Real Gifts

    You know I totally get how one wishes health, jobs that they love, or maybe even positive relationships for their children in their lives. However, I have to say (without a doubt) that seeing your kids happy is like manna from the gods.  Despite Christmas morning's chaos, I caught myself just randomly observing my son and daughter.  And I want to point out that I wasn't just watching them like the stalking mother that I typically am, but instead this time I found myself really taking them in. The laughter, and the joy on their faces was palpable. I could drink of that cup forever. And you know what?  I didn't even reach for my phone. You see, I didn't need to because this wasn't a picture. This was a feeling.

* No real pictures here as my 22 and 24 year old would not hesitate to sever all ties. 

Connections

      This weekend my husband and I got a dose of much needed culture sprinkled with a little one-on-one time (don't ask- we are WAY too caught up in  everyday craziness) and caught a matinee in San Francisco of Aaron Sorkin's Broadway acclaimed adaption of To Kill A Mockingbird. 

   There is absolutely nothing like the experience of art.  However, I must confess a pattern I've discovered in my life.  The pattern is that every time my husband and I finally make time for art, enjoy it, and acknowledge its' absence, we then find ourselves solemnly promising ourselves that this is never happening again. And then inevitably the cycle just repeats itself. (Oops, I digress.)

     The play was phenomenal, the set was unbelievable, and the actors just shone. Like any piece of art it's universality with the world, and especially today's mindset were not lost on me.

     However, the part when Scout "outs," Mr. Cunningham in the scene by the jail cut to my very core. I found myself squeezing my eyes trying to fight back a few tears. Immediately, I connected with this very emotional part of the play but also connected to my own life. I knew at that very moment why I love kids. I love kids because they have that power. They cut through the nonsense, the hate, the stupid adult mistakes, and those unforgivable behaviors. Children cut a path through the field ahead for us that many choose not to follow. 

Genetics

 

   I can't explain it. I'm no scientist, BUT there is a weird relationship going on with coffee and my family.  And you know what? It's been going on for a long time. 

     I was told when my mom graduated from college her sweet mates actually gave her a coffee pot on a rope. They laughed about it when they told me but I duly took note.

    I  actually met my husband over an espresso. And by the way, I had long ago taken a side in the longstanding Starbucks and Peets feud in northern California.  ( If you have to ask which side I took, you obviously have not had a cup of Peets coffee!)

   When visiting my older sister recently I instantly thought she could be preparing for the apocalypse while looking at her supply of coffee. The pounds were stacked neatly in the corner of her pantry like bricks of gold. She smiled sheepishly. " They were on sale," she offered.

    In college my daughter revealed one morning that not only had she gone out and bought herself a Nespresso machine but she was keeping it in her room.  "Mom, I need it for late night studying. I don't have a problem do I?" 

 I brought my Yeti Rambler 30 oz tumbler to my lips, took a sip of my Peets Major Dickinsons, and reassured her that she did not.

New Rituals

   School started last week and I vaguely remembered how we all used to gather in front of the office doors and windows where all the new class lists would be posted.  Oh how we would wait so patiently for the school's office manager to begin posting the class lists. Some parent would always drive by and see the process starting, and soon the news would spread through the neighborhood like wildfire. 

Usually there would be no speaking at first.  There was always a blanket of quiet as the families studied the lists trying to find their name. Students might squeal or grimace. Mothers or dads held infants and sometimes straying toddlers' hands tightly. 

   Conversations could start up while leaving the office doors. Casual banter and quick catch ups might ensue at the curb.  Summer topics ranged from detailed vacations,  jaunts to camp, or visits to out-of-state family members. 

   I wonder what substitutes nowadays for what seemed to be a vital part of the "before school" process? This change probably is not noted at all except by those who came before.  I'm guessing a new ritual has taken its' place. 

I hope so.

Canine Subtleties

 

    Anyone  remember Eddie Murphy's bit on SNL, or his stand up routine of the "ice cream man?" I never fail to think of that bit when I'm out on our morning walk with my dog, Lucie. We pass the same house on our walk every morning. Every morning without fail the same ferocious dogs go at us, and bark mercilessly from inside. We can't see them, we can only hear them, and use our wild imaginations.

     Along with that team of dogs barking, comes the accustomed prancing that Lucie will automatically fall into. She only slips into this slight prance when passing said house.  And she only picks up in front of this house, and it stops right at the end of their driveway.  The dogs can't even see her. They can smell her though. They can sense her. And for some reason, it's important to her to let them know that she's outside, and they are not. 

Kids

     This weekend I was lucky enough to sneak away to mountains with a former colleague whom I used to teach with. With officially a year into my retirement she asked me the common query, "Do you miss it?"

   And I told her what I had surprisingly discovered myself about the classroom. I miss THEM.

   I miss their pure unadulterated energy. They are unencumbered, and impulsive.  They speak freely, and there is no filter (not always a good thing) but they are unfalteringly optimistic. I never really knew just how much my students kept my own cynicism at bay.

   Until now.

Quiet Spaces

 

    I couldn't tell you if it is age, or some phase of life but more and more I am appreciating the small moments.  Sometimes, I just go outside, and sit and listen.

    Luckily, we have a mountain escape and its pretty easy to do.  Typically I will sit very still, take a deep breath, and listen. The trees rustling is a very quiet and soft sound. I am also a big fan the smell of the pine trees, and the fragrance of the cedars.

   Covid hit us all like a ton of bricks, and to those who suffered loss during this time my heart goes out to you. One very important take away during Covid or me was not just the desire to be quiet, and still, but also the huge physical and mental health benefit of being so.

     I totally get that we can't all always escape the city, but maybe we can escape to our backyards, or even just a solitary tree in a park? I cannot recommend it highly enough.

    Just breathe.

Wag More, Bark Less

 

     Before I got Lucie I used to wonder what that bumper sticker meant. Seriously. Now I don't. I mean I'm not Dr. Phil, or even Dr. Oz when it comes to dogs, but I DO think we sure could learn a lot from dogs, and their attitude about life.

   Now she can't talk (hard to believe, I know) but she does speak a language. Everything can be interpreted via her tail. It's her thermometer. She can be totally immobile, and still communicate. Her tail tells it all. Walk? Does she want to play? And no matter how exhausted she might be, her love of you can always be communicated through the rate of the motion of her tail.

   Sometimes I wonder, what is she thinking?

   But I never wonder what she is feeling.

   Carpe Diem?  This dog is all about showing every feeling right out there on her front leg. It's all about play, love and sleeping.

    I mean after all, what else is there?

What Goes Around. . . .

     My sweet hubby allowed me to drag him to a photography show of George Harrison's former wife, Patty Boyd. Even more impressive was that my husband Brian let me pay a little extra for the "Meet and Greet," portion. Sadly, the information for the early part of the show got buried in my junk mail and we arrived just a scant few minutes before the talk started. I had missed Patty, but a very kind older gentleman with long gray hair offered to talk to me about his pictures. Trying to control my frustration, but at the same time be respectful to the old guy I acquiesced, and decided to listen to his spiel. To my absolute chagrin I discovered that the man that was consoling me was none other than famed rock photographer, Harry Diltz. As he pointed out various photographs of his famous album covers, and shared anecdotes I think I recovered enough from my embarrassment to add a few words of appreciation. To be honest it was a blur. 

    Fast forward to my daughter sharing her favorite music dropping this month, and her momma giving her a much needed lesson in rock and roll culture. 

Happy Demise

    Isn't it funny how something (a song, an object, a face, etc) can trigger a whole slew of memories or even a particular time period in one's life? It happens a lot with music for me. Sometimes, I hear an old song and I'm immediately taken to that moment of teenage angst, or the throngs of college stress. 

     Yesterday's drawing was no different.  Amazingly, I was soon sitting cross legged on some green shag carpet sipping watered down country time lemonade and doubling down for my fifth, or sixth hand of Old Maid.  Even as I drew this picture I was immediately encapsulated back to those summers. And with those memories an old unsettling feeling came back to me. If you have played Old Maid you know what I'm talking about.  During a game of Old Maid, if a player got the Old Maid card, it was inevitably very creepy.  I would venture to say it was downright scary.

      Luckily, this game is pretty much not an option for eight year olds this summer. Pretty dang sure Old Maid is officially cancelled.

It's Lonely at the Top

   Coping with loss is never easy. Even though I know it is part of life, I accept it, it's still so gray and bleak. This month after my aunt is battled Covid, she was left with a residual lung disease. Yesterday, my cousins told me she would not leave the hospital.

    In October after an afternoon visit my mother's best friend, and mine, she passed away the very next day.  In November while visiting in North Carolina, I lost my aunt the day before a preplanned visit. Since I was visiting I was able to both attend the service, and support my cousins.

    These are all pivotal women in my life who have shaped, and supported me. I cannot even describe their varied gifts to me.  I'm trying to roll with the tide. I'm trying to be an adult. At the same time, it's strange to think of a world without these women guiding me?  For as long as I can remember they have been there, through almost every rite of passage. 

    I feel selfish even typing this, but at the same time it feels freeing. 

Pecking Order

  The funny thing about the "pecking order," is that it really does exist, and the one that exists in nature itself is a beautiful one to behold.  I sat for hours this weekend, lost in wonder watching these little birds and big ones happily co-exist.

    When the larger birds alighted on the feeder, and a smaller one was already there, the smaller ones inevitably fly off first.  It's as if their tiny little brains think, " It's ok. There is plenty. I will come back." One wonders why their human friends, with larger, and more sophisticated brains cannot embrace such a simple concept.

The Power of the Olfactory

    When I first started going to my counselor to deal with "mother loss," I stopped outside her office one day and smelled a very familiar scent. I came to find out that the hedge in front of her office was a boxwood. This plant/bush was in front of my grandparents brick porch in North Carolina that I used to play on as a child.

    That bush has a very light, kind of smoky smell. Immediately, when I smelled it, I was taken back to  plaid shorts, sticky legs and fireflies.  My grandparents sitting on the brick porch as we chased each other in that soft green grass while they drank cold Tabs and played Scrabble.

    On a trip to NC as an adult I managed to grab some boxwood when my siblings and I stopped by the house. My grandparents house was sold a long time ago, but we paused, and stood on the path in front of the house together each with our own set of memories. I couldn't help but wonder about the family inside, and their memories. 

WOKE

       When I see a mom pushing a silent stroller with the shade pulled down I SO remember that time. And sure, sure I get a little sentimental sometimes. In fact, I can be that sniffling soft hearted mom who gets a little torn when she sees the kids in their p.j.'s, clutching a stuffed animal, lined up for a movie night at the school. Yes, I do pause for a moment when I see a mom whispering to child in the toy section at Target. (Okay, that one is a stretch. I don't miss that).

     And every once in a while, deep in my sappiness, I get a signal that rattles my cage and snaps me out of it. I get a signal that says loud and clear,  you are blessed, and you know you wouldn't want life any other way.

Two Ships Passing

   This morning on my morning run (where I get most of my best thinking done) I ran by two (not one) cars whose passengers were engrossed in their phones.  One was a driver at a traffic light and I decided to trek behind him just in case he might not see me. And the other cell phone user was at a four way stop. The driver was focused on the road, and the passenger was a young teen fully engrossed in his cell phone.  And although they were together in so many ways, in many ways they were not.

    I don't know why but I was struck by my own experience. I remember vividly when I transitioned from the "friendly bus driver," taking my kids and their friends places, to the sullen teenage times where there seemed to be an invisible glass wall dividing the front seat from the backseat.  And then of course I remember finally graduating to all passengers on a phone, everyone quiet, everyone glued to their respective screens. 

   And as I started slowly jogging through the crosswalk I looked back at the random stranger who really wasn't a stranger at all.

Purty Dang Blessed

 

       Elementary school teaching has changed over the years. In my humble opinion, it has lost its' way.  There is too much emphasis on test scores, and outcomes and not as much emphasis on learning, and the student. There is a also great deal of stress. (Who am I kidding?!) And in the past 25 years this former educator has seen far too much.  If I'm going to be honest- it was definitely time to hang up my satchel. However, to put a positive spin on things, I will say that one of the most beautiful things that I take away from my teaching experience is to know that the little community we created for nine months in our class still carries on.

    I recently learned that a group of my students still get together (whenever they are local) and still keep in touch via social media.

    One texted me the other night because she was with her good friend  (also from our class) and they were asking me about a favorite art project of theirs: victorian houses. We designed, and drew our own individual houses with different windows, doors, surface treatments, etc In addition, I discovered two other best friends from our class were exchanging pictures, and memories of our outdoor education trips to the Marin Headlands on social media this week.

    You know what? I can still see their faces. 

Canine Prophet

     You know I do yoga, and I have also tried practiced breathing. Often, I  dutifully go outside in the morning in efforts to capture those small moments ( frequently to no avail). And yet there is a full fledged fully furred Buddha right in my midst. This wise little soul is just waiting to impart wisdom to me on the myriad of ways that I could slow down, and savor life if I would only listen.

    And when I rush by, always on my way "somewhere uber important," I typically will get a tiny little eye opening, and the subliminal message, "Oh, you are still doing that?"

Legacy

 

    My father was a character. There is no way to sugar coat it. When I was little I SO wanted him to be like other dads. I would have KILLED to have him dress, talk, behave and/or drive with a just a semblance of normalcy.

   Alas, it was not to be. EVER.

   I saw a friend's post recently remembering her father on his birthday. She mentioned they shared a love of classic rock n roll, and sexy cars.

   I randomly thought of what my father and I both shared.  My father and I shared a love of art, classic literature, classic and modern films, a passion for the environment, and questioning everything. 

  Not too shabby for someone who answered our front door in his boxers.

  I'm still struggling with that one, folks.

Tales of the famed Marilyn Monroe

    My father told me a story once.  Mind you, he was full of anecdotes if you only had several days. He mused about meeting the famed Arthur Miller in the fifties while he was on some kind of lecture circuit.  My father was an English professor at University of Colorado and I believe Miller at that time was on some kind of tour with a book or a play if I am guessing.

     As a drama student I was lapping it up and eager for each detail. I remember just listening to him in awe. My father was non impressed. 

"Well, no one got to see him or talk to him at that party, Morna. Whenever anyone asked about him the host just gestured to the upstairs. Apparently, he was upstairs on the phone in a closed room talking to his wife who was in California for hours. Marilyn Monroe was upset, and he was calming her down. I don't think he ever came downstairs? I think someone eventually brought him a drink, and a plate." 

   As I listened I remember nodding, and concluding that the details in the media of her much chronicled neurosis were probably true. 

Big Sigh.

Ah, the days before social media! Ah, the days when news was composed of facts.

On the Periphery

 

 You know when you don't belong somewhere the feeling is universal. I can recognize it a mile away.  I can remember vividly visiting my old elementary school, somewhere that was my home for virtually six years, (this is a long time when you are thirteen). I thought how glossy, and foreign the green asbestos tiles were to me. Or I even wondered, "Why are these drinking fountains so low?"

    It was the same when I visited my old school to do an art lesson.  Newly retired I had promised my colleagues I would substitute teach from time to time, or do art in their classrooms. I'm not a stranger, but I don't belong. The teachers dip their heads in to talk on their way out to recess, and there are posters on the school gates advertising some event that I know nothing about. Even the kids reserve their best shiny greetings for me. Their, "Good morning, Mrs. Gersho!" is positively choral.  Don't be fooled! This solicitation is not the same as how they might greet someone they know, someone who is familiar, someone they can test or push.

Fortitude

    This is my Aunt Nette. Her given name is Jeanette Stanford Blair. She was born, and raised on Stanford Farm in Chapel Hill, North Carolina.  Rumor has it that she was tough as nails, called 'em as she saw 'em, yet at the same time was both tender and practical. I won't even go into what she said to my father when he got out of line. Which was often- but that's for another time.

    I was told that she went off on a train to marry her husband, and came back barely six months later.  She never spoke of the matter again, and neither did anyone else.  She returned to help out on the old homestead, and take care of her younger brothers, and sisters She continued to take care of family matters, and run the farm for the next sixty years until her passing.

Good Will

    If anyone had told me that a casual friend I knew from high school would one day help my daughter make definitive footholds in her career I would have been in total disbelief.

      Recently my daughter has settled in southern California to try to break into the film industry.  A friend suggested that I look up an old friend we both knew from high school, Herbert Welsh. Herbert, according to my friend, now worked for a television major network.

     Flash forward to him advising her, helping her network, and basically making himself available to her at almost any opportunity should she ever need it.  I feel so comfortable not just with her living in a brand new city, but that she has this support in her career ahead for her because of him. 

   When I have tried to thank him, or even express gratitude he is dismissive. "Someone did this for me." Or he simply responds, "I want to give back."

   I don't know which touches my heart more? The idea that someone would bestow this depth of kindness with the expectation of nothing in return is one thing. However,  I guess the concept of the randomness of Herbert's friendship so long ago and what it has now blossomed takes the cake.

  Cut to me- just sitting in gratitude- gratitude for the randomness of life, and also basking in the beauty of good will.

     

Alexander Was Right

  

   I don't think I can properly describe the sheer beauty of a budding flower. It represents so many things. One one hand, there is a layer of science, or new life, but of course it represents so much more symbolically. Spring is rebirth. Spring is starting over. Spring is a cleansing. Something about spring also represents hope to me. And I think of Alexander Pope's "Hope springs eternal," quote. And then I think, "Yes," Alexander it most certainly does. 

   And what about those tiny buds? I just can't help but gaze at these tiny buds- these pods- waiting patiently to bloom. Their counterparts beside them already blooming in solidarity. "Come on," they seem to whisper. "Come on out, the water is fine." 

Me and my Crystal Ball

   

 I hate to be an old fogey but here goes. . . . I'm not sure how good all this technology is for mankind, but mainly I really worry about how social media impacts our kids.

    I know there is always this "life was simpler back then," thinking, and who doesn't get all warm and fuzzy looking at the yellow glow of a kerosene lamp in a cabin window? However,  the real problem is that I believe the constant barrage of information on social media coupled with the false information it promotes ( i.e. quest for perfection) is basically gonna do us all in. I truly believe it.

   There I said it. I feel better. 

    Five years ago my incoming freshman shared a draft of a paper she wrote on the negative aspects of social media that simply blew me away. She had epiphanies and revelations that even I hadn't even thought about. She expounded that the people presented in their social media accounts weren't real, and that their bodies and lives weren't real either.  She wrote that the people, and the lives presented on social media platforms were aesthetically perfect, and basically there was no such thing. Her paper was spot on.

   Cut to winter 2023, and I'm talking her down off the ledge at night because everyone has jobs in their careers, everyone has perfect boyfriends and big salaries. (And trust me, I don't even TRY to bring up her paper) Instead, I remind her of something we always talk about, and that is that social media does not depict real life. And we end almost all of our late night calls with my mantra, "Try to stay off social media. It's toxic."

This is one time I really hope mom is not right.

Jealous

 

     I love to watch the birds in my yard. I can't explain it. I try to keep the bird feeders full, my binoculars handy, and then sit back and watch the show.  Sometimes, my mornings are quite busy, and I am often on the way to another task when I remember to feed them. However, if I am lucky I will try to wait. If I time it just right, it is pure magic.

     Once the feeders are full I quickly return to the house. Within minutes at least one solitary bird will fly down, and light upon a perch on the bird feeder. In just a few seconds another bird will come. There is no noise whatsoever from the birds, and no calling. (The exception to the rule of course is the California Bluejay. He can't keep his beak shut to save his life).

    I never get tired of watching this process, nor marveling in their seamless ability to communicate without sound.  In a world where one is being inundated with screens, social media, over saturated mass reporting, and even the news ticker tape displayed at the bottom of a t.v. screen I must admit I am downright envious that our feathered friends can communicate through silence.

Parallels

 

    My mother got sick when I was little, went without oxygen, and ended up with significant brain damage. So, in her case she was "here" with us, but also sometimes not.  It was hard to explain, and often easier to not elaborate.  The state of confusion was real. I can still see their knitted collective brows now asking, "Is she alive?"  And of course the follow up,  "Well, I'm sorry I don't understand. Why doesn't she live with you again?"

    My sister is a practicing alcoholic. We discovered her alcoholism about six years ago. In and out of rehabs she cannot seem to get well.  Again, hard to explain, and definitely easier to not elaborate. " Where does your sister live?" someone inevitably will query. Or even, "What does she do?" Someone might innocently inquire.

     My own painful shame equals the pity emanating from their faces. The irony of these parallels are not lost on me. 

   

Unbreakable Patterns

 

    I'm the youngest in my family, and the last of four.  For me there were no baby books, no infant pictures, no brand new ANYTHING.  My mom was done when I came along and it was obvious everywhere. I was that pest, I was too young, I was a tagalong that everyone resented BUT I must add if someone was picking on me- LOOK OUT! 

   Both parents were very busy and my older sister took on the household. She ran us like the military, and now with a career in higher education I imagine the anthropology department is also run with equal finesse. And it is this very background, this very history that led me to question and then quickly abandon an issue with my sister this summer while visiting.

    "I've booked you an airport shuttle for tomorrow morning," she said firmly that night at dinner. We had already talked about this. I had pre-ordered a Lyft to sleep on the way to the airport. She was against this as she wanted to pay.  I dreaded the shuttle with the multiple pick ups and drop offs in the wee hours before my flight. I grabbed my phone to cancel my Lyft ride because I knew better to argue with my big sister. 

 In the dark racing to the airport that morning I surrendered to thought that she will always want to take care of me. I settled into the cold, vinyl seat slightly irritated but very content.

Knew Them

 

    This morning I drove by my kid's elementary school (kinda hard not to as I live across the street) and I saw a group of moms gathered talking in the parking lot. Immediately, I recognized the familiar "after drop off" congregation.  Instantly, I found myself traveling back in time fifteen years or so in those brief seconds before I actually turned in my driveway. I smiled, and had to stop the reflex of my hand from leaving the steering wheel to wave to them.

   I knew them.

Bad Dream?

Anyone else feel like Covid was a bad dream? I was trying to sort out some late charges at my gym last night and I discovered several missed class fees that ashamedly I had never seen before. All of them fell during the year of lock down.

     Now believe me, the financial piece of this will be taken care of at another time, and I promise not to bore you with the details.

    My main point is that never in my life have I had such a space of time that was so "gray" to me. It was almost like memory loss.  (I mean I guess how I imagined memory loss to be). I literally had to write the  exact dates down of the charges, and dive deep down into 2020 and 2021 month-by-month. And even then I felt like I was walking on the moon.

    Keep in mind that I am former elementary school teacher and every day (from Ground Hog Day to the 100th Day) is pretty much  indelibly etched into my mind.  And even when I did go back, and look at those days on a 2020 or 2021 calendar they were still sort elusive. It was like a fog to me. Was I really there? Did I really teach like that? Did I really teach on a screen for nine months? Did I really wear a mask in every public place I visited?   

    I remember reading somewhere that your brain has the capability to protect itself, and block out really painful times.  I rest my case.

Ponderings

 

   I often wonder what in the TARNATION would my great- grandparents think of the world, or much less think of me?

   My father uprooted us at a young age (due to a family tragedy) and I did not grow up in North Carolina where there were cousins by the dozens, everyone knew who you were, and exactly what you were doing.  Most importantly, I did not grow up in the tiny town of Buies Creek where the university my great- grandfather founded now flourishes. 

   I grew up with a blanket of anonymity, and in their eyes a sea of people. Therefore I think I was kinda set up to crave the closeness that permeates a small town.

   That's why sometimes when I gaze at these old photos my imagination runs wild. The photo above is the home my great- grandparents lived in while tending their farm, letting students board, and basically "getting it all done." I can't help but wonder. I can't help but compare. I stare at the tiny windows and wish I could peer inside just for a second. Life was so much simpler, yet also more laborious. How do we measure up, or do we?

Post Holiday Let Down

 

    Well, my daughter just left at the crack of down. She is headed back to her demanding, and crazy boss in sunny southern California. We just wrapped up both holidays (Hanukkah and Christmas) and managed to cram in as many rituals, and traditions that our small little nuclear family has.

    It was beautiful right? I am SO blessed; that is a fact.  

    Then why do I feel like I was hit by a bus?

    Hmm, maybe it was the baking, the constant compromising, the schedule changes, the last minute store runs, the Christmas Cards, the extra post office trips, the menu planning, the late night wrapping, or even a trip to the emergency vet?

    Sheesh!  I'm exhausted just typing this.

    You know what? I liken our holidays to childbirth. And why do I make this outrageous comparison? Well, that's because there will be repeat performance our holiday madness next year, and we will love every minute of it.