Happy Leap Day!

Today was a special day for my daughter C., my husband, and myself. C. was 3 years old when DR and I married, and she had little memory of her biological father (thank goodness). DR loved her from the start, and C. called him Daddy before we were even married. After two unsuccessful attempts and 4 1/2 years, DR was able to adopt C. and give her his (our) last name. We then visited that beautiful building in the background. Those of you who are LDS will understand why, and for those of you who are not LDS, suffice it to say that it was a beautiful, sacred experience. Now, 28 years later, C. is a wonderful woman and mother of eight beautiful children. Tonight we went out to celebrate our "anniversary" (which only happens once every four years). The second photo was taken at a movie theater. Hard to believe she is the same little girl that was shivering against a cold February wind 28 years ago. (Now I'm the little girl -- OK, the short girl.)

It continued to snow today, blanketing the neighborhood in a layer of quilt batting. Snow is a great equalizer. Everyone's lawn looks the same. It is impossible to tell the well-manicured, well-raked, well-cleaned yard from, oh. . . say, . . . my yard. The snow covers the dog piles, the leftover fall leaves, the pits from parking the car in the grass. Right now, my yard looks as nice as everyone else's. Hmmm.....wish there were some way to make the snow stick to the sides of the house.

Introducing Suijei

It was unusually sunny for a cold February day, and I was feeling pretty good after my energy drink, so I decided to take a stroll around my yard and see if there was anything worth snapping. I took this shot of the view through the trees in my yard -- kind of dreary, in a hopeful sort of way. Of course, our resident canine had to accompany me because any excuse to be outside -- even in February -- is better than being inside. So, let me introduce you to this member of our household. Her name is Suijei (pronounced SWEE*jigh), and she is part Rottweiler and part coon hound. She came with my son and his wife when they moved in with us -- of course, she was just a puppy then, and she is now about the size of a small pony. She is very good with the children and keeps us alerted of any dangerous mail carriers or nefarious UPS delivery men that may wander near our property.

At first, Suijei was confined to a large semicircular area within the reach of her 50-lb chain. But she is a large dog and needs room to run, so my son had one of those invisible electronic fences installed. Once she learned her boundaries and stopped cowering along the sides of the house, she became comfortable with her new-found independence. She now has access to my entire yard and can trample my flower beds, tear up my grass, and leave droppings wherever and whenever she pleases. Suijei lives a very simple life (that's a euphemism for boring). She eats the same food every. . . single. . . day of her life. She is not allowed "people" food. She gets an occasional rawhide bone to mangle and mutilate, but only inside the house. She has no interest in such nonsense when she is outdoors. Actually, her favorite toy is a rock. That's right. A large oval rock, about the size of a bowling ball. She rolls it around the yard (and through my flower beds), growling, barking, and biting at it. Today, I had to chop the rock free from the ice beneath it, and Suijei was very grateful. Another one of her favorite pastimes is barking at the neighborhood squirrels and cats, who love to torment her because they know she can't go past the property line without getting zapped. On the whole, Suijei is a good dog, as dogs go, she's just. . . well, you know. . . a dog. And I'm not a "dog person." I know they are supposed to be "man's best friend," but I'm not a man so I don't have to like them. One of these days, I'll enumerate the reasons why cats make better pets than dogs. But not this day.

Snow Day

So, what exactly does it mean to "grow old gracefully"? Does it mean that you accept your dwindling energy and capabilities with quiet dignity, savoring your memories while enjoying your tea and knitting? Or does it mean that you resist aging and do as much as you can for as long as you can? Does it mean that when your daughter asks you to go sled riding with her family you sweetly say, "Oh, heavens no, dearie! You young'uns just go have fun. I'll just watch from the car."? Or do you respond with, "Sure! That sounds like fun!" I'm not sure if that is the "graceful" response, but it was my response. All the schools in the area were closed today due to a heavy snowfall -- except, of course for my school. Online schools don't get snow days.

Well, I decided I was going to take one. So, I layered my clothes, grabbed my camera, hat, and mittens, and drove to my daughter's house. From there we drove to "the hill." Walking from the parking lot to the base of the hill was a feat in itself. The snow was about 8 inches deep, and I had no boots -- only tennis shoes. And there it was. My grandson said, "That's the hill." I said, "You expect me to go up there?" And he said, "Yep. And come down, too." So my daughter and I trudged to the base of the hill and took some pictures of the kids. Eventually, I gave in to their pleading and coaxing and began the arduous ascent to the top of the hill (actually I think it was a small mountain). Of course, I knew that once I began the trek I was committed. There was no way I could turn around and come back down without losing the respect of my grandchildren -- not to mention the other children and parents who would witness my cowardly retreat. I also knew that once I reached the top of the hill, there was only one way I was going to get back down to the bottom.

So I stood there at the top, stalling, until the sled that I wanted (the big one with the rope to hold onto) was available. Then I had to figure out how I was going to get my body down onto the sled -- and I use that term loosely. This was not the type of sled I used as a child -- the wooden kind with the metal runners that dug into the snow and traveled in a straight line unless you used the foot bar to turn it. No, this was just a long, concave piece of molded plastic that you sit directly on -- thin enough to allow you to feel every bump on the way down, and with a rope that served no purpose other than to provide you with a false sense of security and control.

Once I scooted forward to the crest of the hill and began my descent, I knew I was in trouble. (I can imagine Body screaming, "Are you out of your mind??!! What the heck do you think you're doing??!! See yesterday's post.) I was pulling on the rope for dear life, but the plastic bowl was not responding. I began veering to the right, then kept spinning until I was sliding down backwards. The next thing I remember was seeing the blue bowl flying over top of me and feeling a jolt on the back of my head. I think I did a backward flip. My forehead was hurting, probably from the mild concussion I had just incurred. Of course, we all had a good laugh (including me). I hope my daughter got a picture of it, because she'll never see it again. No one will. Ever. Again. We all went back to C's house, ate pizza, and watched a movie. It was a good day.

You know how, when you're in a minor car accident, you don't really start feeling sore until later on -- maybe the next day? Well, the pain is beginning to surface -- the knees, the neck, the shoulders, the back, the fingers (yes, the fingers). I'm sure I'll hate myself in the morning. But I kinda like myself right now.

My Body and Me

I finished reading Running with Angels last night. Overall, it was an inspiring and motivational book. Parts of it, I couldn’t relate to – such as her age and her love of running – but the years of emotional struggles and turmoil I could definitely identify with. One insight I found especially enlightening. The author had an experience which made her see her body as a separate entity from her”self”. She began to feel compassion toward her body and at the same time, guilt for what she had put it through. She realized that her body really was amazingly resilient and adaptable, and that it had served her well under some very difficult circumstances. She came to the realization that she had to stop hating her body.

This was a new perspective for me, and I had to give it some serious thought. I have often thought, “I hate my body,” when what I really meant was, “I hate how my body looks.” But my appearance is not my body’s fault. That would be like neglecting a car’s maintenance and repairs, then saying you hate the car because it doesn’t run well, or because it is ugly. To a large extent, the car’s performance is a reflection of the care we give it. It’s a simple cause-and-effect relationship. My body is the same way. I can’t fill it with donuts and French fries and expect it to run efficiently or look attractive. So I thought, What if I could talk to my body – just have a conversation with it – what would I say? I think it would go something like this:

Me: Um,…hi. How’re you doin’?

Body: How am I doin’? You know very well how I’m doing.

Me: Oh, yeah. I guess I do. Well, um…uh…I just want to, uh….apologize for all the mean things I’ve said about you over the years.

Body: Hmph. You know. . . all I’ve ever done was try to help you.

Me: I know, I know. . .

Body: I’ve been neglected and abused for years, and I still keep going. I’ve given you six healthy children. I’ve suffered through dozens of bouts of the flu, colds, measles, mumps, chicken pox, strep throat, and… and I’ve pulled through all of them…

Me: I know, I know, … I’m sure it’s been very hard on you.

Body: And that’s not even mentioning all the surgeries you’ve put me through. You even removed one of my kidneys, and I’m still working!

Me: I know, . . . you’re right. You’ve been through a lot with me. And you’ve always bounced back, every time.

Body: That’s right. And what do I get in return? Do I get thanks? Do I get respect? Do I get appreciation? No, I get contempt. Mostly, I get neglected.

Me: You’re right, you’re absolutely right….And I feel awful about it. You could have given up several times, but you stuck with me.

Body: Yes, I did.

Me: But, hey – we’ve had some fun together, haven’t we?

Body: Oh, sure, sure. . . it hasn’t all been that bad.

Me: Remember water skiing? That was fun, wasn’t it?

Body: Oh, yeah. . . I was a little sore at first, but I got used to it. Remember how we used to dance?

Me: I sure do. And what about bike riding and swimming? Those were great.

Body: Yeah, they sure were. . .

Me: Yeah, . . .

Body: (*sigh*) Good times, good times. . .

Me: Yeah, well. . . (ahem). . . I just wanted to say that I really do appreciate you, and I hope you’ll forgive me for disrespecting you for so long.

Body: Do you mean it?

Me: Yeah, I really do. I mean, you and I are a team, right? And, I’m going to start treating you better, respecting you more. . .

Body: You mean like last summer when you were eating right and swimming and bike riding?

Me: Right, just like that.

Body: Awesome. Then, I forgive you.

Me: Awesome.

Just another day. . .

Catching snowflakes on your tongue -- one of the free joys of childhood.

I'm having difficulty writing every day. My life is not very exciting or interesting. I don't live on a farm or a ranch or in a quaint English village. I don't find chickens in the road, longhorn cattle in my barn, or wild mustangs in my pasture. I don't golf, travel, publish, lecture, or sky dive. I don't know -- and have never known -- any famous people, and they don't know me. Most of my days are pretty much like the day before -- which is why it's always been difficult for me to keep a journal consistently. But I know that my hundreds (heck, let's make it thousands) of loyal readers will be disappointed if I don't write, so here I am.

I went to a wedding today. We drove over two hours to a small, rural town and witnessed a simple, no-frills ceremony in a lovely, simple church building. The sanctuary was not adorned with flowers or candles or ribbons. The bride's dress was simple, but lovely. The groom didn't even wear a tuxedo. The reception featured no catered dinner, no live band or DJ, no fog machine or disco ball. So what? This handsome young man and his sweet bride are just as married as a movie star after a million-dollar ceremony. And they are just as happy and just as hopeful about the future.

I'm hopeful about my future, too. Sometimes I find myself wondering, What does Heavenly Father want me to do with my life? I know. . .I'm nearly 59 years old; whatever He wanted me to do, I should have done by now. But that doesn't stop me from wondering, thinking, dreaming. Sometimes I forget about my age. I forget about health and financial limitations. I imagine myself writing a best-selling novel and traveling the lecture and talk show circuit. I imagine refurbishing an old one-room schoolhouse and teaching homeschooled children in it. Or I imagine converting my own home into a "dame school." Of course, I would write a book about my experience which would be an inspiration to thousands of frustrated, middle-aged teachers across the nation. I imagine participating in a days-long bicycle tour with my grandchildren -- exploring the historic and natural beauties of our state, taking pictures and chronicling our experiences. I think about going back to college and completing my degree in English, or completing my Master's Degree in education, then someday teaching at a local college. I dream about leaving a financial, intellectual, spiritual, and cultural legacy for my children and grandchildren.

Then I climb out of the car and take five minutes straightening up my back and knees, steadying myself with whatever I can grab as I gingerly make my way to the house.

Am I in denial? Perhaps. Should I just face reality, accept the fact that these are unreachable goals, and focus on my life as it is? Perhaps. But I don't think so. I may never reach my dreams -- but I'll get farther than I would have if I'd had no dreams at all. Right? Of course right.

"Beautiful young people are accidents of nature, but beautiful old people are works of art." Eleanor Roosevelt

Is there life after 30?

My daughter E. (the one in the red) is turning 30 tomorrow (make that today), and she is pretty bummed about the whole thing. I don't remember being particularly depressed about about turning 30, and neither does E's older sister, C. 40 was tough. 50 was tougher. But I don't remember being despondent over turning 30. Actually, I was almost 30 when E. was born -- and I had three more children after her!

The sad truth is that many (if not most) women regard 30 as some sort of turning point, a watershed age, an ugly black bar dissecting the timeline of their lives, by which everything else will be measured. Like counting our years by the birth of Christ, everything in their lives will be identified as either B.T. or A.T. We have these lofty, ambitious, and perhaps unrealistic expectations of what we should have accomplished by the age of 30, and if we haven't met those goals, then obviously we are doomed to be a failure because everyone knows that it's all downhill after 30. I beg to differ.
And so do a lot of other people, too. I found a wonderful commentary by Andy Rooney about women turning 30. Forgive me for copying and pasting it here, but I want to make sure that E. reads it. Believe me, Sweetie, the best years are yet to come.

Turning 30 by Andy Rooney

As I grow in age, I value women who are over 30 most of all. Here are just a few reasons why:

A woman over 30 will never wake you in the middle of the night to ask, "What are you thinking?". She doesn't care what you think.

If a woman over 30 doesn't want to watch the game, she doesn't sit around whining about it. She does something she wants to do. And, it's usually something more interesting.

A woman over 30 knows herself well enough to be assured in who she is, what she is, what she wants and from whom. Few women past the age of 30 give a damn what you might think about her or what she's doing.

Women over 30 are dignified. They seldom have a screaming match with you at the opera or in the middle of an expensive restaurant. Of course, if you deserve it, they won't hesitate to shoot you, if they think they can get away with it.

A woman over 30 has the self-assurance to introduce you to her women
friends. A younger woman with a man will often ignore even her best friend because she doesn't trust the guy with other women. Women over 30 couldn't care less if you're attracted to her friends because she knows her friends won't betray her.

Once you get past a wrinkle or two, a woman over 30 is far sexier than her younger counterpart.

Older women are forthright and honest. They'll tell you right off if you are a jerk if you are acting like one! You don't ever have to wonder where you stand with her.

Ladies, I apologize. For all those men who say, "Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free." Here's an update for you. Nowadays 80% of women are against marriage, why? Because women realize it's not worth buying an entire Pig, just to get a little sausage.

Bring Back the One-room Schoolhouses

When I was a senior in college, we took a field trip to a one-room schoolhouse. I had always been fascinated with these symbols of American education, so I was excited to see one in person. What a let-down. It wasn't even a "real" one-room schoolhouse, it was a replica that the husband of an elderly, retired teacher had built for her (not the one in the photo). It looked adequately authentic inside, and we squeezed into the little wooden desks while this stern-faced school marm sat behind her desk and described what a "typical" day in a one-room schoolhouse would have been like. (She was probably speaking from personal memory.) Still, I felt I had been scammed, ripped off somehow. I wanted to see an actual one-room schoolhouse -- preferably a functioning one-room schoolhouse. I was told there were probably none in existence anymore. I have since learned otherwise. There are 380 functioning one-room schoolhouses across the country. They are dwindling, but not due to poor test scores or lack of effectiveness. They are dying because rural areas are dying. When the big school consolidation movement swept the country, small schools were "merged" to form newer, larger schools in bigger cities. Eventually, the residents moved to the bigger cities, too.

Why do we always feel that "bigger is better"? Why are we so ready to completely abandon what has served us well for so many years for something new, shiny, and/or trendy? During my 5+ years of college, and during my continuing education since then, I have been continually bombarded with the latest educational "buzz-words." Every time some PhD candidate writes a new textbook about some "breakthrough" method, we are expected to implement it. Even more annoying is knowing that these "experts" are simply putting new names on educational methods that have been around for 200 years -- and which had their roots in the one-room schoolhouses of America. Such "modern" concepts as peer tutoring, multi-age grouping, cooperative learning, core curriculum, mastery learning, individualized instruction, differentiated instruction, parental involvement, spiraling, looping -- these are all solid educational methods that the one-room schoolhouses used and mastered.

So would I really like to go back to those days? Well, I could do without the wood-burning stove, the desks bolted to the floor (although I did attend classrooms like that), and the outhouse in the back. But in theory and practice, yes, I would. I wish that our boards of education would build many small, neighborhood one-room schools instead of huge multi-million-dollar structures that look about as warm and personal as a hospital. Of course, that won't happen, but I do believe it would be better for the students. I would love to start one in my own home -- NOT affiliated with the public school system of course -- but, I'm not as young and energetic as I used to be. Maybe someday. Until then, I'll dream about it. And maybe one of my kids will pick up where I leave off.

Presidents' Day Blues

I had a lovely visit with my daughter this evening. We were talking on the phone about different things, and the topic of our struggle with weight loss came up. I had lost 42 pounds over the summer and have since gained back 27 of them. I know some of it is because I am not able to ride the trails with Betsy and I’m stuck in front of this computer all day – snacking while I type. But another part of it is just my lifelong struggle with self-control in this area of my life. I know exactly what I need to do – I just can’t make myself do it. Or at least, I can't make myself do it consistently. Like the Apostle Paul said in Romans 7:15: “For that which I do I allow (understand) not: for what I would (intend), that do I not; but what I hate, that do I.” Oh, well. . . I guess I’m in good company.

Anyway, C. started talking about this book she has that she’s been trying to get me to read for months – maybe years. It’s called Running with Angels by Pamela Hansen. I decided that if it’s that terrific, it’s time that I read it – so I drove to her house to get it. She also had three other books to share with me. I had a nice visit with C., her husband, and the kids. And in the process I managed to down three large sugar cookies, a walnut turnover, a container of Italian ice, and a turkey & cheese roll-up – almost without realizing it.

C. mentioned that her kids are off from school tomorrow, since it is President’s Day – banks are closed, post office is closed, etc. I drove home feeling relieved that I had at least another day to catch up on my grading and get ready for the upcoming week’s lessons. Unfortunately, OUR school does not see fit to celebrate President’s Day, and tomorrow is “school as usual” for us. I was furious when I found out. When I was a school child, there was no “President’s Day.” There was “Lincoln’s Birthday” and there was “Washington’s Birthday.” Then they melded them into one and made it on a Monday – which usually falls on neither of their birthdays – so people and students could have a 3-day weekend. But not MY school. You would think that since we don’t get snow days (being an online school) we would at least get President’s Day. We do, however, get off on Martin Luther King Day, as we should. It just seems that these two great presidents, who did so much for our nation, are being forgotten. First they had their own day, then they shared one day, now they have no day.

Well, I’m going to go read until my anger wears off and I feel sleepy enough to go to bed.

My Classroom

This is where I teach my virtual students. Notice the well-organized work table and the empty energy drink can in the trash. If the chair weren't in the way, you would be able to see the chain connecting the leg of the desk to my ankle.

Mostly, I want you to see the "before" picture of my office so you will appreciate the "after" picture below.

This photo is proof to the world (and to myself) that I did do something useful and productive today. I had written a brilliantly witty and engaging narrative describing in detail the profoundly gratifying experience of cleaning off my work table, and then . . . I accidentally deleted it. (I haven't figured out how to return to my post after previewing it.) At any rate, since it was the ONLY productive thing I accomplished today, I refuse to simply let it die in the cyber trashbin somewhere, so I will try to recapture what I wrote -- although this account won't be nearly as clever and spontaneous as the first one.

Cleaning off my work table is always a nostalgic experience for me -- a trip into the past where forgotten and lost things are suddenly resurrected and reclaimed. Here are some of the things I uncovered during my quest for the top of the table:

* 2 empty water bottles -- make that 3,
* a stack of papers I had graded but never mailed back,
* a bag folding mirror/brush thingies,
* 2 markers and a pen,
* a dish towel and a washcloth,
* a box of plastic sheet protectors,
* 2 different types of Christmas ribbon,
* 2 Christmas newsletters,
* 3 Christmas music CDs,
* an educational game CD,
* 2 different types of planners (unused),
* a composition book (unused),
* a WeightWatchers Complete Food Guide book (not used enough),
* a WeightWatchers points calculator (ditto),
* three 3-ring binders,
* an umbrella,
* 2 bras,
* an adapter plug for some electronic thingamajig,
* a broken wooden-block snowman that R. made in elementary school (I fixed it),
* a file box for photos (empty),
* an overdraft notice from the bank -- make that two,
* 5 books from my bookcase,
* a bag of used books I bought today,
* a dental pick,
* a package of batteries,
* a scented candle,
* 3 different types of hand lotion,
* papers, papers, papers....
* a brochure for a fund-raiser for my grandson's school (expired January 23),
* a 2007 calendar;
* a 2008 calendar that I will never use because it has photos of huge, multi-million dollar homes on the pages -- although I did like the appointment stickers on the inside, so I removed those,
* loan application papers from the credit union,
* 5 plastic zipper bags,
* an electronic timer,
* 2 lesson workbooks,
* 2 lovely thank-you letters from two of my daughters (read and cherished),
* 2 empty DVD covers,
* a DVD zipper case,
* 2 unopened packs of dollar-store combs,
* 3 large mailer envelopes (empty),
* 2 boxes of new checks,
* a bag with handouts from a Church class,
* a list of telephone numbers from my bedroom wall,
* a small wallet-type address book (unused),
and finally. . .

THE TOP OF MY TABLE!!

I feel so. . . so invigorated, so. . . liberated, so. . . empowered!! I feel like I could . . . maybe. . . yes. . . yes, I think I could tackle something even more daunting, like. . . . like . . . grading 150+ e-papers!! Well. . . at least as many as I can before the system shuts down at midnight.

Only 34 days 'til spring!

I'd rather be here.

I have nothing against winter. Actually, it was always my favorite season -- as a child. I loved playing outside in the snow until my mittens were wet and my fingers were numb. I loved walking home from Girl Scouts and kicking up snowy clouds that glittered under the milky glow of the street lamps. (It was a lot safer back in 1959.) I loved ice skating with my brother on the bumpy, frozen surface of a local pond; huddling around a trash can fire to warm up; desperately waiting for our father to rescue us with the car; then entering the door with skates slung over our shoulders and cheeks that any clown would envy -- as proud as a farmer who had just plowed the back forty. The door of the house entered directly into the kitchen, and we were at once engulfed in the warmth and aroma that was home. Mom always had supper cooking -- usually a casserole or some other one-dish meal whose primary ingredients were hamburger and pasta. Our toes were so cold they would ache and itch and itch and ache and drive us mad until they regained their normal temperature. (Later, as a mother, I always tried to have something warm ready for my children when they came in from a hard day's work out in the snow.) I never could understand why my parents -- especially my father -- hated winter and wanted to move south. My mother's favorite season was always autumn, which I could not understand. "Everything is dying. . . It's just so depressing." She couldn't make me understand, and I didn't really try because I didn't want to understand.

But time changes things, like seasonal preferences and perspectives about what is fun and what is. . . well, just plain miserable. And that is because time changes us. I no longer have the health, energy, stamina, or body of a ten-year-old. I wish I could play in the snow, build snowmen, go ice skating, and take long walks on wintery nights. Heck, I wish I could walk from my door to the car without being afraid of slipping on the ice and breaking something. I remember how my mother-in-law was so terrified of falling, and I tried to be patient and understanding in a condescending sort of way. Tedde, I feel your fear.

So here I am, 58 years old, afraid of winter and in love with autumn. Go figure.

At any rate, it's not poor Winter's fault, and I have nothing against those who genuinely love the season. I do not try to dissuade them or convert them to Autumnism. It's just not my cup of cocoa anymore.

Last July, I did a rather impulsive thing. I bought a bicycle. One Saturday morning, standing at the kitchen sink, I announced to my husband, "I'm gonna go buy a bike. Wanna come with me?" I thought he might want to supervise my spending, so he came along. So we drove to the bicycle shop and checked out a few that were unsatisfactory for my short legs and large frame. As we were ready to leave, I reluctantly tried one more. It was a rather old-fashioned, simple design with only three speeds and painted a delightful bubble-gum pink. Once I rode it around the parking lot, I was in love. I must have known this bike in the pre-earth life.

Conveniently, the bike shop was located at the head of a towpath trail -- an old canal trail that has been converted to a biking/hiking trail. Over the next few months I grew to love that trail -- for its beauty, its solitude, and for the invigorating effect it had on me, both physically and mentally. I rode my pink bike until the cold weather prohibited me. Now it sits on my basement floor with last fall's mud still on the tires, waiting for a chance to ride the trails again. And I'm counting the days until Betsy and I can go exploring again.

And the Adventure Begins. . .

I really have no idea -- well, very little idea -- what I'm doing here. I've been teaching for an online school for over seven years now, and yet I feel like a newbie. But I really want to do this, so I'm just jumping in. I'm an old dog trying to learn a new trick.

I suppose the first thing I should do is introduce myself. My name is Dawn, and I have six grown children and 16 grandchildren. I teach eighth grade language arts for an online charter school in Ohio. I love reading, although I rarely have time to read for enjoyment anymore, except during summer break. I enjoy bike riding along the towpath trails and the Rails to Trails paths here in Ohio -- during nice weather, of course. I work out of an office in my home, where I spend endless hours writing lessons and grading e-papers. Having a blog of my own will give me a good reason (excuse) to postpone my schoolwork.

I live in a modest home with my husband, my son, his wife, and their three small children. It gets crazy sometimes, but I raised my six children in this three-bedroom, one-bathroom house, so not much phases me. I thoroughly, totally, and profoundly love being a grandmother. What a blessing to just marvel at the miracle of children -- children that you helped create -- without those pesky worries and responsibilities that go along with them. Zoe pooped in the bathtub? You can laugh about it. Onias threw up on the bedroom floor? Awww.... poor baby, that's too bad. And I can give them a kiss and go into my office and close the door. It's wonderful!

Of course, like every other English teacher I know, my dream is to someday write books. Finding the time is the difficult thing. I also would love to start my own "Mom School." I homeschooled a couple of my own kids briefly, and I'm a strong supporter of homeschooling (even though I am part of the "establishment"). My dream is to someday teach other people's children in my own home -- for money, of course. I know there are people out there who hate the public schools, but who can't afford a private school for their children, and who would like to homeschool them but feel they are not qualified or they have to work, and would love to have someone else teach them in a personal, home environment. Boy! How's that for a stringy sentence? If I were grading this paragraph, I would have to write, "Dawn, this is a stringy sentence. Separate it into two or three smaller sentences to make it easier for your readers to understand." But I'm the boss, and if I want to write a stringy sentence for dramatic effect, then I will. After all, I don't have to worry about anyone grading this.

Anyway, that's a little about me. I've had some memorable life experiences -- mostly good, some not-so-good -- but I'm still here, and I'm still plodding along this journey. I'm sure that in time I will share many of them with you, as well as my day-to-day observations and reflections. My father passed away on Thanksgiving Day of 2005, and my mother passed away on Mother's Day of 2007. I have become more acutely aware of my own mortality, of the swift passing of time, and of the importance of cherishing every day and every experience within it.