Well, here we are, at the end of another summer. My year doesn't run from January through December, but August through June. July is a bonus month! And now, sadly, I bid summer adieu.
There were many plans: walls getting washed; painting the front porch; purging clutter. I painted the front porch - it looks pretty good, much better than the 20 year old green outdoor carpeting! Washing walls? Nah. Purging? A little, but so much more needs to go! A good winter project that absolutely must be done!
Thinking about the year this way made me wonder about people whose jobs make them see things differently. Accountants - their year ends in April, and they judge time by quarters. I'm certain there are other professions where people look at time in varying increments. Mine runs on the Academic schedule, which leaves July as the "let's make all the doctor appointments and fit a trip in somewhere" month.
I've spent the last two days in my respective classrooms - first playing the game of "where did I store this at the end of the year?"! Do I ever put things in the same place? What fun would that be? Once that's done, then I get to start going through supplies that have been delivered - and as an art teacher, it feels a lot like Christmas! However, supplies are getting pricier, and we don't get as much bang for our buck, and nobody is giving me more bucks to keep up with the higher prices. So, time to revert to square one - what did poor, starving artists do? (That might be a bit much for eleven year old kids to take in!) We'll make do. The schedule for this year will be demanding - as one colleague put it - "You have no pee time!", and she's right. This year there is even less time!
"Be Creative." This is the motto for the year. Last year's motto was "I'm not going to be miserable this year." While I'll still be carrying that theme through the school day, I'm also going to have to be really creative - with training the kids to do most of the clean up, using time wisely, and perhaps investing in Depends, since there really is no time to run to the bathroom! (Just kidding - that could be disastrous!)
So, in the final summer days here at the pool, we're still trying to fit in the last doctor appointments, another day out with some friends, and leave ONE DAY OPEN to play around with some artwork. Then, in-service. You might know the old adage "I hope I die during in-service, because the transition from life to death with be barely noticeable..." Good-bye to Facebook friends; solitaire will have to wait another day. And the books? I've read a lot this summer, and will continue, but instead of a book a week, it will become a book a month.
An upside? The new stove will arrive at the end of the month. Until then, we're shifting things around on that calendar, mindful of the limited time one has to prepare the meal. And Ms. Business only has one more week before heading back to school. Ah, summer. Farewell, my friend.
Bring on Autumn - and Pumpkin Spice Bailey's. And, if you're in the neighborhood, stop by the pool and let us know how you're doing. No matter what, the Stress Pool is always open!
Saturday, August 17, 2019
Tuesday, August 13, 2019
A Range of Possibilities
Greetings! The last post was about letting go. Guess we're still doing that at the Stress Pool, but not in ways we'd like. The old gas range isn't working the way it used to, but it is old. We're talking eighteen years old - if it were a person, we'd be sending it off to college! It's been a good, reliable range, with lots of bells and whistles, but now it's time to let it go as well. Funny story how we came to get it...
Morticia was probably eight years old, and I was all about the children learning to do things independently. After all, I had been working part-time for a few years, and had given birth to our fifth child. Things were hectic - the boys were teens, the girls were in those early grades, and there was a toddler running around the house. Darling Hubby worked two jobs in those days - teacher by day, waiter by night and the weekends. If my hands were busy and a child wandered in wanting something they could probably get on their own, then aha! a teaching moment prevailed.
Back to Morticia and the stove. I was getting clothing ready for a huge children's clothing resale. DH had looked at me the day before and said I would have to do this - at the time, it seemed like more effort than I really had time for - but in the end, it was usually worth it. (That doesn't mean I didn't grumble a little. Okay, a lot.) This one ended up costing us way more money than it should have - not much profit gained. So, there I am, tagging and folding clothing, when Morticia walked in. "I want chicken." She was always strong-willed, and patience was not her strong suit. And, I didn't have time to stop what I was doing to make chicken strips. After all, we'd had dinner. This was just a little bed-time snack.
We really should buy stock in Tyson chicken strips - it's always been a fave of the children. "It isn't hard to make. Do you remember how to set the oven temperature?"
"Yeah, you just turn the knob. I can read. I know what to do." She went away, put the strips on one of my good Wilton cookie sheets, and put it in the oven when it had preheated. I could hear most of this from my bedroom, where my bed looked like a thrift clothing store counter. When the timer went off, she trundled into the kitchen. "I can't get it out of the oven!"
Eggbert was using the computer in the living room. I called down to him, "Would you please help your sister with the chicken?"
He went in, then called up, "I can't get the oven open."
What? "Use pot holders!"
"That's not the problem."
Down I came, and immediately saw the problem. Back in the day, self-cleaning ovens had a lever in the front. You locked it, set the temperature, and walked away. When it was done and cool enough, a little light went off, indicating you could push the lever back and admire your clean oven. She had locked the oven when she put the chicken in. So, since the chicken had to cook at 400+ degrees, it wasn't going to unlock until it cooled to at least 375. However, Eggbert, in his zeal to help out, forced the lever. There was no unlocking the oven. Ever. DH and I had a very intense discussion when he returned home that night.
"The stove is thirteen years old. Do you realize how much this will cost to fix it? Do you really want to pour money into a stove that's thirteen years old?"
We went to the scratch and dent outlet, and found a beautiful gas range that had a warming burner, a convection oven, and an all digital display. It cost an arm and a leg, but not nearly full price because it had a tiny dent in the side that would never be seen by a human being, but had been rejected by the person who'd purchased it. We talked long and hard about the price. I promised wonderful meals. We bought it.
When they delivered it, the fellow taking away the old range went to open the oven door. "It won't open."
"I know," and told the story.
"So, there's a pan of chicken in that oven?"
"Yup."
"Two weeks old?"
"Yup, on one of my nice cookie sheets."
He laughed all the way to the curb.
Now, eighteen years later, they can't get the bottom of the oven off because the convection fan cover is in the way. The bolts are rusted and won't come out. The cost to fix the oven would be more than the cost of a new stove. But, this time I'm not looking for bells or whistles. I just want to be able to bake and make scrumptious dinners.
Oh, and make pans of chicken strips, because they still like to do that around here. (I really should look into Tyson stock!)
So, in a week or two, even though I'll be back to the work life, maybe we can pop in a pan of brownies, sit around the Stress Pool, and chat about your favorite appliance story - we all have them! Until next time, thanks for visiting, and take it easy!
Morticia was probably eight years old, and I was all about the children learning to do things independently. After all, I had been working part-time for a few years, and had given birth to our fifth child. Things were hectic - the boys were teens, the girls were in those early grades, and there was a toddler running around the house. Darling Hubby worked two jobs in those days - teacher by day, waiter by night and the weekends. If my hands were busy and a child wandered in wanting something they could probably get on their own, then aha! a teaching moment prevailed.
Back to Morticia and the stove. I was getting clothing ready for a huge children's clothing resale. DH had looked at me the day before and said I would have to do this - at the time, it seemed like more effort than I really had time for - but in the end, it was usually worth it. (That doesn't mean I didn't grumble a little. Okay, a lot.) This one ended up costing us way more money than it should have - not much profit gained. So, there I am, tagging and folding clothing, when Morticia walked in. "I want chicken." She was always strong-willed, and patience was not her strong suit. And, I didn't have time to stop what I was doing to make chicken strips. After all, we'd had dinner. This was just a little bed-time snack.
We really should buy stock in Tyson chicken strips - it's always been a fave of the children. "It isn't hard to make. Do you remember how to set the oven temperature?"
"Yeah, you just turn the knob. I can read. I know what to do." She went away, put the strips on one of my good Wilton cookie sheets, and put it in the oven when it had preheated. I could hear most of this from my bedroom, where my bed looked like a thrift clothing store counter. When the timer went off, she trundled into the kitchen. "I can't get it out of the oven!"
Eggbert was using the computer in the living room. I called down to him, "Would you please help your sister with the chicken?"
He went in, then called up, "I can't get the oven open."
What? "Use pot holders!"
"That's not the problem."
Down I came, and immediately saw the problem. Back in the day, self-cleaning ovens had a lever in the front. You locked it, set the temperature, and walked away. When it was done and cool enough, a little light went off, indicating you could push the lever back and admire your clean oven. She had locked the oven when she put the chicken in. So, since the chicken had to cook at 400+ degrees, it wasn't going to unlock until it cooled to at least 375. However, Eggbert, in his zeal to help out, forced the lever. There was no unlocking the oven. Ever. DH and I had a very intense discussion when he returned home that night.
"The stove is thirteen years old. Do you realize how much this will cost to fix it? Do you really want to pour money into a stove that's thirteen years old?"
We went to the scratch and dent outlet, and found a beautiful gas range that had a warming burner, a convection oven, and an all digital display. It cost an arm and a leg, but not nearly full price because it had a tiny dent in the side that would never be seen by a human being, but had been rejected by the person who'd purchased it. We talked long and hard about the price. I promised wonderful meals. We bought it.
When they delivered it, the fellow taking away the old range went to open the oven door. "It won't open."
"I know," and told the story.
"So, there's a pan of chicken in that oven?"
"Yup."
"Two weeks old?"
"Yup, on one of my nice cookie sheets."
He laughed all the way to the curb.
Now, eighteen years later, they can't get the bottom of the oven off because the convection fan cover is in the way. The bolts are rusted and won't come out. The cost to fix the oven would be more than the cost of a new stove. But, this time I'm not looking for bells or whistles. I just want to be able to bake and make scrumptious dinners.
Oh, and make pans of chicken strips, because they still like to do that around here. (I really should look into Tyson stock!)
So, in a week or two, even though I'll be back to the work life, maybe we can pop in a pan of brownies, sit around the Stress Pool, and chat about your favorite appliance story - we all have them! Until next time, thanks for visiting, and take it easy!
Wednesday, June 19, 2019
Let it Go; Let it Rain
Greetings from the Pool, where it's been raining quite a bit. Difficult for those with little ones, I know, but when dry August rolls around, we'll be grateful for these days.
Here at the pool, it's been cloudy at best. Mima passed into Eternal Life a month ago. Yes, she was ill. Yes, her quality of life had evaporated. Knowing this doesn't make her passing any easier. It was all so fast. One week she was laughing and talking, the next she was sleeping, barely eating, telling me someone was waving at me (I still, in my heart, like to think it was Eggbert). Two days later I got a call at work from Suzanne, the Nurse Practitioner at the Senior Prison (who, by the way, my mother loved and who took great care of her), telling me she and my mother decided it was time for Hospice. I agreed, and proceeded to sob through lunch in my darkened classroom, trying to get it together before the kids walked in. The next day, Wednesday, I met with Hospice to sign paperwork, and after school DH and Morticia went with me to the funeral home. While Suzanne said she didn't think death was imminent, I felt we needed to be ready. That night, Moink and I went to see her. I stroked her hair, kissed her cheek a hundred times at least, and told her what a great mom she was. She squeezed my hand, but couldn't talk. When we got home, I looked at DH and said, "Tonight or tomorrow, she's going."
Thursday morning, I got to work super early (I had awakened earlier than usual after a night of not sleeping well), and was getting things ready in case I would need a sub. One student, a sixth grader, entered my room just as my phone rang. "Mrs. K, I'm here to clean your tables!" Every time this tall, lanky young man walked past my room, he'd come in (not during classes, mind you!) and would propel himself around on the table top, 'cleaning my tables'. Harmless, and toward the end of the year sixth graders revert into young children again. They know they're the 'big kids', but are also inwardly nervous about taking that next step into middle school. So, as he's whirling around on the table, the Hospice nurse is telling me my mother had passed sometime in the wee hours of the morning. I was glad he was in the room - I held it together until I got to the office to tell the secretary and the principal - and off I went to prepare a goodbye for Mima. Some bits of humor, though - Mike from the funeral home called me, and when I answered, the first thing he said was, "It's not my fault." As Truvy from Steel Magnolias says, "laughter through tears is my favorite emotion."
The end of the school year is busy - grades, cleaning up two classrooms, and meetings galore. Time for grieving just hadn't come. Until a Saturday two weeks ago. I was setting up the porch for summer - I had wanted to do this for Mother's Day, but that was the day before the funeral, so it didn't happen - when DH popped his head outside. "Hey, did you decide what to do with the Fontanini?"
Mima collected an Italian-made Nativity - not cheap, and quite beautiful. But, we already have one (Lenox, that we don't put out at Christmas because we have a cat who LOVES to knock over anything of value), and none of the kids were interested in it. However, I was having a difficult time letting it go. We've been getting things together to take to the church's flea market, and he'd asked me several weeks before what I wanted to do with her Nativity set, which has been in the garage for the last three years. In mid-sweep, sweating beyond glistening, I was faced with a split second decision. "Take it. Just take it so I don't have to think about it."
I didn't want it, and it would make someone happy, so giving it away wasn't the issue. It was the act of letting go of something that had been important to her. I sat down on the retaining wall and sobbed. Letting go hurts, but it's also cathartic. I was able to continue working on the porch, stopping now and again to cry a little more. DH helped when he got back, understanding how I was feeling without having to explain. I just love that man.
I miss her. There are times I think, "Oh, I have to remember to tell mom..." or, "When I see her on Sunday I have to..." Sundays are still hard. That was our day, when I could set aside my busy life and spend a few hours with her, and through the week I would gather tidbits to talk about. I still find myself doing that. So, in the morning, after my prayers, I still say, "Eggbert, I love you and miss you", but now have added, "and you too, Mom." Then, I proceed with messages to both of them, like asking Eggbert to kick his sister in the 'you-know-where' if needed, and telling Mom the thing or two I'd thought of that she might be interested in hearing. One thing I'm truly happy about is that in one way or another, I was able to personally thank each person who she especially liked, from John in Housekeeping to the nurses and aides who rallied for her, to the young social worker who patiently listened to Mom's woes from the bed. As much as Mima complained, she really did receive good care from good people.
A friend of mine once said she didn't know how I could still have faith in God after losing my son. I told her it wasn't God's fault he'd died, but if God made everything in our lives hunky-dorey all the time, people would have no reason for caution, and would certainly have no reason for going to God. After all, when do we implore God's attention? Mostly when we need help, or when we need to avoid some catastrophe in our lives. It would be like having sunshine every day. That only leads to drought, and who needs that? No, we need those rain showers, actual and metaphorical. It lets us look inward, take pause, let it go, find peace.
Sunshiny days help lift the spirit - and I'm hoping for our share at the Stress Pool this summer. But, since I still have a lot of letting go and grieving to do, I welcome the rain. The mantra for the next month or so is 'Let it Go, Let it Rain."
If you're in the vicinity, though, come on in, share a beverage, and share your stories of letting go. We all have them. Until next time, I wish you Peace.
Here at the pool, it's been cloudy at best. Mima passed into Eternal Life a month ago. Yes, she was ill. Yes, her quality of life had evaporated. Knowing this doesn't make her passing any easier. It was all so fast. One week she was laughing and talking, the next she was sleeping, barely eating, telling me someone was waving at me (I still, in my heart, like to think it was Eggbert). Two days later I got a call at work from Suzanne, the Nurse Practitioner at the Senior Prison (who, by the way, my mother loved and who took great care of her), telling me she and my mother decided it was time for Hospice. I agreed, and proceeded to sob through lunch in my darkened classroom, trying to get it together before the kids walked in. The next day, Wednesday, I met with Hospice to sign paperwork, and after school DH and Morticia went with me to the funeral home. While Suzanne said she didn't think death was imminent, I felt we needed to be ready. That night, Moink and I went to see her. I stroked her hair, kissed her cheek a hundred times at least, and told her what a great mom she was. She squeezed my hand, but couldn't talk. When we got home, I looked at DH and said, "Tonight or tomorrow, she's going."
Thursday morning, I got to work super early (I had awakened earlier than usual after a night of not sleeping well), and was getting things ready in case I would need a sub. One student, a sixth grader, entered my room just as my phone rang. "Mrs. K, I'm here to clean your tables!" Every time this tall, lanky young man walked past my room, he'd come in (not during classes, mind you!) and would propel himself around on the table top, 'cleaning my tables'. Harmless, and toward the end of the year sixth graders revert into young children again. They know they're the 'big kids', but are also inwardly nervous about taking that next step into middle school. So, as he's whirling around on the table, the Hospice nurse is telling me my mother had passed sometime in the wee hours of the morning. I was glad he was in the room - I held it together until I got to the office to tell the secretary and the principal - and off I went to prepare a goodbye for Mima. Some bits of humor, though - Mike from the funeral home called me, and when I answered, the first thing he said was, "It's not my fault." As Truvy from Steel Magnolias says, "laughter through tears is my favorite emotion."
The end of the school year is busy - grades, cleaning up two classrooms, and meetings galore. Time for grieving just hadn't come. Until a Saturday two weeks ago. I was setting up the porch for summer - I had wanted to do this for Mother's Day, but that was the day before the funeral, so it didn't happen - when DH popped his head outside. "Hey, did you decide what to do with the Fontanini?"
Mima collected an Italian-made Nativity - not cheap, and quite beautiful. But, we already have one (Lenox, that we don't put out at Christmas because we have a cat who LOVES to knock over anything of value), and none of the kids were interested in it. However, I was having a difficult time letting it go. We've been getting things together to take to the church's flea market, and he'd asked me several weeks before what I wanted to do with her Nativity set, which has been in the garage for the last three years. In mid-sweep, sweating beyond glistening, I was faced with a split second decision. "Take it. Just take it so I don't have to think about it."
I didn't want it, and it would make someone happy, so giving it away wasn't the issue. It was the act of letting go of something that had been important to her. I sat down on the retaining wall and sobbed. Letting go hurts, but it's also cathartic. I was able to continue working on the porch, stopping now and again to cry a little more. DH helped when he got back, understanding how I was feeling without having to explain. I just love that man.
I miss her. There are times I think, "Oh, I have to remember to tell mom..." or, "When I see her on Sunday I have to..." Sundays are still hard. That was our day, when I could set aside my busy life and spend a few hours with her, and through the week I would gather tidbits to talk about. I still find myself doing that. So, in the morning, after my prayers, I still say, "Eggbert, I love you and miss you", but now have added, "and you too, Mom." Then, I proceed with messages to both of them, like asking Eggbert to kick his sister in the 'you-know-where' if needed, and telling Mom the thing or two I'd thought of that she might be interested in hearing. One thing I'm truly happy about is that in one way or another, I was able to personally thank each person who she especially liked, from John in Housekeeping to the nurses and aides who rallied for her, to the young social worker who patiently listened to Mom's woes from the bed. As much as Mima complained, she really did receive good care from good people.
A friend of mine once said she didn't know how I could still have faith in God after losing my son. I told her it wasn't God's fault he'd died, but if God made everything in our lives hunky-dorey all the time, people would have no reason for caution, and would certainly have no reason for going to God. After all, when do we implore God's attention? Mostly when we need help, or when we need to avoid some catastrophe in our lives. It would be like having sunshine every day. That only leads to drought, and who needs that? No, we need those rain showers, actual and metaphorical. It lets us look inward, take pause, let it go, find peace.
Sunshiny days help lift the spirit - and I'm hoping for our share at the Stress Pool this summer. But, since I still have a lot of letting go and grieving to do, I welcome the rain. The mantra for the next month or so is 'Let it Go, Let it Rain."
If you're in the vicinity, though, come on in, share a beverage, and share your stories of letting go. We all have them. Until next time, I wish you Peace.
Monday, May 6, 2019
A Simple Act of Love
Welcome! Spread out your towel and bask in the glory of our Stress Pool.
The sun is shining (sometimes - here in Pittsburgh, not as often as one might like), days are getting warmer, birds are chirping, and the students are squirming in their seats, anxious for the school year to be over. Another month yet, kiddos, and then we'll all be free! Even here at the Stress Pool, life is moving along at quite a clip, albeit uneventful, and we're all grateful for that.
It's been awhile since the last posting. Big Brother and DiDi have been having fun with the new little one - and he's a cutie. Can't wait for summer so I can see more of him - and them, of course! Morticia and The Doctor are planning a wedding for next May. Looking forward to finalizing some of those details with her this summer, too. Always exciting, right? A fairy garden theme is what she wants. It will be at the National Aviary, and will be quite wonderful, I'm sure. Ms. Business is zipping right along toward her future goals. She finished her Associates degree in Business, and is almost half-way through the Dental Hygiene program at Pitt. Moink is still recovering from the concussion he got three years ago - but there are some small improvements. Through it all, he's not lost his sense of humor, and has some really good ideas for stories. Everyone should have the opportunity to follow their dreams - or at least, try!
DH is planning for his (2nd) retirement. We've decided to go south, but not permanently. We'll get an apartment not far from the beach, and we'll come and go as we'd like. He's getting ready, but this is another story for another time.
Then, there's Mima. She's had a rough winter in Senior Prison. She'd barely get over one illness when another would strike. I thought for sure we were going to lose her a few weeks ago, and even went so far as to call Big Brother and Morticia.
I had seen her on a Sunday afternoon. Her hands were cold as ice, and she was shivering. She didn't seem like herself. Monday morning I called them. "You haven't been to see Mima for awhile. I don't think she's going to last much longer." I couldn't get it out without crying. They assured me they would visit.
I stopped to see her that Thursday night before choir practice. She looked a little better than she had on Sunday, and I told her that. She nodded, as if in agreement. "Morticia came to see me on Monday, and came back again yesterday morning."
"Oh yeah," I casually said.
"Big Brother came on Tuesday."
"Huh. That was nice."
She gave me the hairy eyeball. "What did you do, call and tell them I was dying?"
My mouth flapped open and shut. "What? I wouldn't do that! I reminded them they haven't seen you for a long time. Guess it worked." What Mima doesn't know won't hurt her. While she can't get out of bed, I still have a little fear - you know the kind, brought on by the power God infused in all mothers, and it never goes away.
But, that Sunday, the day I realized her time here on earth might soon end, she asked me to brush her hair. I went back in time to when I was little, and she would brush out my long hair after a bath. It took everything within me not to burst into tears as I lovingly tried to work out the tangles and braid her thin locks into Princess Leia side buns. Her hair isn't quite that long, but you get the idea. I did it again for her last week. I suck at hair. Hairstylists have told me that, and the braided buns sort of droop. But, it's a simple act of love I can give back to this woman who gave so much of herself to us for so long. I would have brushed it again this past Sunday, but instead watched her sleep for most of our visit. Her mind and her tongue are both still sharp as a whip, but she's fading -sleeping more, and eating less.
At one point, she looked at me and said, "He's waving to you." Her voice is low, and it's hard to hear what she's saying.
"Who's waving, mom?"
She chuckled, closed her eyes. "He's waving."
"Well, I can't see him, so I don't have to wave back."
I don't know who 'he' was, but I sure hope he's a friend - or maybe Eggbert. I would like to think he'd come and help lead her home. I kissed her, told her I'd be back one night this week, and left.
I barely made it to the car before sobbing. Sure, I know, she's 84 - but no matter how prepared you are, you're never ready. So, we continue to perform simple acts of love, acts that let the other person know your life never would have been the same without them. A lesson for all of us, I think - to do things for those we love on a daily basis, no matter how small the act.
Thanks for visiting. Come on back, I'll make sure the water is just the right temperature, and there will be plenty of ice for our beverages of choice! But, please don't ask me to do anything with your hair. Really. You have no idea.
The sun is shining (sometimes - here in Pittsburgh, not as often as one might like), days are getting warmer, birds are chirping, and the students are squirming in their seats, anxious for the school year to be over. Another month yet, kiddos, and then we'll all be free! Even here at the Stress Pool, life is moving along at quite a clip, albeit uneventful, and we're all grateful for that.
It's been awhile since the last posting. Big Brother and DiDi have been having fun with the new little one - and he's a cutie. Can't wait for summer so I can see more of him - and them, of course! Morticia and The Doctor are planning a wedding for next May. Looking forward to finalizing some of those details with her this summer, too. Always exciting, right? A fairy garden theme is what she wants. It will be at the National Aviary, and will be quite wonderful, I'm sure. Ms. Business is zipping right along toward her future goals. She finished her Associates degree in Business, and is almost half-way through the Dental Hygiene program at Pitt. Moink is still recovering from the concussion he got three years ago - but there are some small improvements. Through it all, he's not lost his sense of humor, and has some really good ideas for stories. Everyone should have the opportunity to follow their dreams - or at least, try!
DH is planning for his (2nd) retirement. We've decided to go south, but not permanently. We'll get an apartment not far from the beach, and we'll come and go as we'd like. He's getting ready, but this is another story for another time.
Then, there's Mima. She's had a rough winter in Senior Prison. She'd barely get over one illness when another would strike. I thought for sure we were going to lose her a few weeks ago, and even went so far as to call Big Brother and Morticia.
I had seen her on a Sunday afternoon. Her hands were cold as ice, and she was shivering. She didn't seem like herself. Monday morning I called them. "You haven't been to see Mima for awhile. I don't think she's going to last much longer." I couldn't get it out without crying. They assured me they would visit.
I stopped to see her that Thursday night before choir practice. She looked a little better than she had on Sunday, and I told her that. She nodded, as if in agreement. "Morticia came to see me on Monday, and came back again yesterday morning."
"Oh yeah," I casually said.
"Big Brother came on Tuesday."
"Huh. That was nice."
She gave me the hairy eyeball. "What did you do, call and tell them I was dying?"
My mouth flapped open and shut. "What? I wouldn't do that! I reminded them they haven't seen you for a long time. Guess it worked." What Mima doesn't know won't hurt her. While she can't get out of bed, I still have a little fear - you know the kind, brought on by the power God infused in all mothers, and it never goes away.
But, that Sunday, the day I realized her time here on earth might soon end, she asked me to brush her hair. I went back in time to when I was little, and she would brush out my long hair after a bath. It took everything within me not to burst into tears as I lovingly tried to work out the tangles and braid her thin locks into Princess Leia side buns. Her hair isn't quite that long, but you get the idea. I did it again for her last week. I suck at hair. Hairstylists have told me that, and the braided buns sort of droop. But, it's a simple act of love I can give back to this woman who gave so much of herself to us for so long. I would have brushed it again this past Sunday, but instead watched her sleep for most of our visit. Her mind and her tongue are both still sharp as a whip, but she's fading -sleeping more, and eating less.
At one point, she looked at me and said, "He's waving to you." Her voice is low, and it's hard to hear what she's saying.
"Who's waving, mom?"
She chuckled, closed her eyes. "He's waving."
"Well, I can't see him, so I don't have to wave back."
I don't know who 'he' was, but I sure hope he's a friend - or maybe Eggbert. I would like to think he'd come and help lead her home. I kissed her, told her I'd be back one night this week, and left.
I barely made it to the car before sobbing. Sure, I know, she's 84 - but no matter how prepared you are, you're never ready. So, we continue to perform simple acts of love, acts that let the other person know your life never would have been the same without them. A lesson for all of us, I think - to do things for those we love on a daily basis, no matter how small the act.
Thanks for visiting. Come on back, I'll make sure the water is just the right temperature, and there will be plenty of ice for our beverages of choice! But, please don't ask me to do anything with your hair. Really. You have no idea.
Saturday, January 26, 2019
Telling Stories
Greetings! Stories - we love them, and we all have them, and who doesn't love retelling a story to a new audience? With five children and over twenty years of teaching in my back pocket, I've got loads, but one of my favorites actually involves DH.
Sitting at lunch with my colleagues the other day, a thread was woven that lent itself well to this particular story (which also has back story - please forgive me!) DH has always had hearing issues, but now that he's a card carrying member of Medicare, it stands to reason that the issue has gotten a little worse. One cold, dark Wednesday morning (5:30 a.m. seldom sees sunlight here), as we made the bed together, I sleepily said, "Well, another day closer to Saturday." He chuckled and agreed.
When we sat to eat dinner that night, he said, "Everyone at work got a laugh at what you said this morning."
I put down my fork. "What did I say that was so funny?"
"Another day closer to seventy!"
"While that is true, that isn't what I said. I said it's another day closer to Saturday!"
When I finished the story, one of my esteemed colleagues (who I will refer to as Mr. Science) said, "You make the bed together every day?"
I nodded. "Every day for almost thirty-five years, unless one of us is still in it, obviously."
His comment caused me to reflect a bit on that. My own parents divorced after thirty-eight years of marriage (talk about two people who never should have gotten married in the first place!) DH and I are fortunate. We've have had a lot of laughs through the years, as well as times of hardship, heartache, and tears. No, it hasn't been completely blissful, as no relationship ever is, but we've weathered through. Planning meals (back to the monthly menu - I haven't forgotten, sometime I will share that with you!), shopping, and yes, making the bed together - key word being 'together'. We enjoy many of the same things - like watching movies with subtitles, and romantic comedies, or curling up with a blanket on a cold winter evening with a good book, and sharing phrases that strike a chord that we feel the other would enjoy. Keeping open the lines of communication, or not nit-picking when the other has been truly annoying.
So, come on down to the pool - bring your favorite book, or your significant other, or just a nice warm blanket. After all, as we all know, we're all another day closer to seventy!
Sitting at lunch with my colleagues the other day, a thread was woven that lent itself well to this particular story (which also has back story - please forgive me!) DH has always had hearing issues, but now that he's a card carrying member of Medicare, it stands to reason that the issue has gotten a little worse. One cold, dark Wednesday morning (5:30 a.m. seldom sees sunlight here), as we made the bed together, I sleepily said, "Well, another day closer to Saturday." He chuckled and agreed.
When we sat to eat dinner that night, he said, "Everyone at work got a laugh at what you said this morning."
I put down my fork. "What did I say that was so funny?"
"Another day closer to seventy!"
"While that is true, that isn't what I said. I said it's another day closer to Saturday!"
When I finished the story, one of my esteemed colleagues (who I will refer to as Mr. Science) said, "You make the bed together every day?"
I nodded. "Every day for almost thirty-five years, unless one of us is still in it, obviously."
His comment caused me to reflect a bit on that. My own parents divorced after thirty-eight years of marriage (talk about two people who never should have gotten married in the first place!) DH and I are fortunate. We've have had a lot of laughs through the years, as well as times of hardship, heartache, and tears. No, it hasn't been completely blissful, as no relationship ever is, but we've weathered through. Planning meals (back to the monthly menu - I haven't forgotten, sometime I will share that with you!), shopping, and yes, making the bed together - key word being 'together'. We enjoy many of the same things - like watching movies with subtitles, and romantic comedies, or curling up with a blanket on a cold winter evening with a good book, and sharing phrases that strike a chord that we feel the other would enjoy. Keeping open the lines of communication, or not nit-picking when the other has been truly annoying.
So, come on down to the pool - bring your favorite book, or your significant other, or just a nice warm blanket. After all, as we all know, we're all another day closer to seventy!
Saturday, January 12, 2019
Zombies Have Been Sighted
Be afraid. Very afraid, for I've seen zombies hovering outside my classroom windows.
I would like to say it's because the zombie apocalypse has finally arrived (in which case, in answer to Moink's question "What would you do if there was a zombie apocalypse?" I will be the first to go), but fortunately, that isn't the case. It's really because my head is going to explode and zombies seem to sense these things.
Why is my head going to explode? Artist's Statements. I thought that in asking my fifth and sixth grade students things like, "Tell me three things you learned", "What are two things you like about your project?", and "What is one thing you would do differently?", then I would be getting them to - wait for the catch phrase - write across the curriculum. In theory, what a great idea! In practice -oy!
Let's start with "What would you do differently?" I tell them the answer "Nothing" is not acceptable. Every artist would do something differently the next time. I still get a lot of "Nothing - I like it just the way it is." Sigh.
Then there is "What two things do you like about your project?" This is always interesting, but because they get to talk about this extension of themselves, I get great answers.
"Three things I learned." For each class, I projected the sheet onto the screen and went through how to answer the questions. For each lesson, there are skills and techniques - it is art, so that's a no-brainer (at least, in my mind!) Sometimes we look at something historically or culturally relevant, so there's that. Sometimes we look at an artist or two who were famous for that style of art. So many things to choose from! I even pointed out that on this same sheet are listed the concepts, techniques, styles, and artists studied. So easy, right? Not so much.
Let's take the latest project from fifth grade - weaving. We made "Mug Rugs". A sane person would call them coasters, but let's be creative - they look like mini rugs, complete with fringe. And you can put your mug on it. Simple basket weave, which is over and under. They had to choose a particular color family - we used our color wheels to do discover what some of the different color families are, like primary and secondary. We talked about complimentary colors, and how to find them on the color wheel. We talked about monochromatic color schemes.We talked about using tints - like pink for red. I listed all of these on the white board and asked them to choose which one they thought they'd like to use. Come up with a pattern, and established that patterns repeat. Let's look at possible patterns! Write it down so you remember. Well.
Weaving with kids can be fun. For many, this is the only time they'll do something like this, but it's hard to get them to understand this is not crocheting or knitting. As a teacher, I quickly find out who has learned to tie their shoes and who has not.(Yes, fifth graders still don't know how to tie their shoes!) I teach them to start the weaving with an "anchor" row that will hold things together. (If you don't anchor the boat, it will sail away!) Getting them to start from the inside of the cardboard loom rather than from the edge is hard, so I demonstrate and make the analogy that "The loom is our house. Everyone is leaving the house - mom, dad, grandmas and grandpas and aunts and uncles and brothers and sisters and even the cat...except the dog." At this point, I have woven through from somewhere in the center of the loom to the edge, with half a row and only the tail end of the yarn left in the center, indicating this is the dog. Everyone giggles and they seem to get this visual. Then, we commence. Some take to it like a fish out of water, some take six classes or so before it finally clicks. It's a fine motor skill. It's amazing how many kids just don't get the chance to develop those skills anymore.
Taking it off the loom when finished is another trick. You have to cut the string and tie double knots. "I don't know how to tie double knots." There is then the establishing if the child is right handed or left handed, and then I'm teaching them how to tie a knot. (Please keep in mind that I teach four hundred plus fifth graders a year!)
You might be thinking that we've already gotten to the point of my head exploding - not so! It doesn't happen until I'm reading what they've learned. Remember, it's supposed to be a reflection of what we learned in class, not personal epiphanies. There were many concepts, skills and techniques taught and learned, at least one hopes.
"Art is fun." Nice, but what did you learn?
"There are lots of tools in weaving." Awesome. What are they?
"I learned to weave." Okay...what about it?
"I learned what a pattern is." I think you should have already known that.
"I learned about color families." What did you learn about color families?
"I learned to tie knots." Yes - something specific! And useful!
"I learned to leave the dog at home."
This is about where the ticking time bomb that lives inside my brain began to speed up. Yes, I laughed - who wouldn't? But oh, I looked out the window and saw them gathering. Those zombies know a meal is about to be served, and they don't care if they have to scoop it off the walls.
A new semester is fast approaching, and a whole new bunch of fifth and sixth graders will cross the threshold of the art room. I think there has to be a better way to find out what they've learned, and leave writing across the curriculum to another humanities teacher, one who might be younger, whose brain hasn't yet begun to leak out of his or her cranium.
I won't make you weave when you come to visit at the pool, or write about your experiences, but I might ask you to join me in a favorite beverage and just share those mind-blowing experiences of our lives. Come back soon before the zombie invasion actually occurs!
I would like to say it's because the zombie apocalypse has finally arrived (in which case, in answer to Moink's question "What would you do if there was a zombie apocalypse?" I will be the first to go), but fortunately, that isn't the case. It's really because my head is going to explode and zombies seem to sense these things.
Why is my head going to explode? Artist's Statements. I thought that in asking my fifth and sixth grade students things like, "Tell me three things you learned", "What are two things you like about your project?", and "What is one thing you would do differently?", then I would be getting them to - wait for the catch phrase - write across the curriculum. In theory, what a great idea! In practice -oy!
Let's start with "What would you do differently?" I tell them the answer "Nothing" is not acceptable. Every artist would do something differently the next time. I still get a lot of "Nothing - I like it just the way it is." Sigh.
Then there is "What two things do you like about your project?" This is always interesting, but because they get to talk about this extension of themselves, I get great answers.
"Three things I learned." For each class, I projected the sheet onto the screen and went through how to answer the questions. For each lesson, there are skills and techniques - it is art, so that's a no-brainer (at least, in my mind!) Sometimes we look at something historically or culturally relevant, so there's that. Sometimes we look at an artist or two who were famous for that style of art. So many things to choose from! I even pointed out that on this same sheet are listed the concepts, techniques, styles, and artists studied. So easy, right? Not so much.
Let's take the latest project from fifth grade - weaving. We made "Mug Rugs". A sane person would call them coasters, but let's be creative - they look like mini rugs, complete with fringe. And you can put your mug on it. Simple basket weave, which is over and under. They had to choose a particular color family - we used our color wheels to do discover what some of the different color families are, like primary and secondary. We talked about complimentary colors, and how to find them on the color wheel. We talked about monochromatic color schemes.We talked about using tints - like pink for red. I listed all of these on the white board and asked them to choose which one they thought they'd like to use. Come up with a pattern, and established that patterns repeat. Let's look at possible patterns! Write it down so you remember. Well.
Weaving with kids can be fun. For many, this is the only time they'll do something like this, but it's hard to get them to understand this is not crocheting or knitting. As a teacher, I quickly find out who has learned to tie their shoes and who has not.(Yes, fifth graders still don't know how to tie their shoes!) I teach them to start the weaving with an "anchor" row that will hold things together. (If you don't anchor the boat, it will sail away!) Getting them to start from the inside of the cardboard loom rather than from the edge is hard, so I demonstrate and make the analogy that "The loom is our house. Everyone is leaving the house - mom, dad, grandmas and grandpas and aunts and uncles and brothers and sisters and even the cat...except the dog." At this point, I have woven through from somewhere in the center of the loom to the edge, with half a row and only the tail end of the yarn left in the center, indicating this is the dog. Everyone giggles and they seem to get this visual. Then, we commence. Some take to it like a fish out of water, some take six classes or so before it finally clicks. It's a fine motor skill. It's amazing how many kids just don't get the chance to develop those skills anymore.
Taking it off the loom when finished is another trick. You have to cut the string and tie double knots. "I don't know how to tie double knots." There is then the establishing if the child is right handed or left handed, and then I'm teaching them how to tie a knot. (Please keep in mind that I teach four hundred plus fifth graders a year!)
You might be thinking that we've already gotten to the point of my head exploding - not so! It doesn't happen until I'm reading what they've learned. Remember, it's supposed to be a reflection of what we learned in class, not personal epiphanies. There were many concepts, skills and techniques taught and learned, at least one hopes.
"Art is fun." Nice, but what did you learn?
"There are lots of tools in weaving." Awesome. What are they?
"I learned to weave." Okay...what about it?
"I learned what a pattern is." I think you should have already known that.
"I learned about color families." What did you learn about color families?
"I learned to tie knots." Yes - something specific! And useful!
"I learned to leave the dog at home."
This is about where the ticking time bomb that lives inside my brain began to speed up. Yes, I laughed - who wouldn't? But oh, I looked out the window and saw them gathering. Those zombies know a meal is about to be served, and they don't care if they have to scoop it off the walls.
A new semester is fast approaching, and a whole new bunch of fifth and sixth graders will cross the threshold of the art room. I think there has to be a better way to find out what they've learned, and leave writing across the curriculum to another humanities teacher, one who might be younger, whose brain hasn't yet begun to leak out of his or her cranium.
I won't make you weave when you come to visit at the pool, or write about your experiences, but I might ask you to join me in a favorite beverage and just share those mind-blowing experiences of our lives. Come back soon before the zombie invasion actually occurs!
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