It's been two decades since we promised to love one another for all of life. We tumbled into love quickly, deeply, purely.
And he said, "There is a song in Mexico that says, 'Drink hot chocolate, pay what you owe."
I knew at once that I could be with him forever and feel at peace. I knew he would take care of me. Under the stars of the night sky on a beach in a fishing village on the Gulf coast of Vera Cruz, I felt it on day three. I felt it.
Today I love him as much as I did on December 30, 1993 when we exchanged vows of love and faithfulness.
Life does not hand out easy. And we have never had it so. As they say, "The dream is free. Hustle sold separately." We have worked. The path has had its share of sorrows. But he has been my rock, my knight, my co-conspirator, my defender, my love, my ardent fan.
There is beauty along the way. Beauty every day. We drink hot chocolate, and pay what we owe.
Monday, December 30, 2013
Thursday, November 28, 2013
Overly Compelling Diagnoses
A few weeks ago I attended my nephew's special education conference. The team gathered there helped me see with new eyes that some of his quirky behavior is a manifestation of obsessive compulsive disorder. His need to walk a certain route in the halls, making him late to class daily. His carrying his backpack to breakfast, and fastidiously returning it upstairs afterwards each day. His refusal to stay out of the street on a walk .... maybe the sidewalk was something he could not allow himself to touch. Hmmmm.... knowing him as I do, the explanation of this thinking pattern made sense and answered a lot of questions that have had us stumped.
OCD. Aren't we all a little OCD?
Take the kitchen at our house. Each of the three of us has one stubborn OCD pitfall. It gets us every time.
Son will inspect every spoon for water spots before using one to eat. If it has a spot, it's rejected. Back into the drawer. Sometimes he has to go through six or eight to find the one with flawless shine. Hubby and I roll our eyes. Son now has to set the table each day, because if he does not pick the spoons, the whole meal is delayed.
I don't care about water spots on my pretty spoons. But I have my own offbeat tangent. The IKEA tumblers come in the colors of the rainbow. And they must be stacked in the order of those rainbow hues. Indigo, blue, green, yellow, orange, pink. No one else seems to understand that this is necessary, so I constantly happen upon the stack done wrong. And I must fix it. People! How can you live with yourselves, letting this slide?
Hubby smiles at spoon inspections, and may not even see the rainbow. But he has his stumbling block too. The utensil drawer has only one compartment for forks, and we have two kinds of forks: salad and dinner. Hubby maintains them in neat and separate stacks in that compartment, straight as soldiers. If Son or I empty the dishwasher, the forks are in wild disarray, jumbled together catawampus. Hubby patiently cleans them up. It's as necessary as making the bed in the morning.
Yep. I can understand that special walking route, and the backpack routine. How could I not?
Well, it's time to go tighten the lightbulb and check the door latch. 52 times. One for every year.
OCD. Aren't we all a little OCD?
Take the kitchen at our house. Each of the three of us has one stubborn OCD pitfall. It gets us every time.
Son will inspect every spoon for water spots before using one to eat. If it has a spot, it's rejected. Back into the drawer. Sometimes he has to go through six or eight to find the one with flawless shine. Hubby and I roll our eyes. Son now has to set the table each day, because if he does not pick the spoons, the whole meal is delayed.
I don't care about water spots on my pretty spoons. But I have my own offbeat tangent. The IKEA tumblers come in the colors of the rainbow. And they must be stacked in the order of those rainbow hues. Indigo, blue, green, yellow, orange, pink. No one else seems to understand that this is necessary, so I constantly happen upon the stack done wrong. And I must fix it. People! How can you live with yourselves, letting this slide?
Hubby smiles at spoon inspections, and may not even see the rainbow. But he has his stumbling block too. The utensil drawer has only one compartment for forks, and we have two kinds of forks: salad and dinner. Hubby maintains them in neat and separate stacks in that compartment, straight as soldiers. If Son or I empty the dishwasher, the forks are in wild disarray, jumbled together catawampus. Hubby patiently cleans them up. It's as necessary as making the bed in the morning.
Yep. I can understand that special walking route, and the backpack routine. How could I not?
Well, it's time to go tighten the lightbulb and check the door latch. 52 times. One for every year.
Paper
An elegy
Touch its gentle heft.
Breathe
Its smell of words.
Hear
Its powdery lament.
Stardust, house dust
Glitter, must
Do even diamonds
Turn to rust?
I like the weight
The pull of gravity
The charm
Of real books
In hand, in lap
In crook of arm.
The neon scream
Of ebook readers
Tablets, pads
Flags the spirit
Tires the heart
A wearing, tedious fad.
Some day on the eternal shore
The book of life
Will open
And no more
The flash of manmade light
And speeding streams of bits
To bear.
O hurry time
To find a resting there.
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
Autumn
A glorious summer with its long run of sun has given way to fall. The temperatures have dropped. I love the change.
A new season comes along just in time. Right when we had begun to yawn and glance at the clock.
Frosty breath in the morning. The familiar feel of my coat. Darker days. Longer nights.
And the leaves scurrying out in every direction under the headlights' beam on slick streets. They scatter like a flock of songbirds, startled into flight.
Or a coven of tiny witches, racing into the shadows, cackling as they go.
A new season comes along just in time. Right when we had begun to yawn and glance at the clock.
Frosty breath in the morning. The familiar feel of my coat. Darker days. Longer nights.
And the leaves scurrying out in every direction under the headlights' beam on slick streets. They scatter like a flock of songbirds, startled into flight.
Or a coven of tiny witches, racing into the shadows, cackling as they go.
Sunday, June 30, 2013
Tipping the Universe into Balance
We made it to the finish line. The school year that threatened to take us all down didn't. Record class size numbers, downsized staff, teachers laid off, others transferred willy-nilly according to licensure and seniority and everything that is not about students and their best interests.
We paid for it all year, every day, every minute. Teachers were stressed and overcome with the volume and intensity of the work. Students reacted as they do. Some flew below the radar and learned less, made less progress, got less attention. Others sensed the adult disarray and acted out, causing greater distress. And some learned and produced and contributed in spite of it all.
We the adults worked as a team. Tired, glazed-eyed and scared, teachers never said die. Parents swooped in to support in ways they have never before offered. Relationships settled. Learning got underway. And there was a harvest at the end of it all.
In early June, the local paper reported that the superintendent had accepted an $8,000 raise based on his stellar evaluation from the school board.
Outcry erupted from every quarter. Letters to the editor, blog posts, Facebook pages popped up in a hue and cry. Parents buzzed to teachers who hemmed and hawed and tried to stay professional.
We have had the toughest year in memory. Money has disappeared, from school district budgets and from the paychecks of school employees. Furlough days have effected a de facto anti-raise for all. People have worked harder than ever before, for uglier results than ever before, and all of it was because of a long stagnant economy's fallout on the state budget coffers.
Now this. The guy at the helm takes a high profile raise that amounts to about a third of a year's salary for some of our instructional assistants. $8,000 is not much in his world. But this $8,000 may be the most expensive $8,000 he's ever received. And if he had refused it, it would have bought the cheapest PR he could have purchased.
On Fathers' Day we went out to eat. Our favorite authentic Mexican bistro in the high style NW district of the city. I don't know why they only had one waitress on duty on Fathers' Day, but there she was. Alone, zipping between tables, combining tasks to keep everyone happy, responding to the odd request with a smile, and assisted valiantly by the lone busboy who pinch-hit as waiter at a table or two.
I watched them. Both of them were smart and hard-working. They kept it all together. But they were doomed by the poor management that placed them in such a no-win situation. Parties of guests walked in, waited for a second too long, and walked out. Others flagged for their check or an extra margarita or more water from across the room with exasperation in the very gesture. The place was remarkably full, and tables eating, but this poor young woman and man had no hope, no chance of keeping up.
I thought about the money the hip nouveau Latin restaurant would make that day - personnel costs low and receipts up. But the wait staff would go home with fewer tips than usual. After all, service was far from par.
Our check came to $36. Yeah. Great deal. I left her $60 and told her to keep the change. She deserves it.
We paid for it all year, every day, every minute. Teachers were stressed and overcome with the volume and intensity of the work. Students reacted as they do. Some flew below the radar and learned less, made less progress, got less attention. Others sensed the adult disarray and acted out, causing greater distress. And some learned and produced and contributed in spite of it all.
We the adults worked as a team. Tired, glazed-eyed and scared, teachers never said die. Parents swooped in to support in ways they have never before offered. Relationships settled. Learning got underway. And there was a harvest at the end of it all.
In early June, the local paper reported that the superintendent had accepted an $8,000 raise based on his stellar evaluation from the school board.
Outcry erupted from every quarter. Letters to the editor, blog posts, Facebook pages popped up in a hue and cry. Parents buzzed to teachers who hemmed and hawed and tried to stay professional.
We have had the toughest year in memory. Money has disappeared, from school district budgets and from the paychecks of school employees. Furlough days have effected a de facto anti-raise for all. People have worked harder than ever before, for uglier results than ever before, and all of it was because of a long stagnant economy's fallout on the state budget coffers.
Now this. The guy at the helm takes a high profile raise that amounts to about a third of a year's salary for some of our instructional assistants. $8,000 is not much in his world. But this $8,000 may be the most expensive $8,000 he's ever received. And if he had refused it, it would have bought the cheapest PR he could have purchased.
On Fathers' Day we went out to eat. Our favorite authentic Mexican bistro in the high style NW district of the city. I don't know why they only had one waitress on duty on Fathers' Day, but there she was. Alone, zipping between tables, combining tasks to keep everyone happy, responding to the odd request with a smile, and assisted valiantly by the lone busboy who pinch-hit as waiter at a table or two.
I watched them. Both of them were smart and hard-working. They kept it all together. But they were doomed by the poor management that placed them in such a no-win situation. Parties of guests walked in, waited for a second too long, and walked out. Others flagged for their check or an extra margarita or more water from across the room with exasperation in the very gesture. The place was remarkably full, and tables eating, but this poor young woman and man had no hope, no chance of keeping up.
I thought about the money the hip nouveau Latin restaurant would make that day - personnel costs low and receipts up. But the wait staff would go home with fewer tips than usual. After all, service was far from par.
Our check came to $36. Yeah. Great deal. I left her $60 and told her to keep the change. She deserves it.
Sunday, March 31, 2013
That Kind of Day
Today by Billy Collins
If ever there were a spring day so perfect,
so uplifted by a warm intermittent breeze
that it made you want to throw
open all the windows in the house
and unlatch the door to the canary's cage
indeed, rip the little door from its jamb,
a day when the cool brick paths
and the garden bursting with peonies
seemed so etched in sunlight
that you felt like taking
a hammer to the glass paperweight
on the living room end table,
releasing the inhabitants
from their snow-covered cottage
so they could walk out,
holding hands and squinting
into this larger dome of blue and white,
well, today is just that kind of day.
Yep, today was just that kind of day in western Oregon. Spectacular.
If ever there were a spring day so perfect,
so uplifted by a warm intermittent breeze
that it made you want to throw
open all the windows in the house
and unlatch the door to the canary's cage
indeed, rip the little door from its jamb,
a day when the cool brick paths
and the garden bursting with peonies
seemed so etched in sunlight
that you felt like taking
a hammer to the glass paperweight
on the living room end table,
releasing the inhabitants
from their snow-covered cottage
so they could walk out,
holding hands and squinting
into this larger dome of blue and white,
well, today is just that kind of day.
Yep, today was just that kind of day in western Oregon. Spectacular.
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
Fierce, Proud, Scary
A.A. Milne wrote
Now We Are Six
When I was one I had just begun.
When I was two I was nearly new.
When I was three I was not quite me.
When I was four I was not much more.
When I was five I was just alive.
But now I'm six.
I'm as clever as clever,
So I think I'll be six now
For ever and ever.
And I wrote
Now We Are Three
Today I'm a pirate
Fierce, proud, scary!
Tomorrow, round and red
I'll be a cherry.
Yesterday it wasn't me
Who got out of my bed.
It was a cow instead.
I went into the kitchen
And mooed for some toast.
Mommy cow smiled at me.
She understands how cows can be.
When I'm a bat
I flap my wings
And let my tongue hang down.
Bats fly in crazy circles
And their tongues are fuzzy brown.
One day I didn't move at all.
I was a leaf. Green and small.
I wasn't fierce. I wasn't tall.
Just very leafy me,
Growing quietly.
Sometimes I roar and show my claws
And Grandpa says, "Now who are you?"
A lion doesn't say his name,
So I just roar and shake my mane.
Last week when we went to the store
I was a worm upon the floor.
Mommy looked at me and sighed.
It's hard to wait for a worm.
They don't walk; they squirm.
I can be a frog. Or a barking dog.
A bug in a bog.
But today I'm a pirate.
Fierce, proud, scary.
Tomorrow round and still,
I'll be a cherry.
Now We Are Six
When I was one I had just begun.
When I was two I was nearly new.
When I was three I was not quite me.
When I was four I was not much more.
When I was five I was just alive.
But now I'm six.
I'm as clever as clever,
So I think I'll be six now
For ever and ever.
And I wrote
Now We Are Three
Today I'm a pirate
Fierce, proud, scary!
Tomorrow, round and red
I'll be a cherry.
Yesterday it wasn't me
Who got out of my bed.
It was a cow instead.
I went into the kitchen
And mooed for some toast.
Mommy cow smiled at me.
She understands how cows can be.
When I'm a bat
I flap my wings
And let my tongue hang down.
Bats fly in crazy circles
And their tongues are fuzzy brown.
One day I didn't move at all.
I was a leaf. Green and small.
I wasn't fierce. I wasn't tall.
Just very leafy me,
Growing quietly.
Sometimes I roar and show my claws
And Grandpa says, "Now who are you?"
A lion doesn't say his name,
So I just roar and shake my mane.
Last week when we went to the store
I was a worm upon the floor.
Mommy looked at me and sighed.
It's hard to wait for a worm.
They don't walk; they squirm.
I can be a frog. Or a barking dog.
A bug in a bog.
But today I'm a pirate.
Tomorrow round and still,
I'll be a cherry.
Monday, March 18, 2013
Leprechauns (again)
In honor of St. Patrick's Day, I am reposting an account which was the inaugural post of my now defunct blog, The Principal's Prattle. Leprechauns never get old.
The school day was punctuated at either end by wide-eyed children with extra bounce in their step. At 8:35, 3rd grade Aileen, dressed in a lime green flare skirt and shiny green tennies, burst into the copy room asking if there were footprints to be found.
"They're all over our classroom! They're everywhere! Any in here?"
And out like a flash with an undulating tail of jibbering followers.
At 3:30 I entered the staff room to check on the St. Patrick's Day pot-luck clean-up crew.
1st grade Xochitl announced, "There were leprechauns in our classroom! They messed up the traps, left fingerprints on the window and one even left his boots behind!"
I followed her to the room to verify the scene of the melee, tsk-tsking all the way that they hadn't managed to catch even one.
The school day was punctuated at either end by wide-eyed children with extra bounce in their step. At 8:35, 3rd grade Aileen, dressed in a lime green flare skirt and shiny green tennies, burst into the copy room asking if there were footprints to be found.
"They're all over our classroom! They're everywhere! Any in here?"
And out like a flash with an undulating tail of jibbering followers.
At 3:30 I entered the staff room to check on the St. Patrick's Day pot-luck clean-up crew.
1st grade Xochitl announced, "There were leprechauns in our classroom! They messed up the traps, left fingerprints on the window and one even left his boots behind!"
I followed her to the room to verify the scene of the melee, tsk-tsking all the way that they hadn't managed to catch even one.
Friday, March 8, 2013
Movie Magic
Oregon got a sunny day yesterday.
As I raced to the gym for a Battle of the Books assembly, I walked by a kindergarten teacher nestled into a corner of the dusty, lumpy blacktop of the courtyard, bordered by the rusty chain-link fence. She was reading a children's book to her attentive charges seated there in the sun. She wore sunglasses as she displayed the lovely illustrations and read aloud to them.
After the assembly, classes were filing out of the gym and into the gilded daylight. I held the door open, high-fiving kids and commenting on what a respectful audience they had been. A fourth grade boy pointed and said, "Look! The sky looks like a movie!"
We turned and raised our sights above the shrubs to a cerulean sky and its floating cotton ball clouds.
"Yes, Luis. That's a lovely sky. In some parts of the world, you don't have to watch a movie to see a sky like that. In Oregon, it's a special event. Sometimes we see a shooting star at night. Sometimes we see a clear blue sky in the daytime." What a moment.
As I raced to the gym for a Battle of the Books assembly, I walked by a kindergarten teacher nestled into a corner of the dusty, lumpy blacktop of the courtyard, bordered by the rusty chain-link fence. She was reading a children's book to her attentive charges seated there in the sun. She wore sunglasses as she displayed the lovely illustrations and read aloud to them.
After the assembly, classes were filing out of the gym and into the gilded daylight. I held the door open, high-fiving kids and commenting on what a respectful audience they had been. A fourth grade boy pointed and said, "Look! The sky looks like a movie!"
We turned and raised our sights above the shrubs to a cerulean sky and its floating cotton ball clouds.
"Yes, Luis. That's a lovely sky. In some parts of the world, you don't have to watch a movie to see a sky like that. In Oregon, it's a special event. Sometimes we see a shooting star at night. Sometimes we see a clear blue sky in the daytime." What a moment.
Thursday, February 21, 2013
No Child Left Behind and No One Gets Ahead
Character keeps popping up in educational and leadership news lately. In this NY Times article http://www.nytimes.com/2011/09/18/magazine/what-if-the-secret-to-success-is-failure.html?pagewanted=all&_r=1& the writer describes an elite New York private school where standardized tests are eschewed and character again made king. It’s an odd anachronism in the post No Child Left Behind era. George Bush’s sweeping educational law reauthorization ushered in a golden age of entitlement for learners. “My kid gets the grade or else.” As the NCLB vice grip has tightened and schools threatened with increasing sanctions for less than perfect student performance on standardized tests, the competitive frenzy of Obama’s Race to the Top has actually appeared to be an attractive alternative for beaten down and confused educational institutions. Politicians have hit the motherlode: as they perennially characterize schools as failures, their grand coming to the rescue remains a top of the charts hit.
The article quotes Riverdale School’s headmaster, Dominic Randolph. “The idea of building grit and building self-control is that you get that through failure. And in most highly academic environments in the United States, no one fails anything.”
What? I thought everyone was failing everything.
Yesterday, as another mother rushed to complain about a teacher hurting her son’s feelings by rebuking him, I was again reminded of how things have changed. The new generation of over protective parents and cloistered kids is upon us. As a mother, I have that over-blown impulse too. I want to throw my weight around when a teacher fails to recognize the special talents of my amazing boy and, even worse, dares to miss counting one of his assignments in the grade book, or unfairly scores his quiz. Yep. Guilty.
But who did that for me as a child? No one. At best Mom was un-involved, and at worst either sided with the teacher or engaged the teacher in an embarrassing argument. Which incidentally was never about my specialness. Dad was completely disengaged from my life at school; his job was at Lockheed and mine was at school. His work was classified – he could not have talked about it if he wanted to; and mine at school might as well have been the same. I rode my bike to my own softball practice, and when my catcher’s glove caught in the spokes, took a head-first spill, scraping my thigh and hip raw. I got up, wiped away a tear or two, and continued on without ado. Neither parent ever watched me play any sport. Nor did they peruse my homework. The envelope with my report card could sit on the counter with the junk mail for a full week before anyone bothered to open it.
Flash to now: I’m on the sidelines of every soccer game, yelling words of encouragement and unauthorized advice. Email to teachers prevents the report card from bearing the slightest surprise. I’m engaged.
Which of these approaches is more likely to build character? We all know the answer, don’t we?
Somehow the responsibility meter went haywire in my generation and we’ve all turned into insufferable bosses, unable to relinquish the slightest bit of control to the small extensions of our identity we so smotheringly love.
Enter the Great Recession. Schools are threadbare, yet continue their sweatshop labor under the NCLB lash, pushing the standardized test scores higher, and yes, more students graduate. The college entry stats inch upwards. Everyone believes in himself and his dream, and nothing can stand in his way. Not GPAs, not admissions policies, not tuition costs. We push them through and they graduate, eyes shining and expensive degree in hand, only to land on the doorstep of the real world without the slightest inkling what to do next. No jobs. Housing market in the basement. I guess one way or another, failure eventually comes.
We built our grit and determination as eight year olds in the meandering reaches of the neighborhood, exploring on our own, and taking our licks where we got them. Our children have been pulled indoors by the irresistible allure of bright screens, and protected by an out of whack parental instinct in an increasingly scary world. They will make it to adulthood with children’s lessons yet to learn.
So what’s wrong with advocating for your child? With supporting him in his endeavors and helping him feel good about himself? Nothing. It’s just that when these impulses take honesty hostage, the formula goes sour. A good thing gone rotten. Neglect is not a parenting strategy, no. But healthy boundaries mean exhibiting the self-control to let your child struggle, to let him find his own path, to allow him to experience losses as well as wins, and yes, to allow him to fail. We can empathize without rescuing. We can console without going to war with the loss. Loving your child means believing he can develop the character and grit to overcome obstacles, hone muscles, spark brain cells, and discover his own talents and joy. Loving your child means getting out of the way and letting him become someone. It’s not so much that No Child be Left Behind, but rather that each child have authentic opportunity. That each be allowed to discover his path, in his way and time. Just like we did.
Sunday, February 17, 2013
A Sweet Day
Valentine's Day 2013: the usual elementary school melodrama. Girls come to school in fancy dresses akin to the finery they wear for Fall Picture Day. Every funny little awkward kid believes he will magically have scores of friends for one amazing day. And every year such hopes are cruelly dashed by an imperfect reality. Expectations are in the stratosphere. Yet he still gets out in foursquare. Doesn't get to be line leader. Misses his turn at read aloud because he wasn't paying attention. And the lunch table with the cool kids was full by the time he got there with his tray.
Feelings get hurt. Emotions boil over. Sugar adds volatility. Recess is more of a melee than usual. Hallway lines cannot contain the bursting emotion of the day. Insecure mothers overdo the goody-bags, hoping to ensure their child the popularity they didn't enjoy as a kid. Some even send ostentatious heart balloon bouquets and FTD flowers. It's a mess.
And then on the home front.... boyfriends everywhere choke on the high stakes test. Girlfriends demurely hope for an outlay that perfectly captures their emotional investment. (The only thing worse than failing to get the right attention from someone exciting is getting the wrong attention from someone who is stalking you.) Husbands tread lightly, never sure they will strike the right note. Wives say they don't need any fuss made ... which could either be true or the lie of the year. Stores lose their tenuous hold on any sanity, filling their aisles with red and pink bags of hard brown sugary wax they pass off as chocolate. I don't know if Hallmark really did invent this "holiday" but we have done what we always do in America, we have utterly over-consumed it.
I wrote cards to my loved men, and told my beloved that what I really wanted was simply a card with a heartfelt message from him. (Which was - surprise - the complete truth!)
We went to dinner at Mireille's Bistro - an inspired choice. In a world of mass-produced digitalized schlock, it is original, local, analog - a sensory delight. The food is real, exquisitely prepared, and consistent in quality. A talented accordion player performed live music that imbued the cozy interior with yet more soft delight. I sat next to my husband and we talked while living every moment of the experience.
When one can share such an experience after 19 years of marriage, that is the best Valentine a person can hope to receive. You really do have that one amazing friend on this one amazing day, and even better, more days to come.
Feelings get hurt. Emotions boil over. Sugar adds volatility. Recess is more of a melee than usual. Hallway lines cannot contain the bursting emotion of the day. Insecure mothers overdo the goody-bags, hoping to ensure their child the popularity they didn't enjoy as a kid. Some even send ostentatious heart balloon bouquets and FTD flowers. It's a mess.
And then on the home front.... boyfriends everywhere choke on the high stakes test. Girlfriends demurely hope for an outlay that perfectly captures their emotional investment. (The only thing worse than failing to get the right attention from someone exciting is getting the wrong attention from someone who is stalking you.) Husbands tread lightly, never sure they will strike the right note. Wives say they don't need any fuss made ... which could either be true or the lie of the year. Stores lose their tenuous hold on any sanity, filling their aisles with red and pink bags of hard brown sugary wax they pass off as chocolate. I don't know if Hallmark really did invent this "holiday" but we have done what we always do in America, we have utterly over-consumed it.
I wrote cards to my loved men, and told my beloved that what I really wanted was simply a card with a heartfelt message from him. (Which was - surprise - the complete truth!)
We went to dinner at Mireille's Bistro - an inspired choice. In a world of mass-produced digitalized schlock, it is original, local, analog - a sensory delight. The food is real, exquisitely prepared, and consistent in quality. A talented accordion player performed live music that imbued the cozy interior with yet more soft delight. I sat next to my husband and we talked while living every moment of the experience.
When one can share such an experience after 19 years of marriage, that is the best Valentine a person can hope to receive. You really do have that one amazing friend on this one amazing day, and even better, more days to come.
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
Just sayin'
On July first, Oregon's new restraint law took effect. Public educators can no longer restrain a child unless the child poses "serious bodily injury to himself or others". Such bodily injury must be of a degree that "a medical doctor would verify injury". No more gripping the hand of a child prone to straying from the ship-shape line. And those tiny runners who like to bolt out of the classroom in the earliest years? No chasing, no grabbing, no holding.
On the first day of school, a five year old sat rooted in his seat and clung to the bus window, refusing to get off the bus to start school.
"Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!" he cried.
He was new, a kindergartener, so we did not know who he was.
"What's your name honey?"
"Mommy!" he cried with greater vigor.
We could not call home because we didn't know which family he belonged to. Seven different staff members tried every trick in the book - stuffed animals, affectionate cajoling, promises - no go. He stayed there and cried.
The bus driver was held hostage by an incoherent five year old while we all looked helplessly on. The driver radioed in to let dispatch know he could not continue his route. Fifteen minutes into the siege we called the non-emergency Sheriff's number. The only one who could forcibly remove a child from the bus would be law enforcement. (Now there's an enduring childhood memory - remember when a police officer made you go to kindergarten Johnny?)
Absurd? Absurd.
Fortunately, law enforcement is busy. Pulling small children off buses is not their highest priority. We waited a while. And before the sheriff's deputy arrived, the eighth staff member somehow either wore the child down or struck on the right words to say. The little boy held her hand and descended the bus stairs, ending the standoff.
My school sits on a busy road. Since we cannot physically restrain an impulsive child in motion, we must rely on our words, no? Langston's Hughes' brilliant poem comes to mind.
Baby
Albert!
Hey, Albert!
Don't you play in dat road.
You see 'dem trucks
A goin' by?
One run ovah you,
An' you die!
Albert, don't you play in dat road!
On the first day of school, a five year old sat rooted in his seat and clung to the bus window, refusing to get off the bus to start school.
"Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!" he cried.
He was new, a kindergartener, so we did not know who he was.
"What's your name honey?"
"Mommy!" he cried with greater vigor.
We could not call home because we didn't know which family he belonged to. Seven different staff members tried every trick in the book - stuffed animals, affectionate cajoling, promises - no go. He stayed there and cried.
The bus driver was held hostage by an incoherent five year old while we all looked helplessly on. The driver radioed in to let dispatch know he could not continue his route. Fifteen minutes into the siege we called the non-emergency Sheriff's number. The only one who could forcibly remove a child from the bus would be law enforcement. (Now there's an enduring childhood memory - remember when a police officer made you go to kindergarten Johnny?)
Absurd? Absurd.
Fortunately, law enforcement is busy. Pulling small children off buses is not their highest priority. We waited a while. And before the sheriff's deputy arrived, the eighth staff member somehow either wore the child down or struck on the right words to say. The little boy held her hand and descended the bus stairs, ending the standoff.
My school sits on a busy road. Since we cannot physically restrain an impulsive child in motion, we must rely on our words, no? Langston's Hughes' brilliant poem comes to mind.
Baby
Albert!
Hey, Albert!
Don't you play in dat road.
You see 'dem trucks
A goin' by?
One run ovah you,
An' you die!
Albert, don't you play in dat road!
Legends
Today marks a special day. The birthdays of some big personalities: Ronald Reagan, Bob Marley, and my own brother, affectionately known as U.J. (That's short for Uncle John.) We all know the stories and folklore, the posthumous adoration for the Gipper and the man who made Reggae famous. But what about the other legend? U.J!
He's got Reagan's way with words and easy charisma, and Marley's melody and surfer cool good looks. But his quicksilver mind, lightening wit, and rollicking humor are 100% his own. My college roommate always referred to him as Einstein.
U.J. was a year and three days old when I came on the scene. He memorialized our first meeting by feeding me chocolate chips. (This happened in the days when adults had no problem leaving a one year old and newborn alone unsupervised - just the first in a long line of grown-up-free disasters to come.) Certainly my sugar addiction harks back to that first taste.
But nevermind.
U.J. went on to lead the charge on many an adventure. Early schemes included asking neighbors to contribute money for the dead sister's funeral. (Guess who, lying prone in the red wagon, couldn't keep her eyes shut and gave away the whole scam?) As a slightly older little kid, he dug an ambitious tunnel in the backyard, making it nearly to China before the undercover project was discovered by Angry Dad. He came up with splendid ideas like flooding the back lawn to make a huge wet "slip and slide" for all the neighborhood kids to enjoy. Later adventures included sneaking through private artichoke fields in Santa Cruz to get to the best surfing beach, and serving as editor in chief of his high school's underground protest newspaper. True to his early devotion, he always brought me chocolates when he returned home from his first job at Morrow's Nut House. U.J. headed up our first all-kid roadtrip when he was 17 and we drove nearly the length of California in his rattletrap VW Beetle. No matter how farflung my travels in college and beyond, U.J. came to visit, charming the locals. He has always been the chief architect of adventure, and I, a happy first deputy.
By now we can officially call him a grown-up, but U.J. retains the same mess-up-your-hair sense of fun. He is loyal, loving, smart, and highly entertaining. Happy Birthday U.J. I hope the cake has plenty of chocolate.
He's got Reagan's way with words and easy charisma, and Marley's melody and surfer cool good looks. But his quicksilver mind, lightening wit, and rollicking humor are 100% his own. My college roommate always referred to him as Einstein.
U.J. was a year and three days old when I came on the scene. He memorialized our first meeting by feeding me chocolate chips. (This happened in the days when adults had no problem leaving a one year old and newborn alone unsupervised - just the first in a long line of grown-up-free disasters to come.) Certainly my sugar addiction harks back to that first taste.
But nevermind.
U.J. went on to lead the charge on many an adventure. Early schemes included asking neighbors to contribute money for the dead sister's funeral. (Guess who, lying prone in the red wagon, couldn't keep her eyes shut and gave away the whole scam?) As a slightly older little kid, he dug an ambitious tunnel in the backyard, making it nearly to China before the undercover project was discovered by Angry Dad. He came up with splendid ideas like flooding the back lawn to make a huge wet "slip and slide" for all the neighborhood kids to enjoy. Later adventures included sneaking through private artichoke fields in Santa Cruz to get to the best surfing beach, and serving as editor in chief of his high school's underground protest newspaper. True to his early devotion, he always brought me chocolates when he returned home from his first job at Morrow's Nut House. U.J. headed up our first all-kid roadtrip when he was 17 and we drove nearly the length of California in his rattletrap VW Beetle. No matter how farflung my travels in college and beyond, U.J. came to visit, charming the locals. He has always been the chief architect of adventure, and I, a happy first deputy.
By now we can officially call him a grown-up, but U.J. retains the same mess-up-your-hair sense of fun. He is loyal, loving, smart, and highly entertaining. Happy Birthday U.J. I hope the cake has plenty of chocolate.
Saturday, January 12, 2013
Shooting from the Hip
Today’s Oregonian reported that in the wake of the violent
shootings in Newtown, Connecticut, Vice President Joe Biden’s task force was
preparing recommendations that would “lessen the possibility that this kind of
thing could happen again.” But, he said,
“We know there is no silver bullet” to solve the problem. Biden said he hoped to send his
recommendations to Obama next week. “I’m
shooting for Tuesday. I hope I get it
done by then,” he said.
Video game professionals, leaders of an economic sector that has been going great guns in recent years, worried that the task force was gunning for them, and hope to dodge a bullet by pointing out that actual guns kill people, not video games.
Second Amendment defenders feel that politicians shooting their mouths off will not change the reality that prescription drug side effects and mental illness contribute to widely reported but relatively rare murderous massacres. They are sticking to their guns, and daring anyone to violate the U.S. Constitution by infringing on their right to keep and bear arms.
Sooner or later we may all have to bite the bullet and realize there is no obvious smoking gun here… the situation is complex, and every contributing factor inextricably tied to a constitutionally protected liberty: freedom of speech, freedom to bear arms, or civil liberties. This is no time to shoot first and ask questions later.
P.S. Don't blame me. Biden started it.
A Shout Out to the Blogosphere
I'm Nobody
I'm Nobody! Who are you?
Are you - Nobody - too?
Then there's a pair of us - don't tell!
They'd banish us, you know.
How dreary to be Somebody!
How public - like a frog -
To tell one's name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!
by Emily Dickinson
I'm Nobody! Who are you?
Are you - Nobody - too?
Then there's a pair of us - don't tell!
They'd banish us, you know.
How dreary to be Somebody!
How public - like a frog -
To tell one's name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!
by Emily Dickinson
Friday, January 11, 2013
A Tale of the Old West
I saw the news that a school district in Salinas, California has raised a controversy. They are considering naming a school after Tiburcio Vasquez.
Tiburcio Vasquez was born in Monterey, California in 1835 to a family of Californios who owned wide swaths of rugged Californian land. The Bear Flag Revolt by European settlers resulted in California becoming an independent republic in 1846. Two years later, Mexico signed the Treaty of Hidalgo ceding California to United States. Tiburcio was thirteen.
When I was teaching high school Spanish I explained the story to my students like this. Suppose the president of our country had a disagreement with present-day Russia. Suppose that in order to come to terms of a resolution, he agreed to hand over the Pacific Northwest to Russia as part of a treaty for peace. As of the date of the signature, our state would suddenly become Russian territory. From one day to the next, your language would no longer be the language of the land, your money no longer the currency, your land deed not honored, and most difficult of all, your culture, your way of life, your values suddenly dismissed, ignored, and obsolete.
When this happened to Tiburcio Vasquez, he was a teen from a well-respected and well to do family. The upheaval's impact on him was that he chose a life of rebellion against the new societal order. Beginning at age 19, he stole from the new settlers, robbed stage coaches and stores, and hid out in the hills he knew so well, elusive and impossible to catch. He fraternized with criminal gangs of other dispossessed Californios, and traveled in a secret network of homes of friends and relatives who would shelter him. Posses were mounted and rewards offered, and Tiburcio outsmarted the (new) Law.
An aristocrat by birth, he conducted himself in a romantic and gentlemanly manner where the ladies were concerned. When robbing a stage coach, he would lay his coat in the dust so the ladies aboard could walk over it while exiting the coach he was stealing. He was a legendary casanova, with many love affairs. Even when in prison, he was a celebrity, visited by many. He sold his autograph to raise money for his defense.
In August of 1873, Tiburcio and his gang robbed Snyder's store in the small town of Tres Pinos. In the course of the crime, they murdered three bystanders. One of them was Leander Davison, my ancestor. He was an innkeeper, who, when he heard the commotion of Tiburcio's gang escaping hot pursuit, barred the wooden entry to his establishment. Tiburcio shot through the door, and the bullet killed Leander Davison.
Eventually, the crime resulted in Tiburcio Vasquez' hanging in 1875. He was 39 years old. When asked before his execution if he believed in an afterlife, he replied, "I hope so, for then I shall see all my old sweethearts again." For many subsequent years, his lovers and admirers paid their respects and left flowers at his grave.
It's been well more than a century. The famous old west bandit is enjoying a re-branding as an early crusader for social justice and the rights of the oppressed. It's a complicated and colorful story. I can understand why memorializing and honoring this particular man by dedicating his name to a school has caused a bit of a ruckus. Kind of like old Tiburcio did himself.
Tiburcio Vasquez was born in Monterey, California in 1835 to a family of Californios who owned wide swaths of rugged Californian land. The Bear Flag Revolt by European settlers resulted in California becoming an independent republic in 1846. Two years later, Mexico signed the Treaty of Hidalgo ceding California to United States. Tiburcio was thirteen.
When I was teaching high school Spanish I explained the story to my students like this. Suppose the president of our country had a disagreement with present-day Russia. Suppose that in order to come to terms of a resolution, he agreed to hand over the Pacific Northwest to Russia as part of a treaty for peace. As of the date of the signature, our state would suddenly become Russian territory. From one day to the next, your language would no longer be the language of the land, your money no longer the currency, your land deed not honored, and most difficult of all, your culture, your way of life, your values suddenly dismissed, ignored, and obsolete.
When this happened to Tiburcio Vasquez, he was a teen from a well-respected and well to do family. The upheaval's impact on him was that he chose a life of rebellion against the new societal order. Beginning at age 19, he stole from the new settlers, robbed stage coaches and stores, and hid out in the hills he knew so well, elusive and impossible to catch. He fraternized with criminal gangs of other dispossessed Californios, and traveled in a secret network of homes of friends and relatives who would shelter him. Posses were mounted and rewards offered, and Tiburcio outsmarted the (new) Law.
An aristocrat by birth, he conducted himself in a romantic and gentlemanly manner where the ladies were concerned. When robbing a stage coach, he would lay his coat in the dust so the ladies aboard could walk over it while exiting the coach he was stealing. He was a legendary casanova, with many love affairs. Even when in prison, he was a celebrity, visited by many. He sold his autograph to raise money for his defense.
In August of 1873, Tiburcio and his gang robbed Snyder's store in the small town of Tres Pinos. In the course of the crime, they murdered three bystanders. One of them was Leander Davison, my ancestor. He was an innkeeper, who, when he heard the commotion of Tiburcio's gang escaping hot pursuit, barred the wooden entry to his establishment. Tiburcio shot through the door, and the bullet killed Leander Davison.
Eventually, the crime resulted in Tiburcio Vasquez' hanging in 1875. He was 39 years old. When asked before his execution if he believed in an afterlife, he replied, "I hope so, for then I shall see all my old sweethearts again." For many subsequent years, his lovers and admirers paid their respects and left flowers at his grave.
It's been well more than a century. The famous old west bandit is enjoying a re-branding as an early crusader for social justice and the rights of the oppressed. It's a complicated and colorful story. I can understand why memorializing and honoring this particular man by dedicating his name to a school has caused a bit of a ruckus. Kind of like old Tiburcio did himself.
Thursday, January 10, 2013
Kitchen Secrets
"I love you," breathed the wire whisk
Into his swarthy ear.
The garlic press feigned innocence,
Pretended not to hear.
The whisk glanced quickly 'round the room.
"You feel it too!" she hissed.
The garlic press crept closer,
And clumsily, they kissed.
Into his swarthy ear.
The garlic press feigned innocence,
Pretended not to hear.
The whisk glanced quickly 'round the room.
"You feel it too!" she hissed.
The garlic press crept closer,
And clumsily, they kissed.
The Wondrous
Nearly every morning I have a song on my heart as I drive the short 10 minutes to work, always a hymn, and sometimes I sing it. Yesterday it was the lovely When I Survey the Wondrous Cross.
When I survey the wondrous cross
On which the Prince of glory died,
My richest gain I count but loss,
And pour contempt on all my pride.
Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast,
Save in the death of Christ my God!
All the vain things that charm me most,
I sacrifice them to His blood.
Were the whole realm of nature mine,
That were a present far too small;
Love so amazing, so divine,
Demands my soul, my life, my all.
Last night I Googled it, and discovered the words were written by Isaac Watts in 1707, more than three hundred years ago. And yet today it still speaks a depth of sentiment that is divine. This hymn can soften me to tears.
It brings to mind the quote from C.S. Lewis: “It would seem that Our Lord finds our desires not too strong, but too weak. We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. We are far too easily pleased.”
Charles Wesley was born in England the same year Isaac Watts wrote this hymn. Wesley went on to write more than 6,000 hymns of his own during his lifetime. He is reported to have said he would give up all his other hymns to have written When I Survey the Wondrous Cross.
Ah we trip over our folly, we human types. This devout man lusted after the glory and place of having written a simple hymn; a hymn that is a beautiful homage to a love that desires not fame or place or glory, but only the perfect Lamb of God.
When I survey the wondrous cross
On which the Prince of glory died,
My richest gain I count but loss,
And pour contempt on all my pride.
Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast,
Save in the death of Christ my God!
All the vain things that charm me most,
I sacrifice them to His blood.
Were the whole realm of nature mine,
That were a present far too small;
Love so amazing, so divine,
Demands my soul, my life, my all.
Last night I Googled it, and discovered the words were written by Isaac Watts in 1707, more than three hundred years ago. And yet today it still speaks a depth of sentiment that is divine. This hymn can soften me to tears.
It brings to mind the quote from C.S. Lewis: “It would seem that Our Lord finds our desires not too strong, but too weak. We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. We are far too easily pleased.”
Charles Wesley was born in England the same year Isaac Watts wrote this hymn. Wesley went on to write more than 6,000 hymns of his own during his lifetime. He is reported to have said he would give up all his other hymns to have written When I Survey the Wondrous Cross.
Ah we trip over our folly, we human types. This devout man lusted after the glory and place of having written a simple hymn; a hymn that is a beautiful homage to a love that desires not fame or place or glory, but only the perfect Lamb of God.
Saturday, January 5, 2013
Paleo Faux Pas
I've recently spent some time looking into the Paleolithic diet. The Nom Nom Paleo Blog, with its show-stopping photos, could make a believer out of anyone. The diet's starch-free regimen could offer some relief for my autoimmune bedevilments. Aw shucks, I decided to give it a go.
I found out that it's easier to get excited about recipes, and even to shop for the ingredients, than it is to cook them all up. But even so, I've made headway. I made the much adored Braised Cabbage the other night. I didn't have lard so I used ghee. I really liked the outcome but hubby wanted a saltier flavor. Should have used that lard.
Today I was at Trader Joe's with my shopping list. Seeing no evidence of lard on the shelf, asked the stocker, "Do you carry lard?"
The look on his face was priceless. I may as well have asked him if they carry ax murderers or pedophiles.
"No," he managed to huff.
I guess this is one Portland hipster who is not up to date. Meat-heavy Paleo eating, along with full fat cheese and lard, is the new vegan. Get with it, dude.
I found out that it's easier to get excited about recipes, and even to shop for the ingredients, than it is to cook them all up. But even so, I've made headway. I made the much adored Braised Cabbage the other night. I didn't have lard so I used ghee. I really liked the outcome but hubby wanted a saltier flavor. Should have used that lard.
Today I was at Trader Joe's with my shopping list. Seeing no evidence of lard on the shelf, asked the stocker, "Do you carry lard?"
The look on his face was priceless. I may as well have asked him if they carry ax murderers or pedophiles.
"No," he managed to huff.
I guess this is one Portland hipster who is not up to date. Meat-heavy Paleo eating, along with full fat cheese and lard, is the new vegan. Get with it, dude.
Friday, January 4, 2013
Ode to Git ‘er Done Guys
Driving by a drive thru coffee kiosk
I saw him
Bending over with his tape measure
And tool belt
Working on a deck remodel.
And I thought
I love guys that can fix things
Build things
Line things up
And make them better.
What would we do without them?
Live with broken down parts?
Make do?
Fall apart?
Just buy new stuff?
The quintessential American male.
The kind who won the west
Homesteaded the prairies
Cut roads out of the forest
And tamed the wilderness.
And then I amended my thought.
This kind of man
Comes in many varieties.
Mexican, Serbian, Vietnamese,
Italian, Australian, and American.
But there is something about a country
Founded on liberty
And opportunity
Burnished by rugged individualism
A country of wide frontiers
That attracts these types.
Brings out the latent energy in all of us
And allows such an ethos to flourish.
Even when, the west already won,
It means adding an outdoor terrace to a coffee cart.
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