Loose Ends. . .

Dedication

2008-09-09T22:52:00.013-04:00

I know this entry is going to be long, but it needs to be said. Today I attended a teacher's meeting at which one staff member, a self-professed poet, shared a poem she had written in honor of a teacher who had greatly inspired and motivated her. She talked about her underprivileged, single-parent home; her bad neighborhood; and her lack of hope because of her gender, her race, and her circumstances. Then she described in detail a devoted teacher who took a special interest in her, encouraged her, spent time with her, befriended her, even loaned her money. She now has two masters degrees and attributes her success to this influential teacher. She ended by saying, "Most days, I feel like I can fly." I had heard her poem a couple years ago, but this time it really bothered me. The feeling ate at me all during the 2 1/2-hour ride home. I considered sending her an email, but remembering how many times my emails have caused problems in the past, I decided to simply post my "letter" here. I'm sure she'll never read it, but it's now out of my mind and off my chest, and I'll be able to sleep tonight.

Dear _____,

You certainly deserve to be proud of your accomplishments and achievements, and it is honorable that you recognize the influence of a special teacher. However, as I listened to you talk about your underprivileged, impoverished beginnings, I couldn’t help thinking of my father's homelife and school experiences – and I was left with several hypothetical questions to ask you about your own "underprivileged" life.

Were you born in a hospital, or in a log cabin that allowed snow to blow through the cracks in the logs? When you were ill, were you treated by a physician, or were you at the mercy of home remedies such as kerosene or skunk oil? Did you ever have a birthday cake, birthday presents, a Christmas tree, or Christmas presents? Did you grow up in the same town, or even the same part of the same town – or did you move from town to town, even out-of-state, as your family was evicted from its dwellings? Were you ever taken away from your family and put into a children's home? Did you have regular meals with nutritious food – or did you have to survive on what your family could grow during the summer and steal during the winter? Did you weigh 63 pounds at the age of 8, or was that your weight at 13-1/2? You mentioned that although your father was in another state, both of your parents were good people. So I’m fairly certain that you were not unwanted at birth (and left for dead because you were “blue”) or unloved or neglected by your parents. Did you experience verbal, emotional, and physical abuse at the hands of both parents, hatred from children and adults in the town, and contempt from school teachers who hated your vagabond, “hillbilly” family? Did you have new shoes to wear to school – or even used shoes – or did you go to school barefoot? Did you get school supplies at the beginning of each school year? Did you ever have a teacher whip you because, when your stubby pencil was too short to hold in your hand, you broke it apart and wrote with the bare lead? Did you get hot lunches at school, or did you go to school hungry and suffer all day until you could scrounge something when you got home? Did you attend the same school for several years, or did you change schools every few months as your family moved? Did you live in a real house – or did you ever live in an abandoned coal mine shaft, a windowless tool shed with a dirt floor, a cave, or a collapsed log cabin? Did you have running water and soap? Or did people avoid you because you were dirty and smelly? Did you have toys? Did you own books? Did you get dental care – did you own a toothbrush? Or were your teeth so decayed that by the time you were 16 they were removed and replaced with dentures – thanks to charity from the community? Did you ever have to walk along the railroad tracks picking up coal that had fallen off the train cars so that you could heat your home? During high school, did you ever work a midnight shift in a factory, go home and do chores on the farm, then go to school – only to be berated -- or worse -- by teachers when you fell asleep during class?

These were the circumstances in which my father grew up and attended school. He also had fond memories of a favorite teacher -- one that felt pity, rather than contempt, for him and who bought him a pair of shoes to cover his dirty, cold feet. My father never earned a college degree, though he was very intelligent. He did, however, graduate from high school – a huge accomplishment, given his circumstances – and he did serve his country in both the Army and the Navy. He later earned his private pilot’s license and co-owned his own small plane. His dream was to be a commercial airline pilot, but he abandoned that dream because of the time it would have taken away from his family. He worked over 30 years in a hot, dirty steel mill to provide for us. He beautified every home we lived in. He raised four healthy, intelligent children and was married to the same woman for 57 years before he passed from this life. He taught us industry, honesty, compassion, forgiveness, love of nature, service to others, respect for life, cleanliness, self-control, and a love for learning. His was the most impoverished, dysfunctional family I have ever heard of, yet he broke the cycle of abuse and poverty. And he did it without counseling, medication, or social services. He did it because he chose to – because he wanted to. He made a conscious decision to have a better life. He had no one encouraging him, pushing him, praising him, guiding him, or offering him incentives or rewards. He had no interventions, no tutoring, no free lunches, no exemptions, no supplemental services. Yet he succeeded. Because he had the desire within him to rise above his circumstances and make a better life for himself and his future family. Though he would willingly discuss his past when asked – often with moist eyes -- he never felt he was extraordinary. He considered his life a gift and his survival and success a blessing from God.

So forgive me if I don’t shed tears when you talk about being underprivileged because you were black, female, poor, and had an absent father. We Americans have become so pampered, so spoiled, and so accustomed to plenty, privilege, and entitlement that we have lost sight of what true poverty is. Dad would have thought himself a king to have had what you had – parents who loved him, warm clothes, caring teachers, regular meals. The world judges success by the number of zeros in your income and the number of letters after your name. My father never earned a degree and never rose above the middle class. But the distance he climbed from his destitute beginning to his noble ending was truly significant. Comparing his accomplishment to yours is like comparing a mountain to a foothill.

My father was a bona fide member of “the greatest generation” – and you know what? He really did fly. I miss you, Dad.

Summer Memories

2008-09-04T02:06:00.005-04:00

Well, school has begun and that means that I am once again consumed with phone calls, grading, lessons, emails, and troubleshooting problems that seem to crop up daily. Most days I feel more like a customer service rep. than a teacher. The summer went by way too fast (as always) and I was feeling pretty bummed about all the summer goals I didn't get accomplished -- I didn't lose 25 pounds; I didn't get my basement cleaned; I didn't get my food storage organized and inventoried; I didn't get my family history pictures scanned and cataloged; I didn't read all the 2008 Ensigns; I didn't bike ride 200 miles; I didn't attend the temple four times; blah, blah, blah. So I decided to try to focus on what I did get accomplished. I substituted four Primary classes; I mounted all the unmounted ward library pictures; I taught seven temple prep. classes; I attended 5 or 6 grandchildren birthday parties; I cleaned my office; I got my car fixed; I drove Sarah to work lots of times; I went to the zoo with Sonia and the kids; I did go bike riding a couple times; I had surgery on my hand; I attended the temple two times; I read a book; and I spent time with my family. But of everything that happened this summer, the highlight had to be attending the Columbus Temple with John and Rachel as they were sealed for time and eternity. Both were very well-prepared, and the entire experience was absolutely beautiful. It couldn't have been more wonderful, even if we had been able to travel to the Washington Temple, where Rachel wanted to go. The photo above was taken on the temple grounds afterwards. It was very hot (in the 90s) that day, and very humid. But we didn't really care. It was an exhilarating, fulfilling, and very rewarding experience. Only one more daughter to go, and all of my children will have been either married or sealed in the temple. If I never lose 100 pounds or write a book, I will die feeling that I have accomplished a great work.

So, here it is, almost fall -- and a few things have changed for several family members. Nathan started his fourth year of college last week. He got my new sink installed and actually painted my bathroom for me. In the next day or so he will install our new medicine cabinet and replace the towel rods -- and that will have to suffice until next spring. But it is a huge improvement. Sonia (his wife) is starting a new massage therapist job a few nights a week. Amaryn turned a year old and started walking. Craig is now employed by a police department and hopes to get a full-time position in a few months. Emily is starting a new job tomorrow. Little Nathan turned 8 and will be baptized soon. Hannah turned 12 and entered Young Women. Christine's oldest 4 are back in school, and she is homeschooling two of the remaining four. Rachel lost over 90 pounds, got sealed to her husband, and got a new dachshund puppy. Sarah got her car fixed! Woohoo! Mark just began his third year of teaching Seminary. So now. . . although I am dreading another stressful school year, I know that there are many more memories to be made and that someday, I'll be writing in this blog, and wondering where the school year went.

You never know. . . .

2008-08-16T22:46:00.010-04:00

Today was one of those days with more to do than time to do it in. I got off to a late start, and I had to meet Christine at Borders, and I didn't want her to have to wait for me because I knew she had to be home at a certain time, etc., so I was a little stressed. One of the things on my "to do" list was to stop at the grocery store and pick up a few things. I parked my car by the front door, but when I finished my shopping I was closer to the back door checkout. If I went through this register, that would mean walking clear up to the front of the parking lot to my car. But then I saw Sylvia at the back door checkout, so I figured it would be worth the walk. I frequently see Sylvia behind the register when I shop at this store, and I always enjoy going through her line. I don't really know Sylvia, and she doesn't know me. But she treats me like she does. I don't mean that she asks me how my kids are or what I'm doing over the weekend. I mean she shows me the same warmth and sincerity she would if she did know me. Her smile is genuine and her laugh is ready. But after all these years, I had never told Sylvia how much I appreciate her. So today I did. I told her how much I enjoy seeing her when I come into the store, how she is always so friendly and cheerful, and how I feel good being around her. The bag-boy standing next to her nodded in agreement, but Sylvia was flabbergasted. She almost recoiled at my words, slapped her hand to her chest, and said, "Me?" As I continued my words of praise and appreciation (and she continued checking out my groceries), she started to get a little emotional and said I was about to make her cry. Then she explained why. One day Sylvia had checked a lady through her line, and the transaction was basically finished except that the customer was digging out 3 cents in change. Meanwhile, Sylvia (in an effort to be industrious and efficient) had started checking through the man who was next in line. The woman was so offended and irate that she went directly to the manager and complained about Sylvia. Now, I don't know how long ago this happened, but it must have been recently enough that it was still on Sylvia's mind. So, my kind words were like balm to a wound for her. I was so grateful that I had spoken up, and I was also very humbled. I was humbled to have been the one to bring her such comfort. But I was also humbled to think that perhaps I had been an instrument of the Lord's in blessing the life of someone else. When I said my prayer over my toast this morning, I asked Heavenly Father to guide and direct me in what I do and say during the day. Maybe I was prompted to talk to Sylvia. If so, we were both blessed by it. It reminds me of a poem a dear friend once sent me. It's called "You Never Know":

You never know when someone
May catch a dream from you.
You never know when a little word
Or something you may do
May open up the windows
Of a mind that seeks the light.
The way you live may not matter at all,
But you never know -- it might.

And just in case it could be
That another's life, through you,
Might possibly change for the better
With a broader and brighter view,
It seems it might be worth a try
At pointing the way to the right.
Of course, it may not matter at all,
But then again -- it might.

So thank you, Sylvia. Thank you for being the kind of person you are. And thank you for helping to remind me that Heavenly Father is listening to my prayers over my morning toast.

That's my girl!

2008-08-14T23:47:00.006-04:00

So, I had promised Christine that I would come watch her, Katie, and Beth run this community race at a metro-park near their house. This is something that Christine has wanted to do since last year, and she has been running almost daily to prepare for it. My car has been making an unpleasant clunking noise when I drive over bumps, holes, or cracks in the road, so I didn't want to drive it the 22 miles to her house (where we were meeting). I planned to take my husband's car, but his tires were low on air, so half an hour before I had to leave I asked Nathan if he would take the Buick to the gas station and fill the tires. Instead he tried to fill them with his little emergency mini-compressor, and by 4:30 only the two tires on the driver's side were finished. Since I could not drive a lopsided car, my only choice was to drive his car. I don't really like driving anyone else's car. I have very short legs and need to move the seat w-a-y up so that I can comfortably reach the pedals. This usually produces a strangulation effect with shoulder strap of the seat belt -- which it did. It had rained earlier today, and it was very humid, but I unfastened the seat belt long enough to be able to roll down the window and open the sun roof. Eventually, after much tugging, grunting, and grumbling I managed to get my body and clothing adjusted as well as possible and left the house just in time to get stuck in rush hour traffic. About halfway there, it started to rain -- for the second time today. By the time we were all in Christine's van and on the way to the park, it was pouring down with flashes of lightning in the distance. Since "they never cancel this race" and we were walled in by traffic, we continued onward. By the time we reached the park, the rain had subsided and the sun had returned -- but everything at the park was, of course, soaked. There were literally hundreds of people of all ages participating in this race, which comprised three simultaneous events. Some were track teams from various schools, but many were individual runners. The course was across grass, gravel, and dirt; across a field, uphill, through a woods, downhill, around the field again, back up the hill and down again -- 5 kilometers in all. Since it had just rained, not only was the ground wet and, in places, muddy, but the air was heavy and humid. Looking at the trees in the distance was like looking through fog. I was so proud of Christine for completing this event. What a wonderful accomplishment, and what a memory to share with her daughters! Afterwards, as she stood in line to get her T-shirt, I said, "I'll bet you're the only mother of eight who ran this race." She glanced around and kind of mumbled, "Yeah. . . I'm probably the only mother of eight here." Well done, Christine, well done.

You can do it . . . we can help??

2008-08-14T00:52:00.004-04:00

My son, Nathan, has been "working on" our bathroom for about 3 years now. It's been a painfully slow process, but it's not entirely his fault. He has to work around his school schedule, his gaming schedule, his family responsibilities, the subtleties of his motivational levels, our supply of discretionary funds for the needed materials, and the alignment of the heavenly bodies. So, sometimes when he is ready to work, we are not ready to buy the supplies; and when we have money for supplies, he has finals, or...well, you get the idea. Well, he starts back to school on August 22nd, so he's been trying to make up for lost time. I finally sucked the necessary money out of our savings and went with him to Home Depot to buy the vanity and sink (I had purchased the faucet a year or so ago). I chose a sensibly-priced vanity and a moderately-priced sink to go with it. Unfortunately, the moderately-priced sink did not fit the sensibly-priced vanity, it only fit the more expensive model. Imagine that. So, we bought the vanity and sink and hauled them home in his van. Today, Nathan unhooked our old white-with-gold-flecks, 1950’s-style vanity/sink and carried it out to the trash. He had already purchased a new drain pipe of some sort that hooks up to the sink, and it was supposed to be a “universal” size, so everything was good-to-go. Except that the pipe wouldn’t fit the hole in the sink. He told the guy at Home Depot that it didn’t fit and was told, “It has to fit. It’s a universal size.” He tried to explain that it didn’t fit, and the guy just looked blankly at him and repeated, “It has to fit. It’s a universal size drain.” Nathan went back and tried again, and still couldn’t get it to fit. I guess it was designed for another universe or something. So this time Nathan went back to Home Depot and (this cracks me up just thinking about it) went to the display models of sinks, and unfastened the drain pipes from two different sinks. Then he took these two different-sized drain pipes (one of which was the type we had), went back to the wall where our chosen sink was hanging, and showed the guy that one drain fit and the other didn’t. I wish I could have been there to see the look on the guy’s face. He was incredulous. He said, “You took it apart?” Even with the visual aid, this guy was still not convinced and just said, "It should fit." Finally, after all this frustration, time, and gas, he happened to mention to Nathan that the faucet we bought should have come with some sort of fitting or adapter or molecular modifier that would make the pipe fit. And it did. And now it does. Our new vanity looks a lot like the one in the picture, only with two drawers instead of three and with a "California Onyx" (beige) sink. Of course, it will be a while before we can enjoy it in our bathroom. It is now my job to prime and paint the walls before the new vanity can be installed. Maybe I'll be able to afford a new mirror/cabinet by then. In the meantime, we have no bathroom sink and everything that was stored under or on top of the sink is in a laundry basket on the floor. I tried to get Nathan to explain to me why it's now my job to paint the bathroom and why, after 3 years, I am expected to do it in 2 or 3 days. I didn't get a satisfactory explanation, although he thought it made perfect sense. Maybe I'm in the wrong universe.

My grandbabies!

2008-08-11T23:05:00.010-04:00

I don't have anything profound or entertaining to write about, but I haven't written for a while, so I'll just drop in and leave this picture here. I'm not sure anyone is really reading this anyway, but here it is. Yesterday, Sunday, we had our monthly extended family FHE. While we were all there, and before the men left for a stake priesthood meeting, I herded all the grandkids out to the back yard for a group picture. The last time I had a group grandchildren picture was 4 grandkids ago, so it was time for an update. The oldest, Katie, is 15-1/2 and counting the days until she can get her license. The youngest, Micah, will be 1 in November. There are currently 29 members in our family, so family gatherings are pretty crazy. All of us have pretty small homes, so family get-togethers are very "cozy." It has been so beautiful here lately -- sunny, low humidity, blue skies, fluffy white clouds. I have almost finished the yearly cleaning of my office in preparation for the new school year. But, that's about all I've accomplished. This has not been a very productive summer for me at all. My pain level has kept me down a lot, I'm afraid. But the wonderful thing is, my family doesn't care. I mean, my grandkids still think I'm the greatest person on earth, even if I can't walk very well. That is one thing I am so very grateful for -- my family makes me feel so loved. And sometimes I am not very lovable. They are all so forgiving, so gracious, and so affectionate. Yesterday during our FHE lesson, we were given sheets of paper with a family member's name on each page. We were supposed to write positive comments about that person on their page. Then every person got to take home their page of positive comments. It was interesting and heart-warming reading the comments my kids had written on mine. You'd think I was a Mormon Mother Theresa or something. At the bottom, my son had written a short, but interesting comment -- I knew exactly who had written it. So, at lunch today I said, "I noticed you wrote 'Mary Poppins' on my sheet." He said, "Well?? That kinda says it all, doesn't it? -- 'Practically perfect in every way'." I nearly choked on my drink, but I had to laugh. Practically perfect?? Far from it. But I am so thankful that my children see me that way. (*sigh*) This must be what heaven will be like -- only without the pain.

Dear Dawn Ann . . .

2008-07-30T23:01:00.006-04:00

I have been scanning, labeling, and organizing some old photos that I inherited from my parents. It's a very tedious process, as I am trying to be as detailed and accurate as possible -- for posterity, of course. It has been at once gratifying and heart-wrenching. I have so many questions, and so many times I have wished I could ask Mom or Dad about a person, location, or event in a photo -- especially when information seems to conflict. But I can't ask them. So I have to use my best judgment. It's difficult being the oldest living member of my family. I'm not ready for this. I didn't pay close enough attention to what was going on around me when I was young. I don't remember enough.
Anyway, during the course of my preservation efforts, I came across this photo of a little girl -- one month shy of her third birthday -- sitting on a sofa with her baby brother. The little girl is me, and I had seen this picture many times before. But this time was different. This time I saw simply an innocent little girl with soft cheeks, shiny dark hair, and big brown eyes. She could have been one of my own daughters at that age -- or one of my granddaughters. I wished I could stroke her hair, kiss her little cheek, or give her a hug. I wanted to cuddle her, comfort her, protect her. I couldn't stop looking at her eyes -- what was she thinking? She seemed to be a million miles away. She had no idea of what lay ahead of her along life's journey. I knew. I knew where she was going to falter, stumble, and fall. I knew the crooked side paths she would wander down before she found her way back to the trail. I knew the joy and the sorrow that awaited her. I wished I could go back in time and warn her of things that were coming, prepare her, advise her, comfort her. Of course, she's only 3, so she wouldn't understand or remember what I would say, so I would need to write it down in a letter to be saved until she was about 10. What would I say?
Dear Dawn Ann,
---You don't know me, but I know you. You are such a cute little girl, and your mommy and daddy tell me that you are smart, too. Someday you will be all grown-up and have little girls of your own. I know exactly what you will have to go through before that day, though, so I would like to give you some words of advice to help you through the next 20 or 30 years. Keep this letter in a safe place and read it often. It will help you avoid some mistakes and help you make the most of your experiences. Here goes. . .
*** Your mommy may not cuddle you or kiss you as much as you would like her to, and you may be a grown-up before she tells you she loves you. But that doesn't mean she doesn't love you. Your mommy grew up in a very different kind of family. She didn't have much fun as a kid, and her own mommy and daddy didn't hug and kiss her very often. It is very hard for her to express her feelings, but that doesn't mean she doesn't have them. You need to help her learn how to do this. Cuddle with her, hug her, kiss her, tell her you love her. Maybe that will make it easier for her to be affectionate with you.
*** You are going to move several times during your childhood. It will be hard to make new friends every time you move. This is why you need to be close to your family. You have a baby brother right now, but someday you will have two sisters, too. Make sure that you love all of them and have fun with them and enjoy them. Make your brother and your sisters your best friends. That way, no matter where you move, you will be able to take your friends with you.
*** Don't worry about what the other kids at school think, or do, or say. Remember that you are special, and you are important, and you are good -- all by yourself. You don't need to prove anything to them just so that they will be your friends. Be nice to everyone, but don't worry if you don't get invited to sleepovers or birthday parties. Those things are not important at all.
*** Never swing another kid around by her feet.
*** When your older cousin asks you to go into the cornfield with him, just say "no."
*** Your mommy has always spent a lot of time helping her mommy and daddy. As your grandparents get older and more sick, she will need to spend even more time with them. She will need your help even more at home. Try to make her job easier. Clean the house for her or cook dinner for her when she is gone for hours helping your grandma and grandpa. She will be very tired sometimes, and she will need your help.
*** Pay attention to your family. You will enjoy spending time alone -- to read or write poetry or listen to your records -- but don't shut yourself off from your family too much. You are an important part of your family, and they need you. Don't get angry when your parents want you to play a board game or go for a ride in the country. Enjoy your family. Talk to them. Ask them questions. Be a good big sister.
*** Never sneak out with your friends in the middle of the night.
*** Never lie to your parents.
*** Keep a journal (that's like a diary). Write down the things you did during the day, dreams you had, places you went, games you played. Someday these little things will be incredibly important to you.
*** Do not leave nurse's training to get married. Any man who asks you to give up your education for him is a loser and not good enough for you.
*** When you get to be a teenager, spend lots of time with your grandparents. They will live right down the street from you, and you will be able to visit as often as you want. They will love having you there, so take advantage of it. Ask them LOTS of questions, and write down what they say. If your grandpa doesn't want to talk about his past, keep asking him until he tells you just to shut you up. When your grandma wants you to sit down on the bed beside her and look at antique post cards people have sent her over the years, just do it. Sit there as long as she wants you to sit there. Let her talk. Let her remember. Ask her questions. Forget about the dress you want to finish sewing at home or the date you need to get ready for. Those things will always be there -- she won't.
*** When you are about 13, you will take some classes to prepare you for baptism in the church your parents have been taking you to. When the minister gets frustrated because you keep asking questions that he can't answer, don't give up. Keep asking questions. If he can't answer them, find someone who can. By this time you will have "tried out" several religions and churches. Keep looking -- the right one is out there.
*** It is not necessary to always have a boyfriend.
*** It is not necessary to eat all the food on your plate just because it is on your plate.
*** Be happy with yourself the way you are. Don't worry about always trying to be like someone else. Just be yourself -- but be your best self.
*** Well, I hope this helps you, honey. I'm sure there is more I could say, but after all, you do need to make some mistakes on your own. Just stay close to your family. They are the most important people in your life -- in the world, actually. They will always be there for you -- be there for them, too. Now go grow up -- and find the joy in life. There is so much of it out there.

Where I've been all this time. . .

2008-07-19T01:06:00.012-04:00

The strangest thing happened to me tonight. That is, yesterday. . . wait a minute, let me check. . . yes, Friday, July 18th, 2008. I had returned from a Mary Kay party at my daughter-in-law's house where I had ordered several items of make-up. I didn't need them, of course -- using make-up on my face is like doodling on the Mona Lisa. But I wanted to help out A's sister, who is just getting started with her business. I'll probably give the products to someone less fortunate.
At any rate, I had returned home and sat down at my computer to once again begin working on my remaining lesson assignments when there was a knock at my front door. I opened the door to see a man dressed in a blue tunic and a scarlet cloak, nervously clutching some kind of scroll in his hand. He called me Miss Dawn, handed me the scroll (through the barely open door), and told me that it was time to fulfill my destiny. The scroll was filled with squiggles and symbols I'd never seen before, but as I studied it the squiggles began to move and join together and form themselves into words. It said that the time had come for me to do what I was born to do, and that Hector (the messenger) would escort me to the land of Paladia at once -- and it was signed, King Grimwald. For the first time, I notice the large Hummer-type vehicle parked in the alley behind Hector. I tried to tell him that this really wasn't a good time, that I had lessons to write, a deadline to meet, etc., but he told me I would be back in plenty of time to finish my work. I wanted a moment to tell the rest of the household that I was leaving and to lock the door behind me, but he promised that I would be back before they even knew I was gone. So I figured, what harm could it do, and I followed him into the Hummer and fastened my seatbelt. Surprisingly, the vehicle took off straight up into the air, then soared along silently for what seemed like hours, across cities, farms, oceans, and mountains.
At last we came to a beautiful land full of sunshine, rolling hills, sparkling rivers, and fields of flowers. Strangely, the grass was blue and the sky was green, but it was still beautiful. On the top of the tallest hill was a beautiful pink castle, and Hector brought the Hummer down to rest in the castle courtyard. In spite of the long journey, I felt invigorated and alive. I was taken in to meet the king, a stately man with silver hair and a golden beard. After welcoming me to Paladia, I was taken to my quarters to refresh myself. As I glanced in the long dressing mirror, I was startled to see that I had changed! Not only was I young, but I was thin! My complexion glowed, my eyes sparkled, and my long dark hair glistened. Baffled at the transformation, I turned to Lydia, the young woman who had brought me to my room. This is the effect that Paladia has on people, she explained. Time seems to slow down and youth is restored. Well, that was fine with me, so I chose a beautiful gown from the closet, changed my clothes, and was taken to the dining hall. Over dinner, the king and Hector -- who turned out to be the prince -- explained why they had brought me there.
It seemed the king had been interested in setting up a distance learning school for all the children in the kingdom. He had been watching me for years (through his Window of Worlds), and he had seen how hard I worked for my students. He knew that his Prime Teacher would need to have the same creativity, talent, and senseless devotion. He also knew that teaching over ether waves would not be so very different from teaching over the Internet. After consulting with the wise men and wiser women, he concluded that I was the only one who had the skills and the experience for the job -- that and the fact that he had been turned down by Maria Montessori and John Holt. Maria didn't like the uniforms, and John Holt didn't like the dental plan. Well, to make a long story short, they made me an offer I couldn't refuse, and I took the job. Of course, I first had to learn their language (only the royals could speak English) and all about their country's history and geography. This took about five years (by our time). During that time I traveled their country, learned their customs, and taught them how to crochet.
I was given a classroom in the castle to decorate any way I saw fit. Since I was the Prime Teacher, I decided what was to be taught and when. After all, with time slowed down, there was no hurry. Each year, I had a class of 15 students who came to my castle classroom. All other students in the kingdom attended school in their own homes through their Learning Wall. They could see and hear both me and the students in my classroom, and participated with us virtually. Each year, a different set of students would get to be in my castle classroom, and since time moved so slowly there, eventually all 750 children got to attend my class at least once. Since all the children in the kingdom were gifted, there were no discipline or academic problems.
At last the day came when I realized that I had accomplished what I had come there to do, and it was time for me to turn my Teachership over to someone else and return home. Lydia had been my faithful teacher's aide this entire time, so I passed the golden ruler to her. I knew that returning home would mean returning to my heavy, aging, and aching body. I knew it would mean returning to a neverending, thankless, rewardless job. But the memories of my former life had begun to fade, and I needed to get them back. On the day I left, nearly everyone in the kingdom turned out to bid me a fond and tearful farewell. I climbed into the Hummer with Hector and traveled for hours and hours, across mountains, oceans, farms, and cities, landing gently on the alley in front of my office door -- which was still unlocked.
And now here I am, back where I was when I heard that knock on my door. I was told that my memories of Paladia will fade quickly and that my memories of this life will grow stronger and stronger until they completely overpower my memories of Paladia and they seem like nothing more than a dream or a fantasy. And I know it is true. I can feel them melting away even now. But for a while, the two sets of memories may become intermingled and overlapped. So, if it seems that I am sometimes hesitating and searching for a word or a date or a face, remember that I have some jumbled memories that I'm trying to sort out, and be patient with me.

Old 1950s Educational Movie

2008-07-18T11:38:00.002-04:00

School days, school days. . ."

2008-07-17T23:21:00.017-04:00

June, 1957 - Age 8 - Last day of school at the end of 3rd grade. Clarendon School playground

I don't have anything particularly interesting or significant or profound to write about today. But, I haven't written in a few days, and I'm fairly alert right now (having just guzzled an energy drink), so I'll sit here and "free-write" a little before I get back to work. I've been glued to my desk this week, trying to get finished before the July 22nd deadline we "summer work" teachers were given. With only four full days left, I still have 12 lessons to either write or proofread and edit -- hence, the energy drink. I could sit here and complain about my job, but I'm grateful to have it. Of course, I'd rather be 100 lbs thinner, teaching in a rural, country school environment instead of staring at a computer and teaching cyber-kids. I wonder how many of my students will even read these lessons that I'm spending hours researching and writing for them?
On the whole, I really enjoyed my own public school experience. Sure, high school was stressful, and I wish I now had the knowledge that I let slip through my fingers then. But I don't remember hating school or feeling anxiety about going. I anticipated the first day of school like I looked forward to Christmas morning. Even now, when I hear the locusts start buzzing in the trees, and the crickets chirping on summer evenings, I feel this urge to go out and buy notebook paper and pencils. School supplies were so much simpler when I was a child. I only remember ever having one bookbag -- some brownish, atache-type of thing with a handle. I probably inherited it from a cousin. Kids just didn't carry bookbags, and backpacks didn't exist. We carried our books in our arms. Clear through high school, in fact, I carried my books in my arms -- unless I had a boyfriend who would carry them for me.
There was such an air of excitement about the first day of school -- at least for me. I'm sure many students were not as enthusiastic as I was. Walking into the new classroom, learning where everything was, meeting your new teacher -- who always had her name written in large letters on the blackboard. (And we did have real blackboards, made out of real slate.) The desks were always in neat rows -- there were no "pods" or "clusters" or "circles" in our classes. In fact, in at least one school I attended, the desks were bolted to the floor. They were the old wooden kind, with the seat that folded up and the hole on the top for an inkwell. The classrooms were heated by steam radiators that hissed and whistled in the wintertime. Often, we copied our work from the board, or answered questions the teacher had written on the board. But when it was necessary to make copies of something for the students, they were made on the old mimeograph machines and the print came out in purple ink. As they were passed down the rows, the first thing you did when you got your copy was to hold it up to your nose and smell it.
It was a different time, then. There was not the fear of letting your child walk home from school alone. In fact, I don't remember ever having a parent walk me home from school -- even in kindergarten. A neighbor girl walked me home. We had a 1 1/2-hour lunch break, because everyone went home for lunch. After all, hardly any moms worked, so they were there to fix us lunch. We would go home at 11:30 and resume school at 1:00 and get out at 3:15. During the summer before my fourth grade year I broke my leg, so I began school with a cast and crutches. At that time, we lived about eight blocks away from the school, so I was given permission to eat lunch at the school during that period. I got to bring a sack lunch and eat in the classroom with the teacher (there was no lunchroom, of course). What a privilege!
I wish my children could have experienced school the way I experienced it. I wish my grandchildren could attend the kind of simple, back-to-basics schools that I attended. Even without the computers, the smart boards, the classroom TVs, and all the other high-tech gadgets that don't seem to have improved the quality of public education at all, anyway. We were allowed to pray and read the Bible and pledge to the flag. We had Christmas programs that were actually Christmas programs -- not "holiday" programs -- with traditional carols and a nativity. We learned American folk songs and Negro spirituals. We had pictures of George Washington and Abraham Lincoln in every classroom -- and we knew who they were. Homeschoolers can still experience that kind of education, but I'm afraid it is forever lost from the public schools. I am so very grateful that it was still there for me.

Summer Visitors

2008-07-10T00:11:00.003-04:00

Every spring we are invaded by uninvited visitors. Usually they are the tiny, reddish variety that show up early in the spring and leave a few weeks later. But this year their cousins from the 'hood showed up and decided to stay. At first we were shocked and disgusted and quickly dispatched every one we saw -- until we realized that it wasn't making a difference. I think word got out that our kitchen was Ant Nirvana, and every faithful black ant on the block was required to make the pilgrimage to our countertop. Not that I blame them. Most of the time the scraps are readily available and there is plenty of clutter to hide behind and underneath. And, to be honest, we've become accustomed to them. We no longer gasp when we see them crawl out from under a jar or a bowl. We merely brush them out of the way, rather than squishing them. The other day I was standing at the kitchen sink drinking a glass of water while resting my hand on the counter, and one boldly began crawling up my hand. I calmly considered it, then simply blew it off my finger into the sink. I didn't even turn on the water and rinse it down the drain. Why bother? More will just come to replace it. It's like trying to pull out every gray hair you find. When they first arrived, Onias (my 4-year-old grandson) was terrified of them, shrieking and crying when he saw one. Now he actually likes them and calls them his friends. And really, they don't eat much, and they don't bite. I thought about naming them -- like Vinnie or Mac or Frankie. But I knew that wouldn't work, because they all look the same to me, and I knew they wouldn't come when I called them, anyway.

Yesterday S. made some type of pumpkin-pudding pie, and I had set the pie pan on the counter in order to scoop some of the contents onto a plate. When I lifted the plate I saw this strange little formation of ants -- they were in a type of circle, about six or seven of them, heads inward, surrounding this small piece of watermelon on the counter. Now, I know that ants can carry many times their own weight, but they weren't making any effort to carry this. Maybe they couldn't agree on who would carry it home, so they just decided to stay there and eat it. After all, they'd been working hard all day long -- they deserved a break. And Vinnie would never need to know. Once I lifted the plate and exposed them to the light, they scattered in all directions -- some into the silverware drawer, some under the dishes draining on the counter, some into the sink. It reminded me of a huddle of basketball players right before the game. Someone yells, "Let's go!" and they scatter in all directions. I didn't even try to catch them. Why bother? Besides, none of them scattered to my bowl of pie, so it was OK.

Then, when I lifted the pie pan to put it back in the fridge, I saw him. The one that got left behind. He was frantically trying to crawl and find the rest of his unit, but it seemed that only his front legs were working. His antennae were going crazy trying to pick up the signals from his buddies, and his front legs were struggling to go somewhere, but he wasn't making much progress. He didn't look smashed, but his four back legs were just dragging, like a little ant quadraplegic. I must have set the pie pan down on top of him and injured him. He soon found his way to safety under the fold of a towel on the counter. I thought about lifting it up to see how he was doing, but I decided to allow him at least a little dignity. He was gone today, so his friends must have come back and rescued him -- or eaten him. And I was a little annoyed that an ant -- an uninvited visitor in my kitchen, a scavenger, a pest -- had elicited such feelings of guilt in me. After all, it wasn't my fault he was in the path of my pie pan. It's my counter, and I shouldn't have to watch for rogue ants before setting a plate down. I shouldn't be haunted with the memory of a paralyzed ant trying to drag itself to safety. I am not the enemy here!

So I hired a hit man. He guarantees the entire colony will be eliminated -- for only $3.42. It's nothing personal, Frankie. It never would have worked out between us.

I'm Dying . . .

2008-07-08T22:15:00.006-04:00

So are you, actually. We all are. I guess you could say that from the minute we take our first breath we begin the process that leads to our last breath. I'm not trying to sound morbid or anything, just realistic. Some of us are further along the path than others, but we're all traveling down the same path, heading in the same direction, toward the same destination. Well, sort of. Some of us will have a final destination (hopefully) that is more pleasant than others, but we all have to go through the same process to get there. Of course, the closer you get to that final terminal, the more keenly aware you become of its nearness and of all the things you probably forgot to pack.

My daughter has asked me several times to write about the humorous side of growing old, and I would really, really love to do that. I just can't find that side. It's like this heavy iron ball -- there are no sides to it. It's just there. And it only gets heavier. I keep turning it over expecting to see some cryptic message float up from somewhere inside, saying something like, "Outlook not so good." And now, at this point of my life when my strength seems to be diminishing, the ball is getting heavier. That's not to say that there is nothing good about growing older -- there is. Plenty. Good -- but not funny.

I guess what made me think of this was something my 4-year-old grandson said at the supper table. His mom was trying to convince him to eat some of his food to help his body grow strong. He wanted to know if marshmallows would make his body strong, and we had to explain that while marshmallows tasted good, they weren't really good for your body. He pondered that for a moment, and I know he was thinking, "Then why do you feed them to me?" He suddenly switched gears, as 4-year-olds do, and asked, "What are brains for?" which we tried to explain in preschool terminology. He wanted to know what happened if we didn't have a brain, and of course we told him that we would die. "Why?" he asked. "Because our brains make everything in our bodies work." We talked about our bodies coming back to life again when Jesus comes, etc. Then he asked his mom, "Is Grandma dying?" We exchanged glances and smiles, and his mom said, "She will someday."

Now, I didn't think a whole lot about this until I told my daughter about it and she put things into perspective. Does Onias think my body is dying because my brain isn't working very well? Dang. Is it that obvious?

Just another day. . .

2008-07-07T11:40:00.010-04:00

Well, I think I'm ready to begin posting again, after a 4-month hiatus, thanks to the encouragement of family members. I'm not exactly sure why I stopped in the first place -- overwork, fatigue, testing, depression, inability to find anything humorous or entertaining in my life to write about. I think maybe I just couldn't take the pressure. See, I had imagined that I was writing to some ethereal cyber-audience, so I felt I had to be consistently witty, pithy, and entertaining, because who knew when some talent scout from Random House or Doubleday would happen upon my blog and think, "Eureka! This is the most original and brilliant literary talent of the century!" and post a comment offering me an immediate book deal, which I would, of course, accept and for which I would win the Pulitzer Prize and become an overnight multi-millionaire. The pressure to perform under that kind of scrutiny was too much, and I'm afraid I caved under the stress. I realize that I must write to a different audience if I am to be consistent -- family, friends, and other sympathetic bloggers. To all my faithful cyber-readers who relied on my wit, wisdom, and insight to give meaning to their humdrum lives -- I'm sorry I let you down, but -- you need to get a life. To all you literary scouts -- you'll have to look elsewhere. You'll find no Hemingway or Austen here. . . So, that said, I was complaining to my granddaughter about having nothing interesting to write about, and she said that if she were writing a blog, she would "make up stuff" to write about. I thought that sounded like fun, but not really appropriate for someone of my sophistication and maturity -- and not really fair to my faithful readers who expect something profound from my posts. So, I decided to simply tell you about my day, which was just a typical Sabbath Day in my life. . .

The alarm went off at 5:00 AM, and I arose from my bed, rested, refreshed, and eager to begin my day. I felt no pain whatsoever in my knees or ankles and no pressure at all from my weak bladder, so I immediately dropped to my knees for my morning prayer. Half an hour later, I arose and made my way to my sparkling, spacious bathroom where I showered, brushed, and "made up" my face. Back downstairs, I put a roast and vegetables in the crockpot and a dessert in the fridge. Usually, I cook my family a hot Sunday breakfast, but since it was Fast Sunday I just retired to my office for an hour of reading and pondering the scriptures. Gathering my supplies, I left for Church, arriving an hour early -- plenty of time to see to my Ward Librarian duties and gather supplies for the Primary class I was substitute-teaching. After setting up my classroom, I entered the chapel, where my loving family awaited me. They had even saved me a seat in my favorite pew! The testimonies were inspiring -- especially my own, which left hardly a dry eye in the congregation. My Primary class was reverent, attentive, and engaged, and all the children begged me to teach them every Sunday from now on. At the end of the meetings, I "closed up shop" in the library and headed to my car, still bright-eyed and invigorated. I drove home in my air-conditioned car that smelled like honeysuckle and pulled into my drive, pausing to gaze at my lush, manicured lawn and my thriving flower garden. I glanced at my neighbor's yard, which was full of garden hoses, riding toys, clotheslines, and dog piles, and said a silent prayer of gratitude.

Inside, I entered my gleaming, air-conditioned kitchen, where the aroma of pot roast and carrots made my mouth water. The grandchildren read books and colored in the playroom while I set a beautiful table, including an arrangement of daisies and lilies from my own garden. During dinner, which was cooked to perfection, we discussed what we had learned in our lessons that day, and the children ate everything on their plates. After clearing the dinner table, I sat down to write personal, inspiring letters to all the sisters on my Visiting Teaching list. I had no sooner finished when Christine and her family stopped by for a visit. The men sat in the living room, discussing the Mysteries of the Kingdom, while we women visited outside on our wrap-around porch and the children played house in our large gazebo.

After a while, we strolled down the garden path to our private pond, where the children fed bread to the ducks and swans that live there. When the fireflies appeared, we strolled back to the house, where we all gathered in our spacious family room to sing hymns and bear testimonies to one another. After kneeling in family prayer, Christine and her family bid us a fond good-bye and left for home. The grandchildren went to bed, and I returned to my office, where I completed two pages - 40 names - on the Family Search Indexing website. Then I decided to write a post telling about my wonderful -- but completely typical -- day. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.

There. Wasn't that a lot more interesting than some make-believe story?

2008-03-09T22:19:00.005-04:00

Well, here it is -- the end of another weekend, and one week closer to summer break. It snowed nonstop all day yesterday (Saturday), and we were literally house-bound. By the time it finished snowing and blowing, it was actually deeper than these photos show. Today four of us cleaned off and dug out the cars so that we can get to work and school tomorrow. It was beautifully sunny, about 36 degrees, and the snow was beginning to melt in the sun. As we were working, I heard some birds calling overhead. I enjoy trying to identify the local birds by their calls and songs, but this one sounded unusual. Looking up, I saw a group of group of large white birds with gray-tipped wings circling above our yard. Seagulls! We all paused to watch this incongruous spectacle -- a colony of gulls circling and screeching over a snow-covered neighborhood of northeast Ohio. How weird is that?

In searching for the correct name for a group of seagulls, I discovered some very unusual names for various animal groups. Test yourself and see how many you know. You can find the list of answers under my bookshelf. Ready? What do you call a group of:

alligators
butterflies
cats
cows
hippos
jellyfish
lizards
raccoons
spiders
wombats

I got this info from the San Diego Zoo site. Made me feel pretty ignorant, actually.

Who Do Voodoo?

2008-03-07T22:02:00.006-05:00

Another beautiful, heavy snowfall today. Perhaps the last of the season. At any rate, my yard looks clean again! This photo is not my yard (I wish). It's where I went sledding with my grandkids.

Today I visited the office of an "alternative medicine" practitioner for the first time. I was not there for myself; I went with S. and the three grandkids. Zoe came home from the hospital yesterday, but still is not feeling well. S. attended some type of wellness lecture or workshop a couple weeks ago where she learned about this new procedure to cure people of allergies -- the concept being that many of our medical problems are actually due to allergic reactions to something (or several somethings). While traditional medicine would treat this by prescribing drugs to suppress the allergic reaction, this technique "clears" the body from specific allergens, so that the body no longer reacts to them. S. brought home some literature and told me what she learned from the speaker -- a chiropractor. This procedure was developed by a doctor in California and has been used for 20 years with remarkable success. The process is called NAET (Nambudripad's Allergy Elimination Techniques) after the doctor that developed it. Only 8000 doctors around the country (or world?) are trained in this procedure, and we have one here in town. So one day after the lecture S. and her friend went to this doctor's office and spent quite a bit of time talking to her and learning about the procedure. Today she took Zoe there to see if she could identify the source of Zoe's illness.

I am not yet 100% sold on this procedure -- my son says it sounds like voodoo. But I am keeping an open mind -- for several reasons. I believe that there are many, many things about our bodies that traditional medicine does not understand and cannot control. I believe that our bodies have remarkable powers of self-healing and regeneration that we have not yet tapped. I believe that an eternal spirit exists within the corporeal frame of our bodies, and that this spirit gives life and intelligence to every single cell. Each cell has its own "brain" -- or nucleus -- that controls its activities. We know that different body systems "communicate" with each other to maintain homeostasis. Who is to say exactly how that communication takes place? Scientists and doctors tell us it happens through chemicals or nerve impulses -- because those can be measured and documented. But those of us who believe in a Supreme Being know that there are some things -- real things -- that simply cannot be measured, witnessed, or "proven."

Do I really believe that there are "meridians" of energy running throughout the body? Why not? We know that every body exerts a magnetic field, even though we can't see it. We've all heard or read stories about people undergoing painful medical procedures or surgeries with nothing but hypnosis or acupuncture as an anesthetic. No one really knows how it works, but it works. What I do know is that I have tried traditional medicine, and it has not helped. It cannot help, in fact. Doctors do not even understand what causes fibromyalgia, and they certainly don't offer me much hope for the future. I just know I hurt -- everywhere. And I'm tired of it. No one else has been able to help me, and maybe this doctor can. The literature claims that FM is caused by allergies, and that "clearing" those allergens will relieve the symptoms. If that is true and she can make me feel pain-free and mentally alert again, it's worth the cost of the treatments. For now, I will just have to go on faith.

This and That. . . .

2008-03-06T19:56:00.008-05:00

I don't have any burning issues to discuss today. This morning I was on my way to a teacher conference in a city over 2 hours away when the car I was borrowing (because my own car has squeaking brakes) began to shake and rock from side to side, like I was driving on oval tires. I never speed, so I knew that hyper velocity was not the issue. And, because I was driving alone and still had an hour and a half to go, I decided to turn around and head back to the barn. I had every intention of getting a full day's worth of uninterrupted work in (since all of my students thought I was out of town), but that didn't happen. With Zoe in the hospital and the borrowed car to return and my daughter to drive to work, blah, blah, blah. . . the day was pretty much a wash. Which it would have been if I had gone to my meeting, anyway. So, I just gave up and resigned myself to another day of good intentions and poor results. My FM is really bothering me today, and it's pretty difficult to feel thoughtful, creative, or even focused. So, I'll just share some of the little tidbits I've come across during my roamings and ramblings. . .

Are you a fan of Jane Austen's book Emma? Here is an interesting quiz that will tell you which character you are most like. I was Elizabeth, but with strong Emma tendencies.

Here is a 12-question personality quiz that is supposed to be "surprisingly accurate." I'm not so sure. This was my analysis: Others see you as fresh, lively, charming, amusing, practical, and always interesting; someone who's constantly in the center of attention, but sufficiently well-balanced not to let it go to their head. They also see you as kind, considerate, and understanding; someone who'll always cheer them up and help them out. I don't think this sounds much like me at all. I do NOT like being the center of attention, and I'm hardly ever lively. Even on caffeine I'm not lively. On caffeine I'm just vertical.

My daughter, R., and her friend used to have fun analyzing people and deciding which animal they would be, if they were an animal. It was hilarious, and actually pretty accurate. My husband, she said, would be a lizard -- because he likes to find a comfortable spot, and then just stay there. On the other hand, I was a hamster (or was it a guinea pig?), because I was cute and soft, and cuddly. My daughter, S., who was a bit flighty and scatter-brained, would be a butterfly -- pretty and fun to watch, but hard to pin down to one spot (or one thought). So, I was amused when I found a quiz that would tell me which animal I would be if I were reincarnated. Of course, I don't believe in such nonsense, but I took the bait anyway. Well, I'm pleased to say that when I am reincarnated I will not be a hamster, I will be a Gold Falcon! High in the sky! You are a very intelligent person. You get your pride in the way and it sometimes gets very high, but you're a very romantic person. Your soul mate is the Silver and Red Wolf. You're in conflict with the Teal Cat. Hmmmm.... don't falcons eat hamsters?

I also found a site that let me create a slide show of my family pictures. If you click on "View All Images" you can see them one at a time in a little larger format. Enjoy!

Cats vs. Dogs

2008-03-04T16:05:00.003-05:00

Yesterday I pulled into the driveway, and Suijei (who was in the yard) suddenly began doing what she always does when we arrive home unexpectedly and she is caught loitering on the job -- she ran to the nearest tree and began barking at the squirrel who lives there. (After all, she must appear to be earning her keep by protecting us from potentially rabid rodents.) She was standing along the edge of our property which is lined with small Rose of Sharon bushes -- bushes that my youngest daughter planted 7 years ago. Actually, when she planted them they were nothing but twigs she had cut (or torn) from our other Rose of Sharon bushes. She dug evenly spaced holes, stuck these twigs in the ground, and watered them faithfully. I was certain they wouldn't grow -- after all, they were simply twigs with no roots and no leaves, and she planted them in an area that receives little direct sunlight. A couple of them were accidentally mowed over, but miraculously, the rest of them took root and grew. They eventually branched out and blossomed, and every summer we have pink and white Rose of Sharon blossoms. Seeing them reminds me of my sweet daughter and her determined optimism.

So. . . there was Suijei, standing between these bushes, barking furiously at a squirrel that she had probably awakened from his nap. Then, because she was frustrated at not being able to mutilate the squirrel, she decided to mutilate my bushes instead. She began chewing on and tearing off the lowest branches of two of my bushes. I thought about running over there and kicking her, but that was pointless. Even if I could run, and even if I could reach her before she ran away, and even if I could get in a kick or two, that wouldn't stop her from desecrating my bushes any other time I am not looking. It occurred to me that, that must be why my Rose of Sharon bushes look more like trees -- because she has chewed off the lower branches. I remembered how she chewed up a small lilac bush my children had given me for Mother's Day. I simply shook my head, sighed, and walked into the house feeling powerless. Someday, I told myself, she will be gone and I will have a real yard again. I hope I have a few bushes left by then.

So, with that in mind, I thought this would be a good time to explain why cats make better pets than dogs. Now mind you, I said "pets." I am fully aware that there are certain canine functions that cats simply cannot (or will not) perform -- attacking intruders, sniffing out drugs, guiding blind people, or herding sheep. But those animals are not truly "pets" -- they are serving as companions or work partners. I use the term "pet" to describe an animal that you keep for the sheer enjoyment or comfort that it brings -- not for the service it provides.

1) Cats do not leave piles of poop in the yard. They defecate in designated boxes in the house, and outside they do their business in a private spot and then bury it.
2) Cats do not sniff your crotch. And, they don't sniff each other's, either.
3) Cats do not stink. OK, maybe their litter box smells, but the animal itself does not smell. If I pet a cat, my hand does not smell when I am done.
4) Cats do not bark. Some may see this as a disadvantage, since barking alerts homeowners of intruders. Barking also alerts homeowners of squirrels in trees, cats walking by, mail carriers, children riding their bikes, neighbors walking their children, friends and family who may visit, oher dogs in the neighborhood that are barking, falling leaves, floating clouds, or whatever else moves.
5) Cats don't need to be bathed.
6) Cats don't lick your face (or your kids' faces). OK, some of you may think that is just oh-so-cute; I find it disgusting. I know where that tongue has been.
7) Kittens are much cuter and funnier than puppies. And they don't need to be housebroken.
8) Petting a cat has been shown to decrease blood pressure.
9) Owning a cat reduces your risk of dying of a heart attack or stroke. It's true!
10) Cats are independent. They can keep themselves occupied for hours with little attention or maintenance from you.
11) Cats do not attack. Of course, dog lovers will see this as a shortcoming, since cats won't attack intruders or muggers. On the other hand, cats will not attack their owners or their owners' children, either.
12) Cats are much gentler and more in control of their emotions. (Than dogs -- not people)

Good News, Bad News

2008-03-03T18:00:00.005-05:00

Zoe showing us her "pretty face" (as opposed to her happy face, mean face, or sad face). This photo has nothing to do with anything, I just thought it might make you smile -- or make me smile.

So. . . the good news is that it was 62 degrees outside today! The bad news is that my yard no longer looks as nice as everyone else's yard.

I'm sorry I haven't written for a few days. I guess I've had "blogger's block." And I'm not feeling very witty today, either, so don't get your hopes up. I was feeling kind of sluggish, so when S. wanted to stop at Sheetz on the way to work, I went in and got an armload of energy drinks. Then, since I thought I also needed some protein, preservatives, and sodium, I also grabbed a jumbo-sized beef jerky. In the process, I knocked one beef jerky on the floor, and S. had to pick it up for me, since my arms were busy holding all my energy drinks. So, I set everything on the counter and paid for it all, and the cashier hesitated, then said, "Did you want a bag for that?" "Uh, yeah." Duh.

We pulled out onto the road, and I handed the vacuum-packed, hermetically-sealed beef jerky to S. to open for me (because I was driving, of course). After opening the package and peeling down the institutional-grade plastic, she decided to take a bite before handing it to me. (I know, don't you just hate it when people do that?) After one chew she uttered this sudden, involuntary noise (something between a squawk and a bark) and put her hand over her mouth. Fortunately, we were stopped at a light, which allowed her the opportunity to open her door and deposit the contents of her mouth onto the road. I can only wonder what the guy in the car behind us thought. She proclaimed, "Ugh! That is disgusting! Taste it!" And obediently, I did taste. It certainly didn't taste like any beef jerky I had ever eaten before, although I wasn't crude enough to open my car door and spit it onto the street -- maybe because the car was moving. "It tastes like . . . dog food." "That's what I thought, too," concurred S., her eyes now watering. "Not that I've ever tasted dog food, " I assured her. "But it tastes like what dog food smells like." She agreed. "Actually," I said, "it tastes like a dog's breath smells after he's eaten dog food." So, not wanting to litter, I tossed the rest of the jerky into the back seat with my energy drinks. When I got back home, Suijei (our resident canine) was sitting at her post atop the picnic table. Suijei isn't allowed to have people food, but this certainly wasn't fit for human consumption. I reasoned that since it tasted like dog food, maybe Suijei would like it, so I set a piece on the picnic table for her. It's still there.

Happy Leap Day!

2008-02-29T22:00:00.007-05:00

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

2008-02-28T16:48:00.008-05:00

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

2008-02-26T21:32:00.007-05:00

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

2008-02-25T21:17:00.006-05:00

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. . .

2008-02-23T18:13:00.008-05:00

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.

2008-02-20T01:06:00.004-05:00

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

Is there life after 30?

2008-02-20T00:38:00.003-05:00

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

2008-02-18T21:36:00.006-05:00

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

2008-02-17T23:35:00.004-05:00

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

2008-02-16T22:27:00.000-05:00

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.

2008-02-16T21:14:00.000-05:00

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!

2008-02-16T01:23:00.000-05:00

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. . .

2008-02-15T01:59:00.000-05:00

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.