Pandemic Time Capsules

    Tomorrow we make our very own time capsules for our 18 months of learning during the Covid pandemic. What will my third graders time capsules tell? What will they remember?  What are the memories they will hold, or even share?  What has stricken a chord with them? What has resonated, or more importantly what will they forget? How curious I am to see the insides of their time capsules in ten, twenty or thirty years. The importance of multiple perspectives in history could never be more pivotal than right here.

Life is Funny

 

   Last night my husband and I watched a program that wrapped up w/ the classic Joni Mitchell song, "Both Sides Now." This lead to an in depth discussion of our own parent's love of folk music, and of course our respective childhoods during the seventies.

    I don't know why, but the juxtaposition of the commonalities we shared- without knowing each other- and then the randomness of us meeting, and then spending our lives together- was not lost on me.  It hit me, full bore, like a train.

   I thought of those nights long ago listening to Joni Mitchell playing on my father's turntable.  The nights in our house swaying on that green shag carpet while talking about peace marches, and ecology but never once contemplating the good life that was ahead for me. Never even imagining that loving partner waiting patiently for me about twenty years that also like Joni Mitchell. 

   Life is funny that way.

One Room Schoolhouse

 

      Tomorrow we head off to my third to the last field trip of my teaching career. It's my favorite, too. It's to a pioneer schoolhouse, straight out of the 1850's.  The kids dress in pioneer clothes, bring a pioneer lunch and have an authentic pioneer school day straight out of 1849.  Whether it is making one's manners, walking, on stilts, or even reciting from the McGuffey Reader- this trip is always a BIG hit. Can a Jacob's Ladder, or hoop rolling truly compete with Minecraft?

   Yes! And it can trump it, too!

Namaste

Covid, the pandemic, politics, post college anxieties, life goal pressures. . . when will it end?  Well, it won't, but I will share a little secret of something that helps me cope.

    When I hit those sierra foothills, and see those green hills, craggy grey rocks and an occasional friendly cow, my whole posture relaxes. Deep Sigh.  Mountain life, and mountain time are not only slower, but smell better, and pretty much whisper peace. 

I drink it in.  Well, I will be truthful; I gulp it down.

Waxing Nostalgic

  We traveled, and visited my grandparents a lot when we were children. "Unaccompanied Minors,"  I believe we were called. We had to wear these big stickers on our chests, and sit up at the front of the plane.  Sometimes. it felt prestigious, and other times one could feel like a nuisance.  We never knew what kind of flight we might have. It didn't bother us too much if we were made to feel like a burden. we were kids; we were oblivious. After all the world revolved around us, didn't it? 

  Usually, it could mean an extra bag of rice checks, but if we were really lucky it could mean some extra cookies, too.  There were only stewardesses then, and they always handed us off to my grandparents who were always waiting patiently at the Eastern Airlines gate. Their lips were glossy, and they always had two names like: Mary Beth or Sue Ann.

   Airline travel just 'aint the same anymore. :)

Where are the adults?

 

     I remember as a child going to my father who knew so much about everything, and asking, "But Dad there is a W.W.1 and a W.W.11 but there is no W.W.111?  "Where is the W.W.W.111?" My father who himself was drafted out of UNC to be an aviator in W.W.W.11, not only knew it all, but had seen it all.  In his typical lecture fashion he briefed me on war history, as well as the evolution of weaponry.  From the revolutionary bayonets, muskets, to the first war fought in flight, to tanks, and thus eventually evolving to nuclear weaponry he concluded, "So you see, Morna there can never be a W.W.W.111. You don't want a W.W.W.111." He gently advised.

      I remember sitting there, and staring down at that olive green shag carpet that basically enveloped me in the horror of what my father was saying.  W.W.W.111 would destroy us all.  Yet, although I was struck by the immensity of what he had just said to me, I was also instantaneously comforted that the adults had somehow already figured it all out. They had agreed (I thought in my little twelve year old brain) not to do this.

Never Reined In

 

    We picked my daughter up at the airport last night. As she settled into the back seat, babbling non stop about her clubbing in L.A., the vegan crepe she ate, the beaches, the men that are like animals, and the insensitivity of the airport security people I noticed that the entire time my husband was listening intently. Out of the corner of my eye,  he was turned around in his seat,  interjecting brief questions whenever he could.  As I wove through a myriad of flashing brake lights, and cars emerging out into my lane with careless abandon, I  became increasingly aware of this almost zen-like calmness existing right beside me . As I wave lamely to the angry, airport security guy, I hear in patches that he is patiently redirecting her, asking her directly about her friend, and the whole reason for her southern California trip,  her recent job interview .

   I  just had to laugh as I remembered my 36 hour labor with Emma.  Who even then would not cooperate and do what she was supposed to do. I had a fever, I couldn't get past 9.5 cm and my doctor chuckled, " She is busy. She doesn't want to come out tonight." Quickly a Caesarian was decided.

   Sweating, delirious, and unbelievably exhausted, I finally surrendered. My husband saw her first. The sheet up, oblivious in my white world of pain I heard that same calm voice out of nowhere. "Awe, hon it's a girl."

Connections

 

We have lived in our neighborhood for twenty- two years. We moved in when I was pregnant with my son, we needed more room, and the wonderful neighborhood, great schools, and superior Parks and Recreation department was a definite plus.

     Now with my daughter just finishing college, my son in his second year of college, I walk through the neighborhood with different eyes.  I can remember my toddlers playing hard at the park at the end of our street, or trick-or-treating at the most decorated house,  and even shrieks while chasing the ice cream truck down the street. 

    I look at the houses where some of my children's former friends have lived. Sleepovers, camp outs, or just playdates come instantly to mind. I smile. Some families have moved on, and downsized, while my husband and I (as well as a few families) have chosen to stay on.  I see a woman pushing her infant in a stroller. She is pushing determinedly, daydreaming, and her infant is out in front of her in the stroller, just as her child's life is.

    And at that moment I am not envious, but instead just marveling at the beauty of life's parallels.  Like a an old blanket, they oddly bring me comfort.

Calling Cards

  

    The card belies a different time. Of course the yellowed card, the flowy script, the weight of the card represents a time that is no more. Just turning the card over in my hand I wonder how it was used? I wonder about the visit, did my grandmother sweep in, speak to the someone in the household, and then leave the card? Was it left on a table for the intended, or actually put in someone's hand?

     So many questions for a world of long ago when cards, manners, gestures and reputations meant so much.  Fast forward to a world spinning in instant communication, and where texting, social media, and cell phones are quicker yet somehow mean even less. The card itself seems to represent a slower, more deliberate process that is not only pastoral, but also more meaningful.

Walking Cliff Notes

 

    My father knew everything about EVERYTHING. Even as a child he could tell me about the stars, the plants, the rocks- you name it.  If I had a question about philosophy, literature or even politics- he could answer it. 

   When I was in college I would frequently call him. but preface "I need the micro-version of this Dad," especially if time was a factor.

   He helped me study for my Masters in British Literature. Only he could break down Ezra Pound  for me or make Elliot's "The Love Song of Alfred Prufrock," "bite size."

    I frequently find myself wondering what he think of all this?  What would he say? What kernels would he share? With each political folly, environmental crisis or world dilemma I instinctively still  turn to him.  

Luckily, all those night walks, coffees, and chats in his living room fill in those curious spaces for me.

Unmasked

 

Today was right out of scifi movie, except some beautiful, warm little smiles. Shy smiles, nervous smiles, silly smiles were abound.  There was more talking, more silliness, and even more distractedness than usual.  The reason was simple- for 18 months the masks had become part of us.

   It might take a little bit of time to adjust to our maskless faces. We need to get acclimated to not just those smiles, but maybe even some noses, teeth or even freckles. 

   That's okay with us.

Best Laid Plans

     I tried to run away once. My older sister had run away many years earlier, and had made our local West Lafayette newspaper.   Holding the clipping in my hands,  I perused it enviously, and decided right then and there, I would be a celebrity, too. 

   When I told my siblings, they didn't even flinch.  Laying on their tummies, I think they might have looked up from their cards, bu even that I'm not really sure of.   I do know they packed my bag for me, and put it right by our front door.  I knew they had called my bluff.

   I think I may have made it almost to the end of the street by the old sycamore tree? I just remember I had to turn around  unexpectedly to use the restroom.  Once inside our warm home, my exit plans were quickly forgotten over a friendly game of monopoly.

Elmers Glue- LOOK OUT!!

 

"What do you mean Elmers doesn't make plastic that can be recycled?"  Britt had asked incredulously.  I remember vividly how it all started. It was almost a battle cry.  How refreshing it has been to sit with my nine year olds, and put forth information (and sometimes gently guide them) to their own outcomes.  We made decisions together, and after gathering our own classroom data,  we decided to ask the school to monitor their glue stick usage. 

    The label peeling off, and seeing the stick was only half full of glue was a catalyst, too. I'm not gonna lie.

   Change is good, and change WILL happen.

Girl Power

  

   Last week it was Temple Grandin, Rachel Carson and today it was Anne Carroll Moore. My class is loving learning about women, obstacles they have overcome, and their contributions to the world. Their wide eyed response to learning that women only just got the vote a hundred years ago, or even were allowed to wear pants to school finally in 1970 is worth it alone.

   Rich discussions, questions and reflections about the roles of women and men have ensued.  Third graders have paired up, and actually compared lives of girls, and boys in the past hundred years to their lives in 2022.  Mouths open, and mini gasps were the norm.

    Of course Mera had to point out, "There is still room for change! Look at the word, "woman!" It has "man," in it."

Apple Doesn't Fall. . . .

   I was told by my mother's sweetmates in college that when my Mom graduated they all proudly presented her w/her own silver coffee pot- on a rope.  Even later in life my mother, despite her early onset dementia, so loved her cup of hot joe.

   Fast forward to her granddaughter with her own coffee machine in her dorm room, Nespresso machine in her bedroom of her apartment, and now home temporarily messaging us at work for "espressos," with smiling emojis. 

    I can hear my mom's throaty chuckle.

8 year old Wisdom

 

     Today's simple action during morning meeting was, "Don't Start a War." It generated so many threads of discussion of how to problem solve.  "Ignore it,"  "Walk Away," and even "Give them an I-message," were just some of the suggestions that were offered. " Talk it out," Lily piped up. And then of course Sanjay brought up the Ukraine. " Why can't adults ever take their own advice?" Lily bitterly complained.

     I bit my lip.

    

She's A Good Person

 

   My daughter brought her best friend home last night because she had one too many cocktails and her parents would have "hated on her, " last night. Both of them college graduates, both of them back in the nest (for different reasons) and both them impaired.

    My daughter took her friend's keys, left her friend's car in the restaurant parking lot, took a Lyft, and brought her friend Sammi in our home last night.  I not only did not hear the slurred whispers,  but I also completely missed her helping her up our unforgiving hardwood stairs to her room. This morning as we both headed to the gym she showed me the crumpled post it that had by now fallen off the door, "I left you a note, " she offered hopefully. 

    I thought about her decision to not drive, to help her friend, but also be respectful to her parents. She had checked all the boxes.

Mask Burning Party Anyone?

 Last year I had the most resilient kids in distance learning. At every turn they were "suiting up," and making it work.  They had far more fortitude and optimism than I could muster. Yahvi was one of them, and often talked to me about traveling in space, and her hopes of becoming an astronaut.

     This morning on yard duty, nursing my usual coffee in my travel cup, she found me, and ran up to me. "It's happening, Mrs. Gersho. It's finally happening! I'm having my mask burning party!" I smiled  immediately in recognition, and watched her own shy little smile spread slowly.

Uncertified

 I found my daughter crying in our bathroom last night. It was 1:30 am. Her arms curled around her knees between broken sobs she said she hated living at home, and was a loser. Earlier today she had received yet another rejection to a coveted film editing internship she was seeking.

   Somehow,  with our family dog at my ankles, I convinced her to return to her room. I sat on her bed as between crying jags we talked about the pitfalls of film editing, and everything else that she perceived was "wrong" with her. (I can't wholly attest to the content -as it was, after all, 3:30 by then. . . )

    I paused at the door quietly, and watched her roll over with our family dog, Lucie nestled in her arms.  My eyes glazed,  I  randomly remembered a debate between my husband and I as to the "pros and cons" to investing funds in Lucie's emotional support dog training.  We had eventually decided against it.  I smiled tiredly. She had definitely earned that "blue vest," tonight.