I went out with "Grandma Judy" Heffelman and one of our mutual friends from church today--lunch and a movie. It's kind of the female version of ROMEO (Retired Old Men Eating Out). Judy and some other women do this once a month. I've been invited before but never took advantage of it. Tuesday is Senior Day at the Shiloh Cinema in Avon, IN--a couple bucks off admission price and a "senior card" that offers reduced rates for popcorn and/or free drinks.
We ate lunch at McAlister's, a place somewhat like Panera Bread except they deliver your meal to the table after you order and pay at a counter. After we ate, we took a look at movie reviews and showing times at the theater...and settled on The Iron Lady, with Meryl Streep playing Britain's former prime minister, Margaret Thatcher. (Our other pick was Joyful Noise with Dolly Parton and Queen Latifah, but it started later...) We had about 45 minutes to kill, so we stopped at Michael's (the craft store) to browse. It's right there in the same complex with the theater so was a good choice.
In the middle of the movie, I started feeling around in my purse for a cough drop and happened to notice that my wallet wasn't in there. I wasn't looking for my wallet, so it surprised me that I noticed. I've had times before when I was feeling around for my wallet and couldn't find it when it WAS there, so I excused myself to go down toward the lobby light to check on it. Nope! Not there! I immediately headed for the cashier's station and asked if I might have left a black wallet there. Yep! The manager excused himself to go get it, then asked for a name or to show him an ID to prove it was mine, explaining that it was just for my security that he was asking. I told him that I appreciated that!! There was no money in my wallet, but my debit card was in there.
I call it Divine Intervention. I don't know why I noticed that the silly thing wasn't in my purse. As I said, I wasn't looking for it. Had it not been for that, we would have gone all the way home after the movie before I noticed that my wallet was missing, which would have caused some panic and a trip back to Avon. Thanks be to God!
I've had a lot of Internet connectivity problems lately. On Sunday, I couldn't get a connection at all until late in the day, and even then it was "iffy". I called AT&T that day. Got an automated menu-driven response, which is never satisfactory to me. I want to talk to a human! My own personal diagnosis was that the static and pops and clicks on my phone line were causing the problem...or I needed a new modem. It's a long and involved story. Suffice it to say that AT&T supposedly ran some tests on my phone line. On Monday morning, I got an automated phone call saying that my service had been "restored". I still had connectivity problems, but not as bad...and today, I think I was only disconnected once. We'll see how things go. I very much dislike paying for something that doesn't work...and don't get between me and my Internet! Divine Intervention again? Sorry...don't think so!
In any case, we've had a wonderfully warm day today, although it was windy and became increasingly cloudy as the hours went on. I've said, somewhat sarcastically, that I expect winter weather to return just about Superbowl time!
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Best Friends
My sister called me her best friend in an email today. Huh? All through our growing-up years, we fought like...well...like sisters! When I look back, I wonder how our mother tolerated us! In the back seat of our un-air-conditioned vehicle, traveling across country to meet a ship that would take us overseas with the Navy, we griped at each other. I can remember having an imaginary line between our seats, and if even so much as the edge of her skirt was on my side, I was livid! (Kind of reminds me of the "He's touching me" commercial of a couple of years ago...where a brother pretends to touch his protesting sibling. Annoying!) One time, when we were waaay old enough to know better, we got into a knock-down drag-out physical fight in the absence of our parents. When Mom found out, we both got a tongue-lashing. I think it was the first time in my life that Mom expressed disappointment in me...and honestly, the experience scared me. Of course, it was Shari's fault! I think I might have been in 6th grade...
Soon after, Shari left home to start her adult life in the Danville, IL, area. I was still finding my own in Oak Park. Or trying to.
I think of best friends as being confidantes...people who are there for you, no matter what. My life was not parallel to Shari's. She was married and had children long before I did. Choices she made were not necessarily choices I would have made, and vice versa. I had long told myself that my daughter was my best friend in the same tradition of my mother and me...until that bond was broken for a time. I was shaken. My mother was gone. I had no one to blubber to...except my sister. We had already endured the heartbreak of losing our brother in an unacceptable situation of estrangement. Our glue--parents and grandparents were all dead. All Shari and I had in common was our heritage as Covill/Armstrong women: damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!
Soon after, Shari left home to start her adult life in the Danville, IL, area. I was still finding my own in Oak Park. Or trying to.
I think of best friends as being confidantes...people who are there for you, no matter what. My life was not parallel to Shari's. She was married and had children long before I did. Choices she made were not necessarily choices I would have made, and vice versa. I had long told myself that my daughter was my best friend in the same tradition of my mother and me...until that bond was broken for a time. I was shaken. My mother was gone. I had no one to blubber to...except my sister. We had already endured the heartbreak of losing our brother in an unacceptable situation of estrangement. Our glue--parents and grandparents were all dead. All Shari and I had in common was our heritage as Covill/Armstrong women: damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!
Friday, January 27, 2012
Our Lady of the Angels School Fire
As long as I'm reminiscing about things in the Chicago area when I was a kid, I might as well talk about the Our Lady of the Angels School fire.
In the late summer of 1958, my family moved to Oak Park, IL. Dad had been put on inactive duty with the Navy. We had returned from Japan to my grandparents' farm in Streator while Dad scrambled to find a civilian job after so very many years of being a naval officer. He took a job as Industrial Arts teacher in Elmwood Park. Somehow, Mom and Dad found a big ol' house in Oak Park, not far from Dad's school, to rent. (I say "somehow" because my parents handled all of the family business away from us kids. I don't ever remember hearing anything about his interviewing for jobs or their home search. We were told when the decisions were made. It all happened by magic, I'm sure!)
I was ten years old, starting 6th grade in a new school--again.
One day in early December, I came home to the news that a parochial school in Chicago had caught fire and that many, many children and a few adults had died--92 sticks in my mind. It was a horrible tragedy--all over the media. No one ever really determined the origin of the fire to place blame, but it seems that a student started a fire in a trash container in the school's basement near the wooden staircase. The fire raced up the stairs of the multiple-story building, fanned by the updraft in the staircase, destroying the main avenue of escape. Students were crowded at windows for air. Some jumped. Neighbors rushed to the school with ladders that didn't even hit the second floor. The fire department was met with a locked gate that delayed their getting to the school in time to do much good. One whole class died of smoke inhalation at their desks because there was no escape for them, and their teacher told them to pray and wait for the firemen. Others were burned to death. Some of the children who had escaped were taken in by local friends, and no one knew for hours what had happened to them. Families awaited word on what had happened to their children, some of which were in different classes. It was awful.
That fire left a mark on me. I was impressionable. I was at an age at which I figured that what happened to those kids could happen to me. And I came to understand the anguish of the families who had lost children that day.
The very next afternoon, just after lunch at my school, the fire alarm rang. There was no laughing or joking around. Every student filed out of the building in a sombre fashion. It was only a drill, brought on, perhaps, by the events of the previous day. But I never forgot it.
Twelve years later, I became a teacher in an old school building with wooden stairs. We had frequent fire drills, one of which each year included having the staircase blocked so we had to use the fire escape. The kids rarely took it seriously...and that affected me. No matter where I taught after that, with the first fire drill of the year, I told my classes about the Our Lady of the Angels fire. Did they listen? I'm not sure. But I told them, nonetheless. They needed to know.
The aftermath of that fire had far-reaching effects all over the country. Many laws were passed to help deter similar situations--only one of which was that wooden staircases had to be enclosed with doors at top and bottom to prevent updrafts. There are people still living who endured that fire, as victims or survivors. I think of them several times a year... You can look it up on the Internet. It was a very big deal.
In the late summer of 1958, my family moved to Oak Park, IL. Dad had been put on inactive duty with the Navy. We had returned from Japan to my grandparents' farm in Streator while Dad scrambled to find a civilian job after so very many years of being a naval officer. He took a job as Industrial Arts teacher in Elmwood Park. Somehow, Mom and Dad found a big ol' house in Oak Park, not far from Dad's school, to rent. (I say "somehow" because my parents handled all of the family business away from us kids. I don't ever remember hearing anything about his interviewing for jobs or their home search. We were told when the decisions were made. It all happened by magic, I'm sure!)
I was ten years old, starting 6th grade in a new school--again.
One day in early December, I came home to the news that a parochial school in Chicago had caught fire and that many, many children and a few adults had died--92 sticks in my mind. It was a horrible tragedy--all over the media. No one ever really determined the origin of the fire to place blame, but it seems that a student started a fire in a trash container in the school's basement near the wooden staircase. The fire raced up the stairs of the multiple-story building, fanned by the updraft in the staircase, destroying the main avenue of escape. Students were crowded at windows for air. Some jumped. Neighbors rushed to the school with ladders that didn't even hit the second floor. The fire department was met with a locked gate that delayed their getting to the school in time to do much good. One whole class died of smoke inhalation at their desks because there was no escape for them, and their teacher told them to pray and wait for the firemen. Others were burned to death. Some of the children who had escaped were taken in by local friends, and no one knew for hours what had happened to them. Families awaited word on what had happened to their children, some of which were in different classes. It was awful.
That fire left a mark on me. I was impressionable. I was at an age at which I figured that what happened to those kids could happen to me. And I came to understand the anguish of the families who had lost children that day.
The very next afternoon, just after lunch at my school, the fire alarm rang. There was no laughing or joking around. Every student filed out of the building in a sombre fashion. It was only a drill, brought on, perhaps, by the events of the previous day. But I never forgot it.
Twelve years later, I became a teacher in an old school building with wooden stairs. We had frequent fire drills, one of which each year included having the staircase blocked so we had to use the fire escape. The kids rarely took it seriously...and that affected me. No matter where I taught after that, with the first fire drill of the year, I told my classes about the Our Lady of the Angels fire. Did they listen? I'm not sure. But I told them, nonetheless. They needed to know.
The aftermath of that fire had far-reaching effects all over the country. Many laws were passed to help deter similar situations--only one of which was that wooden staircases had to be enclosed with doors at top and bottom to prevent updrafts. There are people still living who endured that fire, as victims or survivors. I think of them several times a year... You can look it up on the Internet. It was a very big deal.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
The Blizzard of '67
In January of 1967, I was halfway through my senior year in college at Illinois State University at Normal, Illinois. It was semester break. It was my plan to use the first day of break to transfer all of my belongings to a new dorm with the help of a boyfriend who had a car. Then we were going to go to Peoria where I planned to spend a day or two with his family, then I would take the train home to Oak Park--a western suburb of Chicago where my parents lived.
The day of the move was unusual. It was totally warm outside. I think the thermometer topped out at 65 degrees, and I remember wondering if we were going to pay for that, somehow. I was lucky, however, in that having it be that warm sure helped in getting my things moved into the new dormitory. Nice!
That afternoon, Bill and I drove to Peoria where we were welcomed at his family's home. We visited the rest of that day and the next. The day after that, January 26th, we awoke to nine inches of snow on the ground. Trains weren't running. I figured I'd stay over another day until the tracks could be cleared, so I'd better call home to let my folks know the plan.
My parents were both teachers at the time. Dad taught high school in Elmwood Park, IL, close by, and Mom was teaching 2nd grade in Addison--a 30-minute commute, mostly on Lake Street (which is a busy suburban street in the western suburbs). I'd heard that the Chicago area had been socked with snow, but I figured they were both snug at home, worried about me. Au contraire!
Dad answered the phone. Hmmm...that's unusual. Dad NEVER answered the phone.
"Hi, Dad. We've had nine inches of snow here, and the trains aren't running. I'll be home as soon as they start running again. Let me talk to Mom."
"She's not here."
"What do you mean she's not there??????"
"We've had a lot of snow. She never came home from school yesterday."
"Have you called anyone??"
"I called the police department. They said there are a lot of people stranded in their cars. I wanted to go out and look for her, but they told me I absolutely couldn't because they didn't need one more person stuck out there."
So, of course, all I did was worry after that. I could tell that Dad was worried enough for both of us. That was before the days of mobile phones. He had heard nothing from Mom, and he felt helpless. (In light of the events of that day, I'm sure he was not the only person concerned for the safety of loved ones!) I called home several times, aware that I was running up a long distance phone bill for my boyfriend's family, but finally, Mom was home--with a story to tell!
What happened that day was a strange weather phenomenon. A storm with a lot of moisture in it was predicted to drop about four inches of snow on the Chicago area before it moved on, but it didn't move on. It totally stalled over northern Illinois and northern Indiana. Snowfall started just pre-dawn and was coming down at the rate of two inches per hour--and just kept coming down. The Principal at Mom's school came into her classroom and said, "Margaret, you have the farthest to go to get home, so I will watch your class. You need to leave now." She did, but not before she stopped to top off her gas tank. (Later, she said that getting gas was the best decision she had ever made in her life!)
On her way home on Lake Street, Mom became entangled in a knot of cars that were stuck in snow. She couldn't move. She had no choice but to spend the rest of the day and night in the car, in full sight of civilization that was paralyzed in bitter cold and 23 inches of snow! She had to await a rescue. She had the presence of mind to save gas by running the car only when she got cold. I guess, in the morning, someone was making the rounds of stranded motorists, offering coffee. When a snow plow finally arrived, the driver decided to dig her out first because she had snow tires on her car and had the best chance of actually getting out. She made it home a full 24 hours after she had left--tired and hungry, but safe.
About those snow tires. No one had them back then. (After that storm, I think snow tire sales spiked!) My father was a good man. He made sure that Mom (and his daughters, as well) drove cars with safe tires. It made a big difference to Mom that day!
I actually don't remember how I got home after that storm, or when. I know I took the train to Chicago, which meant that Dad would have to brave the streets to pick me up at Union Station. I guess he did. There is a picture of me standing on the sidewalk in front of our house on Forest Avenue amid huge mounds of snow. The storm is still the record-holder for Chicago. Forty-five years ago today.
The day of the move was unusual. It was totally warm outside. I think the thermometer topped out at 65 degrees, and I remember wondering if we were going to pay for that, somehow. I was lucky, however, in that having it be that warm sure helped in getting my things moved into the new dormitory. Nice!
That afternoon, Bill and I drove to Peoria where we were welcomed at his family's home. We visited the rest of that day and the next. The day after that, January 26th, we awoke to nine inches of snow on the ground. Trains weren't running. I figured I'd stay over another day until the tracks could be cleared, so I'd better call home to let my folks know the plan.
My parents were both teachers at the time. Dad taught high school in Elmwood Park, IL, close by, and Mom was teaching 2nd grade in Addison--a 30-minute commute, mostly on Lake Street (which is a busy suburban street in the western suburbs). I'd heard that the Chicago area had been socked with snow, but I figured they were both snug at home, worried about me. Au contraire!
Dad answered the phone. Hmmm...that's unusual. Dad NEVER answered the phone.
"Hi, Dad. We've had nine inches of snow here, and the trains aren't running. I'll be home as soon as they start running again. Let me talk to Mom."
"She's not here."
"What do you mean she's not there??????"
"We've had a lot of snow. She never came home from school yesterday."
"Have you called anyone??"
"I called the police department. They said there are a lot of people stranded in their cars. I wanted to go out and look for her, but they told me I absolutely couldn't because they didn't need one more person stuck out there."
So, of course, all I did was worry after that. I could tell that Dad was worried enough for both of us. That was before the days of mobile phones. He had heard nothing from Mom, and he felt helpless. (In light of the events of that day, I'm sure he was not the only person concerned for the safety of loved ones!) I called home several times, aware that I was running up a long distance phone bill for my boyfriend's family, but finally, Mom was home--with a story to tell!
What happened that day was a strange weather phenomenon. A storm with a lot of moisture in it was predicted to drop about four inches of snow on the Chicago area before it moved on, but it didn't move on. It totally stalled over northern Illinois and northern Indiana. Snowfall started just pre-dawn and was coming down at the rate of two inches per hour--and just kept coming down. The Principal at Mom's school came into her classroom and said, "Margaret, you have the farthest to go to get home, so I will watch your class. You need to leave now." She did, but not before she stopped to top off her gas tank. (Later, she said that getting gas was the best decision she had ever made in her life!)
On her way home on Lake Street, Mom became entangled in a knot of cars that were stuck in snow. She couldn't move. She had no choice but to spend the rest of the day and night in the car, in full sight of civilization that was paralyzed in bitter cold and 23 inches of snow! She had to await a rescue. She had the presence of mind to save gas by running the car only when she got cold. I guess, in the morning, someone was making the rounds of stranded motorists, offering coffee. When a snow plow finally arrived, the driver decided to dig her out first because she had snow tires on her car and had the best chance of actually getting out. She made it home a full 24 hours after she had left--tired and hungry, but safe.
About those snow tires. No one had them back then. (After that storm, I think snow tire sales spiked!) My father was a good man. He made sure that Mom (and his daughters, as well) drove cars with safe tires. It made a big difference to Mom that day!
I actually don't remember how I got home after that storm, or when. I know I took the train to Chicago, which meant that Dad would have to brave the streets to pick me up at Union Station. I guess he did. There is a picture of me standing on the sidewalk in front of our house on Forest Avenue amid huge mounds of snow. The storm is still the record-holder for Chicago. Forty-five years ago today.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Speaking of Songs...
I just found out via Facebook that my former students who are now in AP English (Advanced Placement) as seniors have an assignment that I gave to them in Honors English in 8th grade! I called it a "Music as Poetry" assignment. Students were to pick a song that was lyrically significant. We displayed the lyrics on the overhead projector or the computer projector. The students had to show the rhyme scheme, pick out figures of speech (similes, metaphors, etc.), determine assonant rhyme, etc. They had to defend why they picked the song; then we listened to it. I picked their brains after each one, so we rarely got through more than four or five per class period. In a class of almost 30, it took awhile!
I dreamed up the assignment and developed it over a number of years. What I'm saying is that I didn't steal it from any other source, although I'm sure it is not just my brainchild. It tickles me that, while I was still teaching in the district, it was MY assignment...but now that I'm retired, it is being used by the gal who is teaching college placement classes. This is a teacher whom I totally respect. That makes it all the sweeter. I done sumthin' good!
I dreamed up the assignment and developed it over a number of years. What I'm saying is that I didn't steal it from any other source, although I'm sure it is not just my brainchild. It tickles me that, while I was still teaching in the district, it was MY assignment...but now that I'm retired, it is being used by the gal who is teaching college placement classes. This is a teacher whom I totally respect. That makes it all the sweeter. I done sumthin' good!
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Only So Many Perfect Songs
Songs are like pictures. They leave exacting emotions in the brain. Where you were when you heard it...what it meant to you when you first heard it. That sort of thing.
I have no absolute favorite performers. I am addicted to songs, regardless of who performs them. Some are ancient. Very few are modern. Still, I listen to the vocals, and even more to the background. Sometimes, just the emotions evoked by the songs move me.
Here is my list of somewhat perfect songs:
"Tradition" from Fiddler on the Roof.
"Evergreen" from A Star is Born.
"The Great Mandella" from Peter, Paul, and Mary.
"The Hallelujah Chorus" from Handel's Messiah.
"Oh Happy Day" from the Edwin Hawkins Singers.
"Imagine" from John Lennon.
"The Beast's Song" from the Broadway version of Beauty and the Beast. "If I Can't Love Her".
I can't stay up long enough to write more. Listen to the songs and listen to the background music. Such drama!
I guess I need to go to bed. I can get carried away with this...
I have no absolute favorite performers. I am addicted to songs, regardless of who performs them. Some are ancient. Very few are modern. Still, I listen to the vocals, and even more to the background. Sometimes, just the emotions evoked by the songs move me.
Here is my list of somewhat perfect songs:
"Tradition" from Fiddler on the Roof.
"Evergreen" from A Star is Born.
"The Great Mandella" from Peter, Paul, and Mary.
"The Hallelujah Chorus" from Handel's Messiah.
"Oh Happy Day" from the Edwin Hawkins Singers.
"Imagine" from John Lennon.
"The Beast's Song" from the Broadway version of Beauty and the Beast. "If I Can't Love Her".
I can't stay up long enough to write more. Listen to the songs and listen to the background music. Such drama!
I guess I need to go to bed. I can get carried away with this...
Thursday, January 19, 2012
The Battle of the Bulge (Doing the Belly Dance)
You've seen that pull-up diaper commercial that has the song, "Do the Potty Dance"? Well, I'm doing The Belly Dance. Gotta get rid of my belly! I have spent much of the winter lounging around in sweatpants and/or my bathrobe--totally comfy--eating myself into oblivion. Imagine my surprise when I dress in street clothes and discover that even my "fat pants" are getting too tight! I beat myself up over the fact that I can now feel my double chin when I move my head, and my gut almost sticks out as far as my breasts do. (Oh no!) Time to stop griping and start doing something.
Don't get me wrong. I know what causes fat. And I know what to eat. I just don't want to! Since I retired, I haven't had much discipline in my eating habits. I can fix a big dish that is relatively low in calories, per serving, then eat the whole thing in one day. Hmmm...that isn't going to work.
Many diets address the fact that one needs to fill up on fiber so as not to feel hungry. Guess what? Hunger isn't my problem. Appetite is. I don't eat all that much in one sitting, but I go back to the refrigerator over and over again, looking for things to salve my boredom, fatigue, or voracious hunger that is only in my brain. Since I am getting virtually NO exercise these days, the odds of getting heavier go up day by day.
Two days ago, I started keeping track of what was going into my mouth. I've been cooking low-calorie things that I like (that's the key), and trying not to overdose on them. At this rate, any weight loss will be sloooooow going, but it's a start. (I haven't even weighed myself to see what my starting point is. I'm afraid to!) Maybe if I could tweak my thinking, I would not obsess over what my next meal/snack will be. Hey....it could happen! (Don't hold your breath!)
Don't get me wrong. I know what causes fat. And I know what to eat. I just don't want to! Since I retired, I haven't had much discipline in my eating habits. I can fix a big dish that is relatively low in calories, per serving, then eat the whole thing in one day. Hmmm...that isn't going to work.
Many diets address the fact that one needs to fill up on fiber so as not to feel hungry. Guess what? Hunger isn't my problem. Appetite is. I don't eat all that much in one sitting, but I go back to the refrigerator over and over again, looking for things to salve my boredom, fatigue, or voracious hunger that is only in my brain. Since I am getting virtually NO exercise these days, the odds of getting heavier go up day by day.
Two days ago, I started keeping track of what was going into my mouth. I've been cooking low-calorie things that I like (that's the key), and trying not to overdose on them. At this rate, any weight loss will be sloooooow going, but it's a start. (I haven't even weighed myself to see what my starting point is. I'm afraid to!) Maybe if I could tweak my thinking, I would not obsess over what my next meal/snack will be. Hey....it could happen! (Don't hold your breath!)
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
The Art of Taking Pills
Now you know that I have officially stepped into old age when this becomes a topic for writing!
BHA (Before Heart Attack), I was a normal human being who only went to the doctor when I had a problem and took no medications. I had "borderline" high blood pressure, but I wasn't advised to do anything but watch it. AHA (After Heart Attack), I became a Pill-Poppin' Mama. Let's see...there is the blood pressure medication, the pill to slow the heart down, the pill to thin the blood so it won't clot around the stent in my artery, the aspirin to do what? (I'm not sure), and the horse pill to work on my liver to reduce my cholesterol and blood fats. That's five pills a day. Oh...there are also the nitroglycerine tablets, just for emergencies. (I've never had to use them, thank God.)
AHA, I was often advised by nurses and doctors and cardiac rehab facilitators to be sure to take my medicines. Huh? Why spend the money on them but not take them? I guess many people don't, which is the reason for the admonitions. I do. In fact, if something happens that I begin the run out, I have to get creative about obtaining more. (That's another whole post. My insurance company now supports mail order 'scripts, which doesn't help if one is far from home and out of meds!)
Anyway, I bought a medicine dispenser thingie a few years ago--something that helps keep track of the days. Why? I used to laugh at those, but I understand now why they are needed. Did I take my pills today? Yes...er...or was that yesterday? I'm not sure? Look at the dispenser. It will show! The mail order prescription bottles are all identical. Sometimes the pills look alike. Filling the dispenser has to be systematic in order not to make mistakes.
Here's my system:
1. Open the dispenser ports. Count out the pills and say the numbers out loud as they are filled.
2. Check the name of the medicine on the bottle.
3. As each pill is placed, put the bottle in a different spot so it won't be grabbed in error again.
4. Shut the dispenser ports.
5. Each day, make sure all of the pills come out of the dispenser into my hand. (Count them in my hand.)
6. Make sure that all of the pills in my hand make it into my mouth. (Had one stick in between my fingers one time and almost didn't get it.)
7. Swallow enough water to make the pills go down easily. (I do them all at once.)
Yesterday, the inevitable happened. As I was popping the pills into my mouth, one dropped from my hand and fell to the floor. I couldn't immediately find it. I didn't know which pill it was! So--you guessed it--I had to spit them all out just to see what was missing and replace it, then swallow them all. The pills had already been exposed to my saliva--and we all know what happens to wet pills. They taste awful going down! I eventually found the errant pill. The "5-second rule" doesn't apply when it comes to meds. I put the bugger back in the dispenser to take another day. Hey...I'm not proud! Those little babies are too expensive to pitch just because they've hit my dirty floor!
As my mother always said, it's hell to get old!
BHA (Before Heart Attack), I was a normal human being who only went to the doctor when I had a problem and took no medications. I had "borderline" high blood pressure, but I wasn't advised to do anything but watch it. AHA (After Heart Attack), I became a Pill-Poppin' Mama. Let's see...there is the blood pressure medication, the pill to slow the heart down, the pill to thin the blood so it won't clot around the stent in my artery, the aspirin to do what? (I'm not sure), and the horse pill to work on my liver to reduce my cholesterol and blood fats. That's five pills a day. Oh...there are also the nitroglycerine tablets, just for emergencies. (I've never had to use them, thank God.)
AHA, I was often advised by nurses and doctors and cardiac rehab facilitators to be sure to take my medicines. Huh? Why spend the money on them but not take them? I guess many people don't, which is the reason for the admonitions. I do. In fact, if something happens that I begin the run out, I have to get creative about obtaining more. (That's another whole post. My insurance company now supports mail order 'scripts, which doesn't help if one is far from home and out of meds!)
Anyway, I bought a medicine dispenser thingie a few years ago--something that helps keep track of the days. Why? I used to laugh at those, but I understand now why they are needed. Did I take my pills today? Yes...er...or was that yesterday? I'm not sure? Look at the dispenser. It will show! The mail order prescription bottles are all identical. Sometimes the pills look alike. Filling the dispenser has to be systematic in order not to make mistakes.
Here's my system:
1. Open the dispenser ports. Count out the pills and say the numbers out loud as they are filled.
2. Check the name of the medicine on the bottle.
3. As each pill is placed, put the bottle in a different spot so it won't be grabbed in error again.
4. Shut the dispenser ports.
5. Each day, make sure all of the pills come out of the dispenser into my hand. (Count them in my hand.)
6. Make sure that all of the pills in my hand make it into my mouth. (Had one stick in between my fingers one time and almost didn't get it.)
7. Swallow enough water to make the pills go down easily. (I do them all at once.)
Yesterday, the inevitable happened. As I was popping the pills into my mouth, one dropped from my hand and fell to the floor. I couldn't immediately find it. I didn't know which pill it was! So--you guessed it--I had to spit them all out just to see what was missing and replace it, then swallow them all. The pills had already been exposed to my saliva--and we all know what happens to wet pills. They taste awful going down! I eventually found the errant pill. The "5-second rule" doesn't apply when it comes to meds. I put the bugger back in the dispenser to take another day. Hey...I'm not proud! Those little babies are too expensive to pitch just because they've hit my dirty floor!
As my mother always said, it's hell to get old!
Saturday, January 14, 2012
The Stories Behind My Furnishings...
Boring!!! But here it is, for the benefit of anyone who might care.
The fireplace.
Right out of college, I was married to a man named Tom. (Yes, folks...I was married twice!) Tom and I stayed in our college town while I taught and he finished his Master's Degree, then he took a job as a school counselor in the south suburbs of Chicago. We moved there with very few furnishings but worked on that. A couple of years later, we decided to buy our very first home--a townhouse in a place called Park Forest South. (I think the name has been changed...to Governor's Park, or something like that. I'm not even sure I could find it now!) The model townhome included a fireplace. I wanted that!!! Unfortunately, Tom didn't. He quoted the fact that the fireplace added $1,200 to the price of the home, and that if we spread that out over the course of the mortgage, it would cost much more. Ugh! I caved in.
That put me on the look for a fireplace substitute. As it turned out, J.C. Penney's had an electric fireplace that looked quite real. I think it was $170, and I loved it. When it was delivered, however, a corner of the wooden mantel was broken. We called Penney's at least twice for them come pick it up for a return, but they never did. Our account was cleared of the charges for the unit...and it became ours for free! We did some minor repairs to fix the mantel. I "bought" some fireplace tools with my mother-in-law's cigarette trading stamps. Tom and I divorced after five short years of marriage, but I got custody of the fireplace. Ever since 1971, the stupid thing has been in all of my residences. A lot of people don't see that it isn't real. Never mind that the rotating light that makes it look like a flickering fire whirs when turned on. Never mind that it puts out heat only when turned on (which is almost never). Never mind that my daughter and grandchildren have both had REAL fireplaces when Grandma's is just a fake. The fireplace has a purpose and function in my house. Among other things, it supplies a place to display an ancient clock that was my great-grandmother's. Don't get between me and my fireplace. You'll lose!
The buffet.
Still with then-husband Tom, we were touring antique shops in Rossville, IL. I don't remember the occasion...just wishing that we had the money to purchase some of the lovely old things we were seeing. In one particular shop, there was a back room. In that room was an old oak cabinet that was slightly over five feet long, with two doors hiding shelves on the right and left, a full length drawer on the bottom, and seven drawers in between. The doors had burlap in the cutouts. The top was one-and-a-half inches thick--pure oak. The whole cabinet was storing old paint and varnish cans. It was a mess...abused, but solid wood. I asked the shop owner if the cabinet was for sale. I could tell that he hadn't thought about selling it, since it was old and relatively discarded, but he said he would sell it...for $35. Sold!
I don't remember how we transported the cabinet. (We're talking 1971-72 here. I've slept since then!) I think it took a borrowed truck and a trip or two. At the time, my father was still teaching Industrial Arts in Elmwood Park, IL...so it went directly to his shop so I could refinish it. I stripped, stained, and varnished it. Put wood-grain contact paper on the inside shelves. Put new antique-looking pulls on the drawers and doors (18 of them--gets expensive!). I also installed pieces of amber-colored bottle-glass plastic where the burlap had been. All of this to house my 99-piece china set. With the divorce, I got custody of what had become "the buffet".
MANY years later, I decided that I wanted to put copper punch pieces where the bottle-glass plastic was. I was asking around for advice on where to find the right kind of copper to do the job. My friend Ryan's wife, an artist, volunteered to do the job. It took her awhile, but in time, I had four copper punch pieces for the doors--lotus blossoms, jumping frogs, oriental fish, dragon flies and butterflies. Beautiful!! What I have in my kitchen is now art. No one else in the world has a piece of furniture like this one! It's big and bulky and heavy, but it holds a lot. My $35 investment has proved to be invaluable to me through all these years...and it's pretty, to boot!
The curved-glass china cabinet.
You will find cabinets like this in most every antique store. The one I have was my grandmother's. I don't know where she got it or if it was saved from the house fire back in 1944. I only know that it was always in the house that was my grandparents' through my lifetime. I think we all thought it was a family treasure.
I never laid claim to family treasures when my parents were alive. Oh, I might have expressed interest in this thing or that, but when it came to the big things, I never said a word. I think my mother suffered from some pangs of guilt, however. LONG before she suddenly passed, she confided in me that she was giving my sister her sterling silver tableware--because I got the college education--and my brother was to get the curved-glass china cabinet. Hey...I didn't really care, although I wasn't particularly happy about her reasoning. My sister could have had a college education paid for by my parents, had she wanted it...and my brother was in the throes of getting one when his future was side-tracked by the fact that he was to become a father at the ripe old age of 19 or so. In any case, I was somewhat concerned by the fact that Doug (my brother) had no one to leave the china cabinet to after his eventual demise. His child was given up for adoption at birth. In the meantime, the china cabinet just stayed at the farm while my father was alive. Then Dad died...
After Dad passed, Doug told me that he was giving me the china cabinet on "semi-permanent loan". I didn't ask for it. He just knew that he couldn't house it.
Getting the cabinet from the farm near Streator, IL, to Plainfield, IN, was a problem. I enlisted the help of a local ham radio family with a pickup truck. Big mistake. Long story short, among paying them for their gas for the 400 miles, round trip, meals, a new magmount antenna along the route, and a new radiator for their minivan--the "follow car"--the transport cost me almost $400. When we finally arrived on Walton Drive in Plainfield, it was discovered that one of the curved glass pieces had fallen into the cabinet. It didn't break, thank God, but the piece of trim that held it in place was simply too old and brittle to hold it. I knew that the cabinet would probably not survive another non-professional trip.
A few years thereafter, Doug disowned my sister and I for our part in wanting to sell our grandparents' farm. There were mega-hard feelings on his part. When it became impossible for him to hold out anymore, he declared that he wanted his "due", and thereafter his sisters were dead to him. And so it was. The very last time I talked to him in this life was to tell him that I wasn't denying him his china cabinet but that HE was going to have to find some way to get it that wouldn't destroy it. There was no other word. Then he died, suddenly.
I'm not sure that anyone knew what bad shape the cabinet was/is in. The shelves rest on huge eye-screws that someone put in decades ago. The door doesn't close properly. The curved glass piece that fell out in transport is now held in place by a replacement bit of wood trim from a friend that another source told me would cost $80 to replicate. Still, it serves a function and has a place in my house. The question is, who does it belong to after I croak? I've met my brother's daughter. There is something that tells me she should have the cabinet. It seems right. But my sister objects to that, and I understand why. The way I see it, the china cabinet needs to be where it will be cherished as a piece of family history. Wherever that is!
Is it any wonder that it is hard for me to turn loose of stuff??
The fireplace.
Right out of college, I was married to a man named Tom. (Yes, folks...I was married twice!) Tom and I stayed in our college town while I taught and he finished his Master's Degree, then he took a job as a school counselor in the south suburbs of Chicago. We moved there with very few furnishings but worked on that. A couple of years later, we decided to buy our very first home--a townhouse in a place called Park Forest South. (I think the name has been changed...to Governor's Park, or something like that. I'm not even sure I could find it now!) The model townhome included a fireplace. I wanted that!!! Unfortunately, Tom didn't. He quoted the fact that the fireplace added $1,200 to the price of the home, and that if we spread that out over the course of the mortgage, it would cost much more. Ugh! I caved in.
That put me on the look for a fireplace substitute. As it turned out, J.C. Penney's had an electric fireplace that looked quite real. I think it was $170, and I loved it. When it was delivered, however, a corner of the wooden mantel was broken. We called Penney's at least twice for them come pick it up for a return, but they never did. Our account was cleared of the charges for the unit...and it became ours for free! We did some minor repairs to fix the mantel. I "bought" some fireplace tools with my mother-in-law's cigarette trading stamps. Tom and I divorced after five short years of marriage, but I got custody of the fireplace. Ever since 1971, the stupid thing has been in all of my residences. A lot of people don't see that it isn't real. Never mind that the rotating light that makes it look like a flickering fire whirs when turned on. Never mind that it puts out heat only when turned on (which is almost never). Never mind that my daughter and grandchildren have both had REAL fireplaces when Grandma's is just a fake. The fireplace has a purpose and function in my house. Among other things, it supplies a place to display an ancient clock that was my great-grandmother's. Don't get between me and my fireplace. You'll lose!
The buffet.
Still with then-husband Tom, we were touring antique shops in Rossville, IL. I don't remember the occasion...just wishing that we had the money to purchase some of the lovely old things we were seeing. In one particular shop, there was a back room. In that room was an old oak cabinet that was slightly over five feet long, with two doors hiding shelves on the right and left, a full length drawer on the bottom, and seven drawers in between. The doors had burlap in the cutouts. The top was one-and-a-half inches thick--pure oak. The whole cabinet was storing old paint and varnish cans. It was a mess...abused, but solid wood. I asked the shop owner if the cabinet was for sale. I could tell that he hadn't thought about selling it, since it was old and relatively discarded, but he said he would sell it...for $35. Sold!
I don't remember how we transported the cabinet. (We're talking 1971-72 here. I've slept since then!) I think it took a borrowed truck and a trip or two. At the time, my father was still teaching Industrial Arts in Elmwood Park, IL...so it went directly to his shop so I could refinish it. I stripped, stained, and varnished it. Put wood-grain contact paper on the inside shelves. Put new antique-looking pulls on the drawers and doors (18 of them--gets expensive!). I also installed pieces of amber-colored bottle-glass plastic where the burlap had been. All of this to house my 99-piece china set. With the divorce, I got custody of what had become "the buffet".
MANY years later, I decided that I wanted to put copper punch pieces where the bottle-glass plastic was. I was asking around for advice on where to find the right kind of copper to do the job. My friend Ryan's wife, an artist, volunteered to do the job. It took her awhile, but in time, I had four copper punch pieces for the doors--lotus blossoms, jumping frogs, oriental fish, dragon flies and butterflies. Beautiful!! What I have in my kitchen is now art. No one else in the world has a piece of furniture like this one! It's big and bulky and heavy, but it holds a lot. My $35 investment has proved to be invaluable to me through all these years...and it's pretty, to boot!
The curved-glass china cabinet.
You will find cabinets like this in most every antique store. The one I have was my grandmother's. I don't know where she got it or if it was saved from the house fire back in 1944. I only know that it was always in the house that was my grandparents' through my lifetime. I think we all thought it was a family treasure.
I never laid claim to family treasures when my parents were alive. Oh, I might have expressed interest in this thing or that, but when it came to the big things, I never said a word. I think my mother suffered from some pangs of guilt, however. LONG before she suddenly passed, she confided in me that she was giving my sister her sterling silver tableware--because I got the college education--and my brother was to get the curved-glass china cabinet. Hey...I didn't really care, although I wasn't particularly happy about her reasoning. My sister could have had a college education paid for by my parents, had she wanted it...and my brother was in the throes of getting one when his future was side-tracked by the fact that he was to become a father at the ripe old age of 19 or so. In any case, I was somewhat concerned by the fact that Doug (my brother) had no one to leave the china cabinet to after his eventual demise. His child was given up for adoption at birth. In the meantime, the china cabinet just stayed at the farm while my father was alive. Then Dad died...
After Dad passed, Doug told me that he was giving me the china cabinet on "semi-permanent loan". I didn't ask for it. He just knew that he couldn't house it.
Getting the cabinet from the farm near Streator, IL, to Plainfield, IN, was a problem. I enlisted the help of a local ham radio family with a pickup truck. Big mistake. Long story short, among paying them for their gas for the 400 miles, round trip, meals, a new magmount antenna along the route, and a new radiator for their minivan--the "follow car"--the transport cost me almost $400. When we finally arrived on Walton Drive in Plainfield, it was discovered that one of the curved glass pieces had fallen into the cabinet. It didn't break, thank God, but the piece of trim that held it in place was simply too old and brittle to hold it. I knew that the cabinet would probably not survive another non-professional trip.
A few years thereafter, Doug disowned my sister and I for our part in wanting to sell our grandparents' farm. There were mega-hard feelings on his part. When it became impossible for him to hold out anymore, he declared that he wanted his "due", and thereafter his sisters were dead to him. And so it was. The very last time I talked to him in this life was to tell him that I wasn't denying him his china cabinet but that HE was going to have to find some way to get it that wouldn't destroy it. There was no other word. Then he died, suddenly.
I'm not sure that anyone knew what bad shape the cabinet was/is in. The shelves rest on huge eye-screws that someone put in decades ago. The door doesn't close properly. The curved glass piece that fell out in transport is now held in place by a replacement bit of wood trim from a friend that another source told me would cost $80 to replicate. Still, it serves a function and has a place in my house. The question is, who does it belong to after I croak? I've met my brother's daughter. There is something that tells me she should have the cabinet. It seems right. But my sister objects to that, and I understand why. The way I see it, the china cabinet needs to be where it will be cherished as a piece of family history. Wherever that is!
Is it any wonder that it is hard for me to turn loose of stuff??
Cultural Differences and Generation Gaps
I think the term "generation gap" was coined back when I was a young adult. It referred to the differing values that came between my generation (known as Baby Boomers) and that of our parents (called the Greatest Generation by Tom Brokaw). Because we had been raised in different circumstances than our parents, it seemed that we didn't understand each other...which is ridiculous, when you think about it. All our parents wanted for us was for us to have more and better than what they had (because they had come through the Depression and WWII, etc.) They worked hard and provided as best they could. My generation responded by rejecting their materialism. The flower children of the 60s and 70s did everything they could to protest the Vietnam War and live out the relative "freedom" of free love and mind-altering drugs. (I will state here that I, personally, have never used a single illegal substance.) But when "we" grew up, we became more materialistic than our parents ever were. Gone were the days of wives staying home to raise the children. They wanted careers in order to be able to afford their lifestyle. The credit card became the family bank. (I don't think my parents even owned one!) Bigger and better gets expensive, you know?
My son-in-law is from Russia. He is only 26 so wasn't really a part of the USSR thing--the enemy, in my youth. He came here with a dream of having the life that "spoiled American kids" have. I don't totally understand what kind of poverty he endured as a child, but I do know that he wants "more and better" than what he had. He had a plan and worked hard to make it work. Right now, Denis and my daughter, combined, make three times what I made after 40 years of teaching. And because he has worked so hard to make it happen, he values it. It wasn't given to him. Thus, he isn't appreciative when his stepchildren seem not to appreciate what he sees as hard work and sacrifice. It's a generation gap, of sorts. If he's wise, he'll comprehend that we don't come from the same belief foundations. Children raised by American standards don't understand any other reality unless they are exposed to it. It's not their fault, nor his. It's just different.
We tease Denis about having "special needs" because he is still learning about American ways, but we could learn a lot from him. It's not just a one-way road.
My son-in-law is from Russia. He is only 26 so wasn't really a part of the USSR thing--the enemy, in my youth. He came here with a dream of having the life that "spoiled American kids" have. I don't totally understand what kind of poverty he endured as a child, but I do know that he wants "more and better" than what he had. He had a plan and worked hard to make it work. Right now, Denis and my daughter, combined, make three times what I made after 40 years of teaching. And because he has worked so hard to make it happen, he values it. It wasn't given to him. Thus, he isn't appreciative when his stepchildren seem not to appreciate what he sees as hard work and sacrifice. It's a generation gap, of sorts. If he's wise, he'll comprehend that we don't come from the same belief foundations. Children raised by American standards don't understand any other reality unless they are exposed to it. It's not their fault, nor his. It's just different.
We tease Denis about having "special needs" because he is still learning about American ways, but we could learn a lot from him. It's not just a one-way road.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Crying
Well...here it is, Thursday. After church on Sunday, I decided I would write in this blog about what makes people cry because I don't seem to be able to make it through church services without weeping...but I really don't understand the response, so I haven't written about it.
I'm sure there have been studies done about it. After all, there have been studies done about EVERYTHING. For what it's worth, I used to say, "I am not a crier." And I wasn't....until my grandchildren came along. Thereafter, I saw the world through their young-and-non-understanding eyes. Each time I headed up to visit them when they lived in Muncie, I would get little Robin's directive to bring "fruit...and candy". Had I NOT done that, I would have been a total traitor. Fruit and candy were Grandma's markers. My daughter's grandmother always had fresh peanut butter fudge in a tin in the pantry when we came to visit. The first thing Megan did when we walked in the door was look for it. It was always there. To let the grandchildren down was just not in my genes...but when they were moved away from me, I had no choice. Cry? I wept constantly for two years! Still do...
I have finally stopped being embarrassed about crying in church. Last Sunday, the pianist played "Be Still My Soul" as the congregation was taking Communion. Of course, I wept. Why?? I don't know! It is such a comforting hymn...one of my favorites. I'm thinking there is something about that hymn that tells me I am not worthy of the comfort. I don't get it. Sometimes, just hearing the first few bars of a hymn that was loved by my grandparents will take me to another place. Instead of crying, why can't I simply rejoice? I think it's my age...and a sense of loss. When we get old, a lot of memories represent things that are past and never to be had again. Maybe that's it!
Change of subject: I am still working on de-cluttering the house. My bedroom is finally done. That led me to the garage/bedroom storage closet. I tore into it three days ago. Couldn't get in it, due to things being in the way. It isn't done yet, but I have made a dent. Have found places to stash treasures from the rest of the house. The two biggest obstacles to finishing it are the boxes of unopened mail and the zillions of wire hangers. Help!!
I'm trying to talk myself out of having a Superbowl party. I'm not sure that the house will be ready by then, but I would enjoy the company of my SB friends from three years ago. I'll keep working and see where it gets me. During this whole process, I don't leave the house, fix myself up enough for human consumption, or pretend that I can be anything other than what I am. I'm working! Don't want to lose my momentum!
Back to the grind...
I'm sure there have been studies done about it. After all, there have been studies done about EVERYTHING. For what it's worth, I used to say, "I am not a crier." And I wasn't....until my grandchildren came along. Thereafter, I saw the world through their young-and-non-understanding eyes. Each time I headed up to visit them when they lived in Muncie, I would get little Robin's directive to bring "fruit...and candy". Had I NOT done that, I would have been a total traitor. Fruit and candy were Grandma's markers. My daughter's grandmother always had fresh peanut butter fudge in a tin in the pantry when we came to visit. The first thing Megan did when we walked in the door was look for it. It was always there. To let the grandchildren down was just not in my genes...but when they were moved away from me, I had no choice. Cry? I wept constantly for two years! Still do...
I have finally stopped being embarrassed about crying in church. Last Sunday, the pianist played "Be Still My Soul" as the congregation was taking Communion. Of course, I wept. Why?? I don't know! It is such a comforting hymn...one of my favorites. I'm thinking there is something about that hymn that tells me I am not worthy of the comfort. I don't get it. Sometimes, just hearing the first few bars of a hymn that was loved by my grandparents will take me to another place. Instead of crying, why can't I simply rejoice? I think it's my age...and a sense of loss. When we get old, a lot of memories represent things that are past and never to be had again. Maybe that's it!
Change of subject: I am still working on de-cluttering the house. My bedroom is finally done. That led me to the garage/bedroom storage closet. I tore into it three days ago. Couldn't get in it, due to things being in the way. It isn't done yet, but I have made a dent. Have found places to stash treasures from the rest of the house. The two biggest obstacles to finishing it are the boxes of unopened mail and the zillions of wire hangers. Help!!
I'm trying to talk myself out of having a Superbowl party. I'm not sure that the house will be ready by then, but I would enjoy the company of my SB friends from three years ago. I'll keep working and see where it gets me. During this whole process, I don't leave the house, fix myself up enough for human consumption, or pretend that I can be anything other than what I am. I'm working! Don't want to lose my momentum!
Back to the grind...
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Bullying
There has been a huge focus on bullying over the last few years because of childhood suicides. When I was teaching, if I saw bullying, I did all I could to stop it, but often it went on in the hallways under the teacher's radar.
I remember three occurrences that required my intervention.
The first two happened around a boy who drew the foul. He was a special ed. student, had an odor and was obnoxious, and the other kids were relentless in letting him know about both. (This was high school--seniors, to be exact.)
The first time, I dragged his taunter into the hall and told him that he was putting me in the untenable position of having to defend "Jack". "You know that Jack has problems. He doesn't have the power to change his circumstances. When you attack him, I am forced to defend the indefensible. How would you feel if you were in his place??" I don't know that it helped, but at least the kid who was on the attack understood that I was aware of the problems.
The second time happened with Jack again as the focus. He was asking for trouble. The kid he was drawing into the fire (Dustin) was a football athlete with the power to knock Jack out. In fact, his fists were clenched, ready to do battle...but I watched as he fumed and backed down.
I wrote Dustin's parents a note that day, telling them that he had been the better man by walking away from a situation that would only have caused him to be suspended from school. (Years later, I heard from them, indicating that they still had the note!) I don't know whatever happened to Jack, but Dustin went on to become a social studies teacher in a suburban school district.
The last time I had to deal directly with bullying came when I was teaching 8th grade. I had an autistic special ed. youngster who had a fine mind but also had a horrible stutter and an inability to communicate readily...and a temper. I did my darnedest to keep him away from kids who would taunt him, but it wasn't easy. I had to be vigilant whenever he was in the room. If someone did something to upset him, his eyes would get wild which would be my clue to remove him quickly from whatever was going on before he "blew". I liked Sean...I just couldn't do much to help him. One day, I pulled him out in the hall and told him that people who pick on him were doing so because of their own insecurities--at which point he told me, "Then if they feel bad about themselves, they must know how it feels to be me." My heart broke. I said, "Now you are going to make me cry"...and I did. It defused that particular moment, but when Sean moved on to high school, he didn't even make it through freshman year before being removed to homebound instruction. So sad!
I was also a victim of bullying. My family moved to Oak Park, IL (a western suburb of Chicago), when I was just beginning 6th grade. The school librarian planned a program of "Americana" which included someone to sing the Negro spiritual "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot". The music teacher auditioned the class to pick the soloist. Nancy Hartigan was the undisputed best singer in the 6th grade, but when Mrs. Boehm went around the room asking each student to sing a few bars, she asked me to sing mine twice. The decision was made that Nancy and I would share the solo--she, one verse, and me, another. That seemed to set things off.
Thereafter, Nancy and her friend Janice seemed to have it out for me. Whenever I was around them, they whispered nastily about how smart I thought I was. There was even some whispering about beating me up. I was a pretty naive kid. Had never faced this kind of thing before, and I was scared. Finally, I confessed what was happening to my mother. I didn't want her to do anything about it because I thought it would make things worse, but she went to the principal anyway. He called a convocation of all of the 6th grade girls. Without singling me out, he alluded to the fact that he had heard there was some bullying going on and that if he heard any more about it, he would take action. And that, believe it or not, was the end of it!
When we moved on to high school, Nancy became a non-entity in the music world. I, however, had three solo parts in school productions and had the lead in all three plays/musicals my senior year. I have no idea whatever happened to Nancy. I'm just glad that I lived in the days when school authority actually meant something. I also hope I made a little bit of difference in the lives of kids I worked with as a teacher. I don't think I'll ever know for sure...
I remember three occurrences that required my intervention.
The first two happened around a boy who drew the foul. He was a special ed. student, had an odor and was obnoxious, and the other kids were relentless in letting him know about both. (This was high school--seniors, to be exact.)
The first time, I dragged his taunter into the hall and told him that he was putting me in the untenable position of having to defend "Jack". "You know that Jack has problems. He doesn't have the power to change his circumstances. When you attack him, I am forced to defend the indefensible. How would you feel if you were in his place??" I don't know that it helped, but at least the kid who was on the attack understood that I was aware of the problems.
The second time happened with Jack again as the focus. He was asking for trouble. The kid he was drawing into the fire (Dustin) was a football athlete with the power to knock Jack out. In fact, his fists were clenched, ready to do battle...but I watched as he fumed and backed down.
I wrote Dustin's parents a note that day, telling them that he had been the better man by walking away from a situation that would only have caused him to be suspended from school. (Years later, I heard from them, indicating that they still had the note!) I don't know whatever happened to Jack, but Dustin went on to become a social studies teacher in a suburban school district.
The last time I had to deal directly with bullying came when I was teaching 8th grade. I had an autistic special ed. youngster who had a fine mind but also had a horrible stutter and an inability to communicate readily...and a temper. I did my darnedest to keep him away from kids who would taunt him, but it wasn't easy. I had to be vigilant whenever he was in the room. If someone did something to upset him, his eyes would get wild which would be my clue to remove him quickly from whatever was going on before he "blew". I liked Sean...I just couldn't do much to help him. One day, I pulled him out in the hall and told him that people who pick on him were doing so because of their own insecurities--at which point he told me, "Then if they feel bad about themselves, they must know how it feels to be me." My heart broke. I said, "Now you are going to make me cry"...and I did. It defused that particular moment, but when Sean moved on to high school, he didn't even make it through freshman year before being removed to homebound instruction. So sad!
I was also a victim of bullying. My family moved to Oak Park, IL (a western suburb of Chicago), when I was just beginning 6th grade. The school librarian planned a program of "Americana" which included someone to sing the Negro spiritual "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot". The music teacher auditioned the class to pick the soloist. Nancy Hartigan was the undisputed best singer in the 6th grade, but when Mrs. Boehm went around the room asking each student to sing a few bars, she asked me to sing mine twice. The decision was made that Nancy and I would share the solo--she, one verse, and me, another. That seemed to set things off.
Thereafter, Nancy and her friend Janice seemed to have it out for me. Whenever I was around them, they whispered nastily about how smart I thought I was. There was even some whispering about beating me up. I was a pretty naive kid. Had never faced this kind of thing before, and I was scared. Finally, I confessed what was happening to my mother. I didn't want her to do anything about it because I thought it would make things worse, but she went to the principal anyway. He called a convocation of all of the 6th grade girls. Without singling me out, he alluded to the fact that he had heard there was some bullying going on and that if he heard any more about it, he would take action. And that, believe it or not, was the end of it!
When we moved on to high school, Nancy became a non-entity in the music world. I, however, had three solo parts in school productions and had the lead in all three plays/musicals my senior year. I have no idea whatever happened to Nancy. I'm just glad that I lived in the days when school authority actually meant something. I also hope I made a little bit of difference in the lives of kids I worked with as a teacher. I don't think I'll ever know for sure...
Let Winter Begin
I ended my last post with the words "let winter begin". Well...when will it?? It is January 5th-- my deceased father's birthday and parents' anniversary--and it is shirtsleeve weather! The early perennials are poking up out of the ground and the maple trees have those fuzzy red things that come before the formation of the helicopter seeds. I even saw a couple of flying insects out on the patio. It's not nice to fool Mother Nature! I'm not complaining, however. The way I look at it, there is plenty of winter left for nasty weather, but every day that passes without it means we are that much closer to springtime. Last year at this time, I just moped. By early February, I flew to California to visit my daughter and spent some time in their mild temps during the ugliest part of winter at home. We had 16.6 inches of snow in Indiana in December last year. This whole season, so far, maybe 2 inches? I'm loving it!
For a couple of years now, one of my dear friends has been asking me, "Are you ready to move back into your old bedroom now?" And for those years, I have resisted. Moving back into that room meant major furniture moving, etc., but I think I'm ready now. I sleep in my old bedroom. I just haven't moved in--largely, I think, because doing so would mean that the room was no longer my daughter's. (We decorated the room to her tastes, etc. I just didn't want to accept the reality that she is no longer living here.) Well, I think I'm ready now. I'm tired of my clothing being in several places. I'm prepared to reclaim some space. Thus, I've been working on clearing her things out of the room and making it more mine. 'Tis a big job which requires cleaning out the closet and trying to find other places for her things that are still here.
One of the reasons I feel that I'm ready is that I have a laptop computer in that room. (My main desktop computer is in the garage room, but having the laptop in the other bedroom is a big deal!) I've spent the past two days working on sorting through things, realizing that there is more to do. I haven't given myself a timeline. I just work at it as I can. I notice the difference!
No, I haven't left the house in days, and I haven't fixed myself up enough to be presentable...but I am working inside the residence and liking it. I have been gathering things to take up to my daughter on my next visit, things to donate to Goodwill, things to donate to The Salvation Army, and things to take to the recycling bin at church. Of course, the garbage cans will be full, too! I will always fall short of perfection, but at least I'm working on it!
For a couple of years now, one of my dear friends has been asking me, "Are you ready to move back into your old bedroom now?" And for those years, I have resisted. Moving back into that room meant major furniture moving, etc., but I think I'm ready now. I sleep in my old bedroom. I just haven't moved in--largely, I think, because doing so would mean that the room was no longer my daughter's. (We decorated the room to her tastes, etc. I just didn't want to accept the reality that she is no longer living here.) Well, I think I'm ready now. I'm tired of my clothing being in several places. I'm prepared to reclaim some space. Thus, I've been working on clearing her things out of the room and making it more mine. 'Tis a big job which requires cleaning out the closet and trying to find other places for her things that are still here.
One of the reasons I feel that I'm ready is that I have a laptop computer in that room. (My main desktop computer is in the garage room, but having the laptop in the other bedroom is a big deal!) I've spent the past two days working on sorting through things, realizing that there is more to do. I haven't given myself a timeline. I just work at it as I can. I notice the difference!
No, I haven't left the house in days, and I haven't fixed myself up enough to be presentable...but I am working inside the residence and liking it. I have been gathering things to take up to my daughter on my next visit, things to donate to Goodwill, things to donate to The Salvation Army, and things to take to the recycling bin at church. Of course, the garbage cans will be full, too! I will always fall short of perfection, but at least I'm working on it!
Monday, January 2, 2012
Whoa!
It's been quite a long time since I've posted on here! There is no way that I can impart all that has happened in that amount of time, but I doubt that anyone cares about my mind ramblings, anyway. Suffice it to say, "Vini, vidi, vici." (I came, I saw, I conquered.) Christmas 2011 is history. So is New Year's of 2012. I can sum it all up as "nice"!
Santa was VERY good to me. I got some things that I wanted and a couple of things that I needed. (Thank you, Megan and Denis!) I had a box of homemade candies that Megan and the family had made. To die for! (Wish I hadn't eaten them all already. Would like some right now!)In my stocking were other goodies, one of which was an IPASS transponder that will allow me to get through the toll booths on my trips up and back. They ain't cheap! I have already used it on the trip back from their house. What a joy to just drive on through the Open Road Tolling lanes without having to fight the semis and/or worry that I have the right cash!
The big ticket present is something that I cherish: it is a console deal that looks like an old radio but has a turntable to play records, and a place to play cassette tapes and CDs, and the ability to record from one to the other! Can also play my MP3 player through it, etc. I had coveted one that I saw but had no idea that Santa would break his piggy bank to give it to me!
(Just got word that my family has returned safely home. That, in itself, is a present...the safety part.)
Christmas Day in Grayslake, IL, was very nice. But first, I have to explain that my granchildren (8 and 9) still seemed to believe in Santa Claus, so my son-in-law, Denis, was careful to keep the secret. When I arrived on the Thursday before Christmas, laden with my gifts and the ones from the Heffelman grandparents, the boxes had to be hidden. There were presents for Robin and Ryan and Denis and Megan, Wednesday (the grandchildren's stepsister), and Lilly (Robin's American Girl doll). Denis stashed them all under the stairs in a secret closet so the kids wouldn't see them. Since everyone went to bed fairly late on Christmas Eve, Denis decided he would get up in the middle of the night to put the gifts under their tree. The secret closet is in the room where I sleep there, so I was awakened around 1:30 AM by a man (Denis) in a full Santa suit, digging out gifts from the closet! (He was afraid that someone would wake up and catch him, so he dressed in borrowed Santa garb!) He asked in all of his Russian accent's glory, "What should I do with the gifts for Wednesday...and who the hell is Lilly??" You had to be there to understand the humor of the moment. The hour...the costume...the accent...the question...it just tickled me. I was still chuckling long after he was done. God bless the man! When everyone got up on Christmas morning, they were surprised to note that the presents took up a quarter of the living room!
Nathan and Kendra, the grandchildren's father and stepmother, arrived shortly after noon to share the day with us. We had lots of good food. In short order, the fathers were on the floor with the children helping them with their gifts. I felt sure that someone would want to play euchre, but the kids took precendence.
The whole crew caravanned to my house in Indiana on the Wednesday after Christmas. Wish I could say that they were all coming to a clean house, but they weren't. Still, it felt good to have them all on my turf. Poor Denis almost immediately came down with a cold or whatever...fever, sneezes, feeling yucky... We did our best to help him feel better.
New Year's Eve is a big holiday in Russia--bigger than Christmas--so we endeavor to make Denis feel at home. Traditions include certain foods. We made Salad Olivier which requires brine-cured pickles which you simply can't buy here without going to a Russian store--which they did. They also have "mandarins"--small oranges, as tradition--and champagne. We did it all. Connected with Denis's parents on Skype at their midnight, then again at ours. Denis and Megan fixed "French meat" and rice pilaf. It was a heavy dishwasher day!
At 9:00 PM, Phil and Judy Heffelman joined us with sweet/sour meatballs and pineapple upside-down cake. We ate and visited. Played a game or two of Jenga. By 12:15 AM. the Heffelman grandparents had departed...but Ryan was wound up and Robin had the giggles. I think we finally all crashed by 1:30 AM.
My family departed for Chicago-land this morning and have arrived safely. God is good. Now my house is back to boring normal. Let winter begin.
Santa was VERY good to me. I got some things that I wanted and a couple of things that I needed. (Thank you, Megan and Denis!) I had a box of homemade candies that Megan and the family had made. To die for! (Wish I hadn't eaten them all already. Would like some right now!)In my stocking were other goodies, one of which was an IPASS transponder that will allow me to get through the toll booths on my trips up and back. They ain't cheap! I have already used it on the trip back from their house. What a joy to just drive on through the Open Road Tolling lanes without having to fight the semis and/or worry that I have the right cash!
The big ticket present is something that I cherish: it is a console deal that looks like an old radio but has a turntable to play records, and a place to play cassette tapes and CDs, and the ability to record from one to the other! Can also play my MP3 player through it, etc. I had coveted one that I saw but had no idea that Santa would break his piggy bank to give it to me!
(Just got word that my family has returned safely home. That, in itself, is a present...the safety part.)
Christmas Day in Grayslake, IL, was very nice. But first, I have to explain that my granchildren (8 and 9) still seemed to believe in Santa Claus, so my son-in-law, Denis, was careful to keep the secret. When I arrived on the Thursday before Christmas, laden with my gifts and the ones from the Heffelman grandparents, the boxes had to be hidden. There were presents for Robin and Ryan and Denis and Megan, Wednesday (the grandchildren's stepsister), and Lilly (Robin's American Girl doll). Denis stashed them all under the stairs in a secret closet so the kids wouldn't see them. Since everyone went to bed fairly late on Christmas Eve, Denis decided he would get up in the middle of the night to put the gifts under their tree. The secret closet is in the room where I sleep there, so I was awakened around 1:30 AM by a man (Denis) in a full Santa suit, digging out gifts from the closet! (He was afraid that someone would wake up and catch him, so he dressed in borrowed Santa garb!) He asked in all of his Russian accent's glory, "What should I do with the gifts for Wednesday...and who the hell is Lilly??" You had to be there to understand the humor of the moment. The hour...the costume...the accent...the question...it just tickled me. I was still chuckling long after he was done. God bless the man! When everyone got up on Christmas morning, they were surprised to note that the presents took up a quarter of the living room!
Nathan and Kendra, the grandchildren's father and stepmother, arrived shortly after noon to share the day with us. We had lots of good food. In short order, the fathers were on the floor with the children helping them with their gifts. I felt sure that someone would want to play euchre, but the kids took precendence.
The whole crew caravanned to my house in Indiana on the Wednesday after Christmas. Wish I could say that they were all coming to a clean house, but they weren't. Still, it felt good to have them all on my turf. Poor Denis almost immediately came down with a cold or whatever...fever, sneezes, feeling yucky... We did our best to help him feel better.
New Year's Eve is a big holiday in Russia--bigger than Christmas--so we endeavor to make Denis feel at home. Traditions include certain foods. We made Salad Olivier which requires brine-cured pickles which you simply can't buy here without going to a Russian store--which they did. They also have "mandarins"--small oranges, as tradition--and champagne. We did it all. Connected with Denis's parents on Skype at their midnight, then again at ours. Denis and Megan fixed "French meat" and rice pilaf. It was a heavy dishwasher day!
At 9:00 PM, Phil and Judy Heffelman joined us with sweet/sour meatballs and pineapple upside-down cake. We ate and visited. Played a game or two of Jenga. By 12:15 AM. the Heffelman grandparents had departed...but Ryan was wound up and Robin had the giggles. I think we finally all crashed by 1:30 AM.
My family departed for Chicago-land this morning and have arrived safely. God is good. Now my house is back to boring normal. Let winter begin.
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