Thankfulness eases adversity

It's been a tough year for us. While thankfulness doesn't erase the ache of adversity,  it can ease it. I'm choosing to focus on the year's blessings this week.

January: I am grateful for tutoring three razor smart first grade boys from Africa. They didn't speak a word of English but used the universal law of learning: mimic what you see. One morning Mohammed grabbed my sticky notes and a marker and made a name tag for himself.  He passed the tools so the others could make their own. When I looked puzzled he pointed at the name tag on my chest. It was my privilege to help them get a good start in their new lives, and a weekly source of fun.

February: Cold nights and starry skies.  Living in a city now, the stars are masked. I close my eyes and thank God for many nights I stepped outside our North Carolina home to  marvel at the studded vault above me. 

March: What can be more glorious than the month's progression from tight red leaf buds to  Bradford pears dressed like brides, electrifying redbud blossoms, and yellow daffodils carpeting the landscape?

April: Sorrowfully we decided to sell our beloved home and move close to our family. An unexpected hospital stay confirmed the timing.

May: Off-season harvest from seven years teaching middle school. Two of my students, now married to one another, invited us to celebrate their daughter's birthday. One of the other guests was also a former student.  She enthusiastically reported that she was teaching in a preschool, and thanked me for my inspiriting example. Wonder of wonders!

June: Beach week! Even though it was cut short by my husband's medical emergency, my friends poured love out and arranged a pony express to get me home. Everyone rallied for Bill's surgery and recovery.

July: Despite reduced mobility, I  savored summer: a cool bath with the breeze blowing the curtains, fresh peas from the garden. The bright blue balls hanging from the hydrangea surprised me every time I walked by them since it had been badly damaged by frost.

August and September: Unable to do much,  the 3 year old and I squeezed into the red recliner and tilted back. There we spent many happy hours reading and laughing, reenacting Humpty Dumpty at least fifty times.

October: I can drive! I can walk!

November: Struggling with revised, negative diagnosis for my dear husband. Oh, my God, thank you for his friendship, gentleness and love during the forty three years of our marriage.

Whatever your troubles this year, pause. Recall instances of beauty, acts of kindness received, relationships enjoyed, meaningful work. Then read your list to somebody.

Gratitude shared is gratitude multiplied. 

Let me hear an amen!

Disturbing the Autumn Peace

The last two weeks of October were as warm as any in September. The trees clenched their green and yellow hands waiting for the cold shock to signal it was time to let go until they just gave up. The breezes finally shook the leaves free and covered the lawn.

truck full of leaves

Out here in suburbia homeowners don't want to see leaves in their yards. Crews of grounds men with powerful blowers invade daily. They blast the leaves off of lawns like water cannons vanquish protestors.

The neighborhood wakes up to a sound like a hundred souped-up hair dryers at a beauty pageant. I compared the current cacaphony to last year's rural fall -- a whisper of leaves dropping, and the scritch, scratch of the rake. Today's beauty is marred by a barrage of noise, peace disturbed.

We wanted to help our host family clear their yard and bought a light weight plastic rake with wide, wide red tines. We danced  a two step around the yard. Bill scooped, I bagged. (Burning is not allowed here.)  We enjoyed the distinct autumn ritual, crunching through ankle high dry leaves. It took two of us about an hour to fill three bags, with time out for the three year old to be buried under a pile, lie on top of a pile, and bury his dinosaur then find it again. We enjoyed the sun on our backs, the rhythmic movement, the unique smell of disintegrating leaves--the quiet.

Of course the next day, there were many more on the ground. Our oldest grandson grabbed the rake to make a dive pile. Later I was confounded to see our three trophy bags limp and empty. He'd "needed" them to augment the mound they wanted to jump into.














Well, I'd had my fun, and they had theirs.

Voter Registration Breathing Down my Neck

This election has been breathing down my neck. Here I am in a new state and I had to register soon!Voter registration laws have been in the news in various states and I was guilty of disinterest--until we moved to Colorado.

I couldn't register online without a Colorado driver's license so we dropped our procrastination and went to get new driver's licenses.

I took our passports, two proofs of my address, our NC driver's license, and other miscellany.  Seemed like I had everything except my birth certificate. I hoped the fact that we'd previously had a Co DL would facilitate the process.

At the entrance we took our tickets, like an old meat market. We drew numbers 96 and 97. The waiting area was quieter than a funeral home. Five rows of pews were jammed front to back like a big foot in small shoe. The room was four pews wide. It was standing room only. The mounted TV monitors flashed customer numbers instead of hymn numbers. They were on number 40.

An hour and a half later our number was called. I handed over my stack of qualifying documents. She spread them out, entered numbers into her computer system, and  tracked down the old CO DL on their system. Then we hit a snag. The numbers of my social security number in their system were transposed. My medicare card, issued by the Social Security Administration, mind you, was not a "valid" proof of my SS number. I'd have to bring back a 1099 tax form.

Bill didn't fare any better. Even though he had a letter from the Social Security Administration with his SS# on it, they wouldn't accept it.

At least I knew where to find the 1099s. The clerk  ignored all of my hyperbole, said she'd squeeze us up to the front of the line if we could get back the same day.

I grumbled the groused the whole way home.  It didn't help that Saint Bill was chuckling and telling me to learn patience. At home we chowed down and I dug up tax forms. Too bad it was too early for a drink; it might have improved my mood.

On the second trip I shut up and let my sweet husband do all of the talking. He put on his best Hilary imitation and announced to the clerk "We're baa-ck." We were out of there half an hour later. And she said we were funny. That was generous of her.

One final stroke on the keyboard and she registered me to vote, too.

But what if you're disabled and have to get a ride to go back and forth for additional documentation?  Or you don't keep good records and have to request duplicate copies of documents? Or you don't have a passport or state ID with a photo?

I would have given up if I hadn't needed the driver's license. (And I wasn't so vehement about voting in this election.)

Maybe there are frauds out there who vote for cash, Tammany Hall style, but I doubt it. And maybe a few undocumented immigrants have tried to vote. But I'm a citizen, and I had a terrible time proving it. I'm glad the Democrats oppose many of the laws proposed to cut down on voter fraud. Colorado's requirements to get a DL are ridiculously stringent.

Ordinary is reason enough to celebrate

Today's an ordinary October day. Normal weather. Routine tasks. Nothing exciting, except--ordinary is reason enough to celebrate.

During the months since my last post, illness and stress moved in like a termite invasion swarming over our lives.

Since my medical issue turned around I revel in the unremarkable.

The portable wheelchair is stashed in the garage. I don't need a stool in the shower. I can get on the floor to play with my grandson. My calendar has spaces without doctor appointments. I dare to make modest plans again.

Today I'll dance and empty the dishwasher,  hum as I load the washer,  sip coffee in the sunshine.

If you are healthy, it's a great day.

And I celebrate you, the many folks who tried their best to brighten the dark days:

The Read-a-Lattes, my book club, who brought our weekly lunch date to the house so I could join. The church friends who sent me cards, prayed, called, brought dinner, chauffeured.
The many who literally packed up our house and put the boxes in the moving van.

You showed us a hundred kindnesses. You are irreplaceable.

Teachers should wear body cameras

Teachers should wear body cameras.  At least some teachers, some of the time. 

The reasons aren't the same as for police officers, however. While law enforcement seems to moderate its violent behavior when wearing the cams, I don't worry about teacher violence in the schools I work in. 

I am concerned about teacher ineffectiveness. As teachers we have a perception of what happens during a lesson, which may not be accurate.  Close self-evaluation of a lesson could help the teacher and his mentor objectively pinpoint ineffective practices. A video strips away our illusions. The teacher-mentor team can adjust and practice new strategies. 

A video (or even audio recording) reveals which student is getting the most attention--positive or negative. I once heard myself say "Pedro, please sit down" about 15 times when I watched a video taped lesson. It forced me to consider what I wasn't doing to hold his attention. 

That same video could be used to guide a student to analyze their own patterns.

In one class I frequent I have seen the same student out of her seat, wandering aimlessly, or otherwise ignoring the lesson altogether 9 out of 10 visits. When the teacher has asked  Mom for help, the response is just to let her do what she wants. Does the mother really understand how unproductive her child is? A video recording would make the child's disengagement clear. 

Both Forbes magazine and Atlantic Monthly weighed potential dangers of the body cams. Atlantic them as drastic and intrusive. I believe the teacher body cam may just be the lifeline the child needs employed on her behalf. 

Poor teaching damages countless students each year. Likewise, poor parenting compounds student failure. I've witnessed a disturbing trend that parents don't believe their child is behaving in ways that hinder learning. Seeing their child as he is at school may be the wake-up call for parents to see their responsibility in preparing a child to learn.

When neither classrooms, nor students function effectively over time it is a disaster. The result is uneducated, unemployable, unmotivated, unprepared young people splashing into the labor pool without the skills to keep from drowning. 

Teacher cams may seem a drastic measure. But young lives are at stake. 

Clear out the dead stuff

Spring and a for-sale sign in front of our house pull me outside to clear out the garden beds.

Trimming last year's spent stalks out of the 8 foot decorative grass, I find the new growth is taller than expected. Very carefully I clip away the old to protect the new. 

Nose to nose with the tan brittle stems I wonder if they could have prevented the healthy development of the striped thin leaves that give the plant its name--Zebra Grass. 

Likewise, is it possible that my life has dead stuff that needs to be cleared out?  Could the debris from past years choke out new ideas, new habits, new plans--the vibrant part of me? 

Here's how to tackle the job.

1. Step back and try to see where your endeavors fizzled or fell short.

2. Then move in close, and see where the old patterns of thinking actually prevent the results you want. 

For example, I realize I no longer enjoy playing my violin at church (liken it to a dead stalk.) Comparing myself to another violinist leaves me discouraged. When others don't arrive at practice on time I grouse.  My problem, not theirs. Until a paradigm shift happens, I'm happier not participating in as a musician. 

3. Keep your eye on what you want to nurture, and get rid of the obstacles as best you can.   

4. Persist. I cut each zebra stalk individually, about one hundred and fifty of them. Working over my inventory from #1 I realize some of my undertakings are efforts to "fix" other people. Boo. Hiss. Those never work. Cut those out of your life!

5. Take a look at the big picture again, like the zebra grass, healthy shoots will have a chance to flourish. 

Flying the friendly skies, uh, not-so-much

Have you flown the not-so-friendly skies lately? 

typical long lines in Denver

Vigilant Detroit TSA agents recently tipped off authorities that a pilot coming through security seemed under the influence of alcohol. The American Airlines employee was arrested, which should have made everybody feel a lot safer. 

Drunk passengers are no joke either and prohibited from boarding aircraft. Back in my Continental Airlines days a Hawaii-bound passenger was so drunk he passed out in the boarding area. Knowing what a nightmare he might cause six miles above the earth for eight hours we decided to let him sleep it off. When he awoke after departure we rebooked him and sent him off to the hotel shuttle.

I can only complain about Frontier Airlines. (Which tells you that I am as cheap as they are, or I wouldn't be flying with them.)  Agents pulled people out of line whose bags were too big and make them pay on the spot. My "personal item" just met the allowed limits. Worried, I brought my own tape to prove it. Watching what other grandmas and college kids boarded with, I quit worrying. Sling the "personal item" on your back and they don't seem so concerned. 

Frontier's shrinking tray table

The only thing still free during Frontier flights is the restroom. My husband thinks they'll be coin-operated soon. Not having a plane full of people with beverage glasses on their teeny-tiny tray tables was a good thing when we hit a pocket of turbulence. No reassuring word from the crew.

The plane pitched and dropped significantly. First time it heaved everyone gasped. Next time it got really quiet. Not even the babies cried.  I hung onto the seat in front of me and closed my eyes. The young woman behind me started to cry. A youngster further back waited until things smoothed out then her small voice carried over several rows. "That was scary." A calm adult responded that when you go to an amusement park you have to pay for that kind of ride. Well, I don't go to amusement parks because that's not my kind of fun anymore. So that makes the second free thing on Frontier--thrills. 

There was one friendly moment, however. Before take-off the young man across the aisle from us eyed the empty window seat next to me. He asked my husband if he could take it. Bill said sure and the ADD firefighter on leave for PTSD moved into it. (He gave us a quick bio as soon as he fastened his seat belt.) 

I'm the kind of flyer who pretends the person next to me is invisible. But this guy was so excited to ignore him would have been as mean as pouring water on somebody's birthday piñata. He showed me photos of his daughter playing in the ocean and lovely photos of the sunset he could see from the window. Eventually he amused himself on his phone and I powered up my iPad. 

 I might try being friendly again. Somebody has to be.