it was almost instinctual that when I passed her Cheerios, while I was driving my minivan, that she would naturally scoop them out my outstretched hand like, "Pooh scooping honey."

   Even now, at 21, she will sometimes oblige her needy mother in the car, and still pretend to scoop out of my hand.  And then I can pretend, too.

Da Truth

 

    I'm not gonna lie the pull of warm sheets when you are taking an early morning run is fierce.  Compound that with 33 degree weather and it is BAD!  However, when I turn the corner on my street and view the gradient sky there is nothing like it.  Actually, some of my best thinking occurs on these early morning runs in the dark.  And once I get beyond, "Are you sure you're gonna do this?"  I really get into a whole different realm of thoughts. I never know what I'm going to ponder, or what might cross my over scheduled brain. Once I head up my driveway, I find myself ready to tackle the cyber world- well, sort of.

Verde Beauty

moss green

rolling endless

peaceful carpet Ireland

far as the eye can see velvet

fresh grass

Best Parts of Covid

 Best Parts of Covid

• hiking
• dog walking
• drawing
• Netflix binges
• cooking
• baking
• snuggling
• slowing down
• sunsets
• noticings
• resourcefulness
• sunrises
• family time
• beaches less populated
• nature

Fenced Yards

I remember when we got to California how mind blown I was of the newness of everything. The houses were new, the  green metal highway signs were new, and even our house actually smelled like a combination of both paint and sawdust. 

I think the thing that amazed me the most were the fences. They bordered every yard. They were tall, looming redwood ones. In Indiana we could see everyone's yard. We could see yards for the entire block. We could even see the backyards of the neighbors behind us because the only thing that separated us was a mere alley.

California the land of fences, and hiding your trash cans.  California  a world of privacy, and hidden rules that everyone needed to know.

Ah!  I still miss Indiana.

Girl Power

       My favorite picture of my parents.  My father fondly told me that my mother was FOREVER doing this to him.  Sleeping, or completely tuning him out when he was going on and on about Lester Young's saxophone solo or Graham Greene's use of moral ambiguity. He always discovered it after he was well into his oration.

    As a housewife, and a mother I take my hat off to her. Let's not dismiss these fifties housewives.  You gotta admire someone who could work the system.

Beauty Unnoticed

• Pine trees rustling
• Max and Emma tipping their heads together in an attempt to hear what the other one is saying
• Lucie making a soft yelp when stretching
• The house in the morning when Emma is home from college, and everyone is in their bed sleeping
• My husband's little boy smile
• A hummingbird darting in, and out of an red bell shaped flower
• Orange juice poured over the sky sunsets
• The still quiet on the deck of my cabin right before I leave
• A big stretch on a Saturday morning in between toasty warm sheets

Olfactory

    It happened again.  I hurried past the kiosk and I stopped in my tracks.  That familiar smell of cigars wafted up my nostrils.  For a second I was back in my grandfather's study with his leather spinning chair and scratchy wool Persian carpet.  I could almost see the clear glass jar on his desk filled with the rainbow colored peanut m-n-m's.   No matter how the adult me feels about tobacco- it is still a smell that not only  makes me smile, but also makes feel three again. 

 Disclaimer: What I wouldn't give to be laying on my belly on that carpet watching, "The Wonderful World of Disney," right now.

Out of the Mouths of Babes. . .

 

    As I read a chapter out of  Kate DiCamillo's Because of Winn  Dixie  aloud today  I felt the need to explain the backstory and summarize the Civil War to my third graders.  After briefly sharing both the positions of the north and the south to one of my more curious, and outspoken students she spoke out. "Really?" she questioned incredulously.  "We fought each other?"  Her eyes were now wide like saucers, and her face was painted in disbelief. "Americans really fought other Americans?" She asked again. I nodded to her to affirm.

   Yes, Yahvi I thought to myself.  It's hard to believe isn't it?

The Times They Are a Changin'

 

Sometimes, while on the phone with my college senior who is discoursing a mile a minute, I sit back and  wonder, "Wait a second! Just how did we get here, again?"

As I fondly reflect on all the stages up to college I just have to smile at the parallels.

• Nightmares/ Late night calls
• Painful friendship triangles/ Bad boyfriends
• Friendship help/ Tersely advised to not comment
• Wardrobe advice sought, and regular clothing purchases requested/ Clothing returns
• Illness/Medical advice sought, but never taken
• Late night talks, and back rubs/phone communication occurs only when prompted

* Major disclaimer:  Would not have it ANY other way

Lucie's Words of Wisdom

      I do not know what they really see, or know. I wish I knew. I do know that she is infinitely wise, and could impart these pearls easily: 

• If the dog turns out to be too big, mom becomes home base. 
• Mom can make a really nice pillow. 
• Chocolate may look good, but trust me it is NOT worth it.
• The bedding in the house can make a great nest to sleep in if needed.
• Why drink out of a bowl when Max will give me a cup?
• If I sit by the door perfectly still they will not leave me behind.
• I take up more of the bed when I sleep "hot dog" style. 
• Shredding pencils seem to get a negative reaction. 
• Walks can take an indefinite amount of time depending on how much sniffing time is warranted.
• Cows are not your friend.

No Good Time

    Yesterday, during a Zoom call (Ah! The joyous world of the pandemic) my girlfriend got sidetracked and began sharing, at my encouraging, the details of the quick passing of her mother due to pancreatic cancer.

  She apologized profusely throughout, and even stopped a few times, but I could tell she needed to go on. "You don't want to hear this."  "Why am I talking about this?" Or even, " I need to shut-up, I shouldn't talk about this!" She was tearing up, and her arms were fluttering with emotion.

      I encouraged her to keep talking. I wanted her to keep sharing.  The compulsion to reveal the details was so obvious. I watched my screen, and had a realization. There really is no easy time to lose a parent, is there?  I had passed through the loss of my parents already. I have also supported a few of my friends through their own parental losses.  The scenarios of greed among her siblings sounded eerily familiar. The examples of selfishness also echoed in my own family. In addition, there were many parallels in my friend's stories, as well. Who suits up? Who rolls up their sleeves, and says, "What I can do help?" Or, " I will do whatever needs to be done?"  And then one wonders who are the ones who instead shirk their responsibilities? Who are the ones who run, and hide because they can't believe what is happening?  And finally, what about the ones that simply can't take the pain, and the grief?  We cannot forget the select few who cannot tolerate this pain, and disappear.

      I sat back in awe. I knew then that amends were in order.

Retracing

    'Hi honey," I remember Brian cooing.  "I have good news and bad news," he began. Which do you want first?"  I held the phone in my hand as I sat on the bed. I thought quickly. "The bad news."  " I broke your grandmother's glass butter dish," he confessed.  I winced.  "The good news?' I asked hopefully.  "Nancy called.  She got your number from your mother's friend, Mary Jo Clayton.  She wants to talk to you."

   I had escaped this weekend.  It was my first weekend away, and Mr Mom was flying solo with my first born. Brian was alone with strong willed Emma. Emma who gave one the illusion they were in control.  I traced the patterns in the comforter with my index finger as I pondered the news.  A broken family butter dish did not thrill me, but Brian had done well to barter it with Nancy's call.

    My year long search to find a close friend who knew my mother had finally proved fruitful.  After months of pouring over old letters, searching the internet, sending out unanswered correspondence, and contacting college alumni groups I let myself wonder if I could possibly have finally hit paydirt.

    You know what? After 20 plus years, and countless hours whiled away at Nancy's kitchen table chatting into the wee hours- I have never once given that butter dish a second thought. 

No More Cheeks

    My uncle died early Sunday morning.  My cousin texted me Friday that they had upped his morphine, and he wasn't eating.  His seven progeny had each visited, taking turns, after their CovId tests, and said their good-byes to their father.

     Our separation was not only medical but also a geographical one. I lived almost 3,000 miles away.  I  had only reconnected with him when my own father had passed.  Yet, in the past 18 years I had visited almost annually- initially dragging my toddlers, and eventually sullen teenagers to have lunch with the kind, gentle man.

   Every time I visited my uncle and aunt they always filled me on my seven cousins, their lives, their children, even their grandchildren and for a second I felt a part of their tight family unit.

   I held my phone in my hand that morning and knew I could not support my cousins in their grief, nor could I pay my respects, and share my love for this man who lived so far away.  I understood, and accepted the science but nonetheless I felt helpless. Although this was an all too common and familiar feeling this pandemic I found myself hoping that my grandparents would forgive me.

Point of View

     It was one of my hardest years for sure.  How did I know? Well, I went from cooperative groups to single rows many times, and finally surrendered to rows early spring. Also, I think the action of putting away my flexible seating options was a dead give away. There were so many disabilities, language issues, environment gaps, and even literacy gaps that directly hindered my students' ability to learn.

     The read alouds were always the best remedy. I remember one particular afternoon all of sitting on our class rug I had just finished Temple Grandin's fabulous biography.  As I closed the book,  a student piped up, " 'That's what I have," he smiled proudly. "I have autism. " There was an awkward silence.  I cringed. Then, "My brother does, too" another volunteered from somewhere in the back.  Then gradually they all began to talk all at once. Each sharing either their own experiences w/autism, or even other disabilities.  As the the book rested on my knees,  I just had to smile.  Truthfully?   I wished I could simply do read alouds all day, but today I would not be so greedy. I leaned forward and listened in quiet appreciation.

Covid Peace O Mind

     There are so many cute little cabin names up by me. Our cabin is set in the low sierras and we have been traveling up to this area, and renting for years before we were lucky enough to find/purchase our mountain escape.

    As if pancake breakfasts, pee wee golf, movies under the stars, and floating on a lake weren't quite enough for our souls our cabin fulfilled yet still another role this year.

     This has been some year.   Online teaching ( and all the craziness this entails 24-7) facing CovId (w/it's own set of fears and anxieties) worrying about my children, worrying about our political climate, and finally the toll of the pandemic on my own health has almost knocked me down.

   Big Sigh.

   When I leave the Bay Area and see those low foothills- even just an hour of driving before our cabin a calm washes over me.  I can't describe it but I sure feel it. It's as if my body knows what is happening?   And even when I pull up, and we lug in our gear, trip after trip, we are still animated and talking.  And when I stand out on that deck, and all I can hear are the leaves rustling, or some kind of deep hush sound,   my shoulders drop as if to surrender.

    I think I may have a name for my cabin? 

Converged

     

    There were just so many instances in my life when my father tried to shove his own tastes and likes down my throat.  It was common place; I accepted it. Did I want to listen to my AM radio in peace?  You betcha.  Did I want to watch "Love Boat," without a lecture on dumbed down culture? You better believe it!  Of course, the worst part was the public shaming.  How many times did I want to just melt into the hot vinyl seat of that  1968 Belvedere station wagon when my dad blared his KJAZ station at full decibels so that I could "appreciate" Lester Young's solo at a traffic light?  Or how about when he tricked my sister and I into seeing what we thought was a cute little fairy tale movie in this tiny, dirty, obscure theatre in  north Berkeley ? It actually turned out to be Jean Cocteau's interpretation of "Beauty and the Beast," and not the warm fuzzy Hans Christian Anderson one we were so familiar with. I still remember those disturbing animal costumes even though I was only nine.

    My father redeemed himself my freshman year of college when he drug me to a play in San Francisco. I was majoring in drama and was home for the weekend.  I would have much rather been with my friends that night but I  had sadly run out of excuses.  Our tastes converged that night.  That play, in that tiny theatre in Fort Mason, was a blend of arguing, passion, timing, emotions, and the intricacies of family relationships.  "True West," was one of Sam Shepard's finest works.  I remember my father and I talked, and overlapped the whole drive home from San Francisco eagerly sharing the best dramatic nuances we had seen, and heard.  We were still talking even after we slammed our car doors in unison, and started up the concrete path to our home- oblivious to what had just finally happened between us.

Summer of '66

  

   I have vague memories of Myrtle Beach.  I have just a few.  They are all in black and white- just like the pictures.  I remember we were happy, though.  We were all so gloriously happy. It was a huge old house with hardwood floors and I remember the backyard was small, just a grassy opening bordered by tall grass or reeds and it was a gateway to the beach.   There was a brief stone path for the conventional but really all you had to do was part those grasses with both hands, and have at it.

     There was plenty of laughter and cold drinks, and my uncle was speaking to my father then.  My grandfather even wore short sleeve shirts, and smiled a lot. He stood out on the open brick porch and sipped his Tab.

   We were oblivious to all this down on the beach each day screaming, and shrieking in the foamy green bathwater.  We buried each other in that fine white sand daily, and marveled at our excavation work anew.  I didn't stay with them always.  Sometimes, I left their melee, and wandered down the beach a bit, in search of the perfect beach washed lion's paw. I was so determined that summer before my mother got sick.

"Got It"

    Yesterday, during our online class a student shared his newscast on the current state of Covid. When he came to the part where he revealed the number of cases many students murmured, "Wow!" "That's a lot, can that be right?"  I could see all their little faces in the checkerboard array.  (Except for the shy, or stubborn ones who refuse to use their camera)  Some showed confusion, some surprise and even one student looked a tad fearful.

    I sat back, and marveled at their eight year old "savviness." I never get tired of reveling in it. In but a few seconds, they had grasped the enormity of this horrific point in time when many adults could not, or would not.

Bittersweet

 "No offense Mom, I love you guys but I want to be in my own apartment.  I want to be with my own stuff, and on my own."

    I had cracked the door to offer my daughter lunch, and found her not in her online class, but instead pulling her suitcase out from her closet, and a conversation had ensued.

   She had announced she would stay till the end of January early in winter break yet she had suddenly changed her mind. She sat cross legged on her trundle bed w/its' daisy comforter surrounded by her stuffed animals, and a huge coffee cup, and  then I knew exactly what she was saying.  She was now "visiting."  When this had exactly happened I do not know.

   When do these milestones happen? Moms don't get  a warning. We have no formal notification. They creep in, and they stay.

   She searched my face cautiously. I reassured her.  "Of course!  That's where you live.  That's where you belong. We totally "get," that.  You can stay here as long as you want, or as little as you need." I hugged her hard for good measure.

   I padded down the hallway knowing as parents we had done something SO right, but there would be no celebrating.