Eggs.
Once upon a time, the family cook would break eggs into a separate dish before adding them to ingredients in a recipe. The reason for that was--back then--obvious: eggs were often fresh from the chicken. Uncandled. (Eggs are passed by a bright light--candle--to observe blood spots on the yoke. Blood spots aren't dangerous to ingest but not very appetizing.) Breaking them into a separate dish allowed the cook to see the yoke before including it in the rest of the ingredients, plus allowed the cook to pick out pieces of shell, just in case.
Since most people now purchase eggs from commercial sources--eggs that are candled--I don't know of anyone who breaks them into separate dishes anymore. In fact, in all my years of cooking, I have only run into ONE egg that had a tiny little blood spot that had apparently been missed in the candling process. Why dirty up a separate dish for nothing?
Well! Over the holidays, with a houseful of people to cook breakfast for, I was breaking eggs into a pan for scrambling when I dumped one--a bloody mess--into the skillet with the rest. Ack!! Where did that come from?? It wasn't just a blood SPOT. It was as if someone had cut a vein over the pan! I couldn't get it out of there fast enough! These were commercial eggs. This one couldn't have simply been missed. Someone obviously put it in the wrong batch, with the acceptable eggs. Thus, it's back to basics with me. I now break eggs into a separate dish again!
Flour.
In our very first cooking lesson in Unified Arts in middle school, students were taught/shown that flour can "pack" if not sifted and can change the outcome of a recipe significantly. For years, I obediently sifted flour when cooking with it. And then they came out with pre-sifted flour. (It still packs, but we are lulled into believing that sifting is no longer necessary.) I don't even own a sifter anymore!
A couple of years ago, I bought flour from Aldi's. All-purpose flour. Cheap flour. It was awful! It didn't work properly in recipes. I couldn't figure out what was going on, until I realized that this flour wasn't listed as "pre-sifted". Ever since, I've been careful to check the label of the sacks of flour I am buying to make sure I am getting the pre-sifted variety.
I mean, flour is flour, right? Wrong! Reminds me of a time when, as a young bride, I was making homemade shortcakes for a strawberry shortcake dessert, with a new sack of flour. The resulting cakes were so salty we couldn't eat them, even though I had followed the recipe to the letter. On the phone with my mother thereafter, she told me to check to see what kind of flour I had bought. I'd just picked up a bag of flour...but this was "self-rising" flour, containing salt. I had no clue! I threw out the whole bag and started over again. Live and learn!
Butter.
Once upon a time, my family was friends with a family that had a milk cow. One milk cow. Sometimes, Mrs. Clark would give my mother some homemade butter, but it was awful! I wouldn't touch it. Mom explained that the butter didn't have salt in it. I didn't think that would make a difference, but then Mom started working salt into the butter from the Clark's. It made all the difference in the world! Salt is supposed to be the enemy of folks, but I'm here to tell you that unsalted butter will never be on MY table!
Beef.
With all of the emphasis on organic foods these days, people are buying grass-fed beef--paying a premium for it, actually--with the thought that this is a natural food. So??? There is a reason why cattle are sent to feed lots and fed grain before they are slaughtered for meat. The reason is that grain naturally tenderizes the meat. The cows don't know the difference. They will eat grass or grain...whatever is fed to them...but the consumer will know the difference. Grass-fed beef is tough. Grain-fed beef is tender. Thus, if you are in the mood for a nice, juicy, tender steak to plop on the grill, better not go organic. I am truly my father's daughter; I want grain-fed beef! So sue me!
Enough of this. I am heading for Illinois tomorrow to help out my sister who has come down with a serious case of Shingles. I'm just going to help out. Hope she understands that I don't cook as well as she does and don't clean as well as she does...and don't iron clothes as well as she does. (Iron clothes?? Talk about an obsolete home practice! Still, that explains why she always looks like a million bucks and I just look like a frump.) Help is on the way, Shari! As Mighty Mouse would sing, "Here I come to save the day!"
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
Monday, January 21, 2013
The Well-Oiled Homeless Machine
I have written before about my church's ministry to the homeless in Indianapolis. I'm not sure how it all started, but someone in our church met with someone in another church and learned about how the other church was providing meals for the homeless in Indy. Our folks took up the charge. One meal a week...taken to the people under the bridges, etc...much to the dismay of the city authorities who would just like the whole thing to go away.
My grandchildren's paternal grandfather (Phil) is the main cook and menu-decider. He scours the Internet looking for recipes--mostly soups--that are hearty and nutritious, depending on what ingredients have been on sale or donated in a particular period. One gal...a Galyan...is the chief contact with the homeless people. Another guy takes care of the church van's transportation and the purchases, plus helps in the kitchen. Yet another fellow shows up weekly to drive the van. And in between, there are the "worker bees" among us who show up, pack lunch sacks with puddings and fruit cups and applesauce cups, pack whatever bread products we have for the week (corn bread, etc.), chop veggies, and serve up/pack the foods to head to the city. There is no schedule for who will show up to work. We accept all takers! I usually only help out during the winter when the "snow birds" head south and the kitchen is shorter-handed than usual.
What I noticed today is that the machine works, no matter who is there. My grandchildren's Uncle Dan was chopping onions when I arrived, then he left. Grandpa Phil was cooking the "winter lentil and vegetable" soup. The van guy was packing sacks. When I arrived, I took over the sack-packing while the van guy cut up a ham that had been donated. Two other experienced gals showed up. They made ham sandwiches, and when we ran out of ham, they made peanut butter sandwiches to go along with the soup. We ran out of sandwich bags, so had to revert to plastic wrap...but it all worked.
There is always a break time between the conclusion of preparations (packing bags) and time to serve up the hot foods. We sit in Clayton Hall and chit-chat. It's a time of great fellowship! Today we were talking about experiences with Canada geese. I know...you had to be there...but it was an enjoyable time. Then we went back to the kitchen to serve up and pack the soup. (There is a sytem to the packing...in foam containers, etc. Those who do it weekly have it down to a fine science.
When we get the soup put into foam containers and packed, I generally come home. Some day, I will go downtown with the crew to be part of rubbing elbows with the homeless...but for now, I'm just happy to help out. I just noticed today that the job would get done, no matter who/how many showed up to assist. This is how it should be. No glory here. Just get the job done!
And you know what? It is so nasty cold tonight that I pray there are no homeless to be found. Schools all over central IN are delaying the start of the day tomorrow in deference to wind chills. I am so grateful to God for my little warm house-on-a-slab tonight!
My grandchildren's paternal grandfather (Phil) is the main cook and menu-decider. He scours the Internet looking for recipes--mostly soups--that are hearty and nutritious, depending on what ingredients have been on sale or donated in a particular period. One gal...a Galyan...is the chief contact with the homeless people. Another guy takes care of the church van's transportation and the purchases, plus helps in the kitchen. Yet another fellow shows up weekly to drive the van. And in between, there are the "worker bees" among us who show up, pack lunch sacks with puddings and fruit cups and applesauce cups, pack whatever bread products we have for the week (corn bread, etc.), chop veggies, and serve up/pack the foods to head to the city. There is no schedule for who will show up to work. We accept all takers! I usually only help out during the winter when the "snow birds" head south and the kitchen is shorter-handed than usual.
What I noticed today is that the machine works, no matter who is there. My grandchildren's Uncle Dan was chopping onions when I arrived, then he left. Grandpa Phil was cooking the "winter lentil and vegetable" soup. The van guy was packing sacks. When I arrived, I took over the sack-packing while the van guy cut up a ham that had been donated. Two other experienced gals showed up. They made ham sandwiches, and when we ran out of ham, they made peanut butter sandwiches to go along with the soup. We ran out of sandwich bags, so had to revert to plastic wrap...but it all worked.
There is always a break time between the conclusion of preparations (packing bags) and time to serve up the hot foods. We sit in Clayton Hall and chit-chat. It's a time of great fellowship! Today we were talking about experiences with Canada geese. I know...you had to be there...but it was an enjoyable time. Then we went back to the kitchen to serve up and pack the soup. (There is a sytem to the packing...in foam containers, etc. Those who do it weekly have it down to a fine science.
When we get the soup put into foam containers and packed, I generally come home. Some day, I will go downtown with the crew to be part of rubbing elbows with the homeless...but for now, I'm just happy to help out. I just noticed today that the job would get done, no matter who/how many showed up to assist. This is how it should be. No glory here. Just get the job done!
And you know what? It is so nasty cold tonight that I pray there are no homeless to be found. Schools all over central IN are delaying the start of the day tomorrow in deference to wind chills. I am so grateful to God for my little warm house-on-a-slab tonight!
Sunday, January 20, 2013
Les Miserables
Anyone who knows me well knows how I love musical theater. That interest is something that I share with my daughter; unfortunately, it is difficult to find other human animals that will endure musicals. If Meg and I aren't together, we can't always find a willing escort--and, frankly, it's no fun to go to a show with someone who doesn't appreciate the artistry, the choreography (if there is any), the music, and the craft. Meg and I are both performers. We get it. Others don't.
The movie Les Miserables, which is based on a French novel by Victor Hugo, has been out since December. I wanted to go with Meg when she was here over the holidays, but there was no opportunity to break away from everyone in order to do that gracefully. I weighed my options. The movie is still showing here in Plainfield, but it is waning in opportunities. Thus, I asked one of my radio friends--a real movie buff--if he would go with me. He accepted.
A little more by way of background: I read the novel Les Miserables as a freshman in college--in French. Since I'd been an A student of French for four years in high school, I decided to take French in college...a 200-level course, considering my background. I didn't realize that a 200-level course put me in class with juniors and seniors--students who had been to France and even studied the language there. I was WAY over my head and insecure! When I say I read the novel, I should probably say that I TRIED to read the novel. I was swamped with vocabulary...and having seen the movie today, I'm quite sure I didn't finish the book! Megan saw the Broadway version on stage in Indy when she was in high school. She had a tape of the 10th anniversary of the show which we listened to in the car and sang along with as best we could. Some of the songs were quite haunting and beautiful. I could only imagine what it was like seeing it for real. Then they made a movie of it, and I got that chance today.
First, let me say that the movie was long. Even with popcorn. The plot, which follows the book, is complicated with many twists and turns. The people cast in the main parts are not musicins but actors of repute. (I wasn't sure how that would work.) The story, set in France at the beginning of the French Revolution, is depressing and bleak. There is very little by way of comic relief in the movie. And there are no spoken lines. Everything is set to music, with many reprises--same tunes throughout, but with different lyrics. If you can get through all of that, you are in!
There are metaphors within. In one of the first scenes, the main character (a prisoner) is made to shoulder the broken mast of a ship and carry it alone--a very obvious reference to the Christ, carrying his cross. The other prisoners are pulling a wrecked ship up by ropes and being referred to by number rather than name (reminding me of Ben Hur). Then there are street scenes with urchins and poor people and prostitutes who all sing with British cockney accents reminiscent of similar scenes in the show Oliver!, even though these people are supposed to be French. It's a British movie...but still...
Since I already knew the plot, for the most part, and the music from the days when Meg saw the Broadway version on stage, I was a bit concerned that the people in the cast were actors and actresses rather than musicians. I feared I would be disappointed. I wasn't! There is one scene where Anne Hathaway as Fantine has been forced into a life of prostitution in order to support her illegitimate child. The camera is close in her face for the entire song she sings (I Dreamed a Dream). Every nuance of expression, every tear and cough and choking expression is right there for all to see. What a superb acting job! As a person who used to perform, I could only respect what she had to pull up from her toenails to do that scene! I haven't seen the competition, but this young actress deserves an Academy Award for just that one scene!
The story is about redemption. There are reminders of Romeo and Juliet.
The whole thing is almost too much to take in at once. Still, I am glad that I saw it and most grateful to my friend who graciously went with me, in spite of his bias about musicals. Thanks, Ry!
The movie Les Miserables, which is based on a French novel by Victor Hugo, has been out since December. I wanted to go with Meg when she was here over the holidays, but there was no opportunity to break away from everyone in order to do that gracefully. I weighed my options. The movie is still showing here in Plainfield, but it is waning in opportunities. Thus, I asked one of my radio friends--a real movie buff--if he would go with me. He accepted.
A little more by way of background: I read the novel Les Miserables as a freshman in college--in French. Since I'd been an A student of French for four years in high school, I decided to take French in college...a 200-level course, considering my background. I didn't realize that a 200-level course put me in class with juniors and seniors--students who had been to France and even studied the language there. I was WAY over my head and insecure! When I say I read the novel, I should probably say that I TRIED to read the novel. I was swamped with vocabulary...and having seen the movie today, I'm quite sure I didn't finish the book! Megan saw the Broadway version on stage in Indy when she was in high school. She had a tape of the 10th anniversary of the show which we listened to in the car and sang along with as best we could. Some of the songs were quite haunting and beautiful. I could only imagine what it was like seeing it for real. Then they made a movie of it, and I got that chance today.
First, let me say that the movie was long. Even with popcorn. The plot, which follows the book, is complicated with many twists and turns. The people cast in the main parts are not musicins but actors of repute. (I wasn't sure how that would work.) The story, set in France at the beginning of the French Revolution, is depressing and bleak. There is very little by way of comic relief in the movie. And there are no spoken lines. Everything is set to music, with many reprises--same tunes throughout, but with different lyrics. If you can get through all of that, you are in!
There are metaphors within. In one of the first scenes, the main character (a prisoner) is made to shoulder the broken mast of a ship and carry it alone--a very obvious reference to the Christ, carrying his cross. The other prisoners are pulling a wrecked ship up by ropes and being referred to by number rather than name (reminding me of Ben Hur). Then there are street scenes with urchins and poor people and prostitutes who all sing with British cockney accents reminiscent of similar scenes in the show Oliver!, even though these people are supposed to be French. It's a British movie...but still...
Since I already knew the plot, for the most part, and the music from the days when Meg saw the Broadway version on stage, I was a bit concerned that the people in the cast were actors and actresses rather than musicians. I feared I would be disappointed. I wasn't! There is one scene where Anne Hathaway as Fantine has been forced into a life of prostitution in order to support her illegitimate child. The camera is close in her face for the entire song she sings (I Dreamed a Dream). Every nuance of expression, every tear and cough and choking expression is right there for all to see. What a superb acting job! As a person who used to perform, I could only respect what she had to pull up from her toenails to do that scene! I haven't seen the competition, but this young actress deserves an Academy Award for just that one scene!
The story is about redemption. There are reminders of Romeo and Juliet.
The whole thing is almost too much to take in at once. Still, I am glad that I saw it and most grateful to my friend who graciously went with me, in spite of his bias about musicals. Thanks, Ry!
Saturday, January 19, 2013
My Brother
This might not be a good topic to write about since some of the people in it are still alive and kicking, but I think it is worthy.
When I was a young married lady, I went home to Oak Park, IL, to visit my folks one weekend. My brother had graduated from high school and was supposedly going to DeVry Institute of Technology in the Chicago area--something my parents supported. When I arrived at the house, Doug and his 15-year-old girl friend were there, briefly, before he took her home. Debby looked kind of bad. I said to Mom, "I don't mean to sound 'catty', but what's the matter with Debby?" Mom's response floored me. "Other than the fact that she's six months pregnant, nothing." Whoa! I had no idea!
A couple of weeks later, my husband and I joined my parents in a rented cottage in Wisconsin--a place they had set aside months before as a vacation spot--but there was no vacation about it. Mom filled me in on the events that had gone on. Mom was very, very emotionally upset. Dad was, too, but not visibly. I only heard about it.
The story went that Debby became pregnant by Doug. He had gone to everyone he could think of to borrow funds for an abortion--except our parents or other family, who weren't told. When the time passed for a "safe" abortion to be performed, and Debby was beginning to show, Doug confessed the situation to our parents. He wanted to do the honorable thing and marry Debby. According to Mom, Dad was inconsolable--sick to his stomach--to think that his son couldn't find it in his heart to come to him with this. Mom was just a mess.
Doug and Debby had thrown in with a youth pastor at a church in Oak Park. A joint meeting with the pastor and the two sets of families was set up in order to determine what was best for everyone, including the child-to-be. Doug was an irresponsible youth, not yet "of age". (Emancipation in those days--early 70s--was 21. Doug was maybe 19. Debby was 15.) In the course of the meeting, it was decided by all parties--his and hers--that marriage was out of the question. Debby's parents sent her to the Booth Memorial Home for Unwed Mothers (Salvation Army) in Chicago to finish out her pregnancy and the birth of the baby. Doug joined the Navy, unbeknownst and unapproved by our parents. He had promised Debby's family that he would pay for Debby's care, but he had no means to do that. Our parents did. They paid his commitment.
When Doug announced to the folks that he had joined the Navy, Mom said, "They won't take you without our approval." His response? "They already did. I leave for Boot Camp on Friday." She was devastated, but that Friday morning, she got him out of bed to take him to the bus that would transport him to the Great Lakes Navy Training Center. He had been out the night before and had tied one on. When she roused him, he was still drunk. So drunk, in fact, that he was trying to scrape the ice off the windshield of her car...but it was June! I can only imagine the hangover he felt that day--his first day of Boot Camp!
Six or eight weeks later, I went up with the folks to his BC graduation. The mood had changed from "no!" to "what next?". Doug went on to his Navy career for the next seven or nine years. In the meantime, Debby gave birth to a girl on August 6th--my mother's birthday. The child was immediately given up for adoption, but my mother was forever haunted on her birthday--that out there, somewhere, she had a grandchild that she would never be able to hold or know.
Debby went on with her life. Doug went on with his. I don't think the two of them ever saw each other again. Flash forward many years. In those days, Doug and I probably talked by phone once a week. He was out of the Navy and had a position as an electrician at a factory in the Chicago area, while he continued to live in Oak Park. He was becoming a sentimental dude--stubborn as the day is long, but totally enamored of the past. At one point, he had registered on a website called "BirthRight" or something like that, where adopted children could find their birth parents, if they wanted to. One day close to Christmas, I got a call from Doug. He was ecstatic. His daughter had been looking for him and had connected! He found out that his daughter's name was Lisa, she was married, and that he was a grandfather. I'll never forget how euphoric he sounded. I truly think this was the happiest day of his life. He had never married. Lisa was his only offspring.
Lisa had already found her birth mother, and they were forming a friendship. Doug met with Lisa a few times, but then suddenly cut things off. This is hard to explain, but I think I was told that he had decided that Lisa's being in touch with her birth parents--especially her mother--was going to interfere in her real life, and Doug didn't want to be a part of that. He let her go without explanation.
A few years later, Doug got sideways with my sister and I about the sale of the family farm. (I've written about this before.) He didn't want to sell, but the four other partners in the farm did. He could forgive our cousins, but he couldn't forgive Shari or me. He declared that we were dead to him, and he was a man of his word. There would be no further contact between us, no matter how much we tried. And then Doug died, suddenly, with only Shari and me to take charge of his arrangements. It was a sobering responsibility.
I was in a quandary about his daughter. I didn't know anything about her but her name. I didn't know if she would want to be a part of her birth father's funeral...or even would want to know...but I quickly decided that she should be told. A friend of mine got on the Internet and quickly got a phone number for her, and I called. Yes, she did want to know about his arrangements. And so it was that, on a very horrible weather day in mid-January in Central Illinois, we got to meet our niece for the first time. Doug was buried with military honors. Shari and I insisted that Lisa be given his flag, and she graciously accepted. She was present at his funeral and was present at the meal provided at the American Legion afterward. It was a beginning, of sorts, prompted by an ending.
Later--I'm not sure how long--I invited Lisa and family to come to visit in my little house-on-a-slab. She and Lydia, Doug's granddaughter, and German Shepherd Crowley came for a weekend. We spent many long hours on the patio talking about family...things that she never knew about half of her birth family. When she talked about how Doug had just cut her off, I came to realize that she had felt abandoned twice by her real father. My heart broke for her. She was an adult with a 10-year-old child of her own at that time, but the tears on her face told me that she still hurt.
I haven't seen Lisa or Lydia since, although we are friends on Facebook. She is a home-schooling mother and a totally liberal thinker. She doesn't live all that far from my daughter, so I think the next time I am in the Chicago area, we should arrange a get-together. I think we would all get along famously. Lisa's husband is into computer stuff. My son-in-law is a Senior Software Engineer with Google (Motorola Mobility)...and I think my grandchildren would totally enjoy their family of rats and quail and household pets. I'm going to suggest that!
When I was a young married lady, I went home to Oak Park, IL, to visit my folks one weekend. My brother had graduated from high school and was supposedly going to DeVry Institute of Technology in the Chicago area--something my parents supported. When I arrived at the house, Doug and his 15-year-old girl friend were there, briefly, before he took her home. Debby looked kind of bad. I said to Mom, "I don't mean to sound 'catty', but what's the matter with Debby?" Mom's response floored me. "Other than the fact that she's six months pregnant, nothing." Whoa! I had no idea!
A couple of weeks later, my husband and I joined my parents in a rented cottage in Wisconsin--a place they had set aside months before as a vacation spot--but there was no vacation about it. Mom filled me in on the events that had gone on. Mom was very, very emotionally upset. Dad was, too, but not visibly. I only heard about it.
The story went that Debby became pregnant by Doug. He had gone to everyone he could think of to borrow funds for an abortion--except our parents or other family, who weren't told. When the time passed for a "safe" abortion to be performed, and Debby was beginning to show, Doug confessed the situation to our parents. He wanted to do the honorable thing and marry Debby. According to Mom, Dad was inconsolable--sick to his stomach--to think that his son couldn't find it in his heart to come to him with this. Mom was just a mess.
Doug and Debby had thrown in with a youth pastor at a church in Oak Park. A joint meeting with the pastor and the two sets of families was set up in order to determine what was best for everyone, including the child-to-be. Doug was an irresponsible youth, not yet "of age". (Emancipation in those days--early 70s--was 21. Doug was maybe 19. Debby was 15.) In the course of the meeting, it was decided by all parties--his and hers--that marriage was out of the question. Debby's parents sent her to the Booth Memorial Home for Unwed Mothers (Salvation Army) in Chicago to finish out her pregnancy and the birth of the baby. Doug joined the Navy, unbeknownst and unapproved by our parents. He had promised Debby's family that he would pay for Debby's care, but he had no means to do that. Our parents did. They paid his commitment.
When Doug announced to the folks that he had joined the Navy, Mom said, "They won't take you without our approval." His response? "They already did. I leave for Boot Camp on Friday." She was devastated, but that Friday morning, she got him out of bed to take him to the bus that would transport him to the Great Lakes Navy Training Center. He had been out the night before and had tied one on. When she roused him, he was still drunk. So drunk, in fact, that he was trying to scrape the ice off the windshield of her car...but it was June! I can only imagine the hangover he felt that day--his first day of Boot Camp!
Six or eight weeks later, I went up with the folks to his BC graduation. The mood had changed from "no!" to "what next?". Doug went on to his Navy career for the next seven or nine years. In the meantime, Debby gave birth to a girl on August 6th--my mother's birthday. The child was immediately given up for adoption, but my mother was forever haunted on her birthday--that out there, somewhere, she had a grandchild that she would never be able to hold or know.
Debby went on with her life. Doug went on with his. I don't think the two of them ever saw each other again. Flash forward many years. In those days, Doug and I probably talked by phone once a week. He was out of the Navy and had a position as an electrician at a factory in the Chicago area, while he continued to live in Oak Park. He was becoming a sentimental dude--stubborn as the day is long, but totally enamored of the past. At one point, he had registered on a website called "BirthRight" or something like that, where adopted children could find their birth parents, if they wanted to. One day close to Christmas, I got a call from Doug. He was ecstatic. His daughter had been looking for him and had connected! He found out that his daughter's name was Lisa, she was married, and that he was a grandfather. I'll never forget how euphoric he sounded. I truly think this was the happiest day of his life. He had never married. Lisa was his only offspring.
Lisa had already found her birth mother, and they were forming a friendship. Doug met with Lisa a few times, but then suddenly cut things off. This is hard to explain, but I think I was told that he had decided that Lisa's being in touch with her birth parents--especially her mother--was going to interfere in her real life, and Doug didn't want to be a part of that. He let her go without explanation.
A few years later, Doug got sideways with my sister and I about the sale of the family farm. (I've written about this before.) He didn't want to sell, but the four other partners in the farm did. He could forgive our cousins, but he couldn't forgive Shari or me. He declared that we were dead to him, and he was a man of his word. There would be no further contact between us, no matter how much we tried. And then Doug died, suddenly, with only Shari and me to take charge of his arrangements. It was a sobering responsibility.
I was in a quandary about his daughter. I didn't know anything about her but her name. I didn't know if she would want to be a part of her birth father's funeral...or even would want to know...but I quickly decided that she should be told. A friend of mine got on the Internet and quickly got a phone number for her, and I called. Yes, she did want to know about his arrangements. And so it was that, on a very horrible weather day in mid-January in Central Illinois, we got to meet our niece for the first time. Doug was buried with military honors. Shari and I insisted that Lisa be given his flag, and she graciously accepted. She was present at his funeral and was present at the meal provided at the American Legion afterward. It was a beginning, of sorts, prompted by an ending.
Later--I'm not sure how long--I invited Lisa and family to come to visit in my little house-on-a-slab. She and Lydia, Doug's granddaughter, and German Shepherd Crowley came for a weekend. We spent many long hours on the patio talking about family...things that she never knew about half of her birth family. When she talked about how Doug had just cut her off, I came to realize that she had felt abandoned twice by her real father. My heart broke for her. She was an adult with a 10-year-old child of her own at that time, but the tears on her face told me that she still hurt.
I haven't seen Lisa or Lydia since, although we are friends on Facebook. She is a home-schooling mother and a totally liberal thinker. She doesn't live all that far from my daughter, so I think the next time I am in the Chicago area, we should arrange a get-together. I think we would all get along famously. Lisa's husband is into computer stuff. My son-in-law is a Senior Software Engineer with Google (Motorola Mobility)...and I think my grandchildren would totally enjoy their family of rats and quail and household pets. I'm going to suggest that!
Thursday, January 17, 2013
The Teacher in Me IV
Continued...
1. I love this story, as will become obvious...
Teaching seniors at Monrovia High School. I had a student named Zach. Zach wasn't a bad kid, but he wasn't a shrinking violet, either. He wasn't afraid to buck authority if he thought he should.
One day, still during the passing period but before class started, Zach and a classmate entered my room in a dispute about something. Suddenly, Zach put the other kid in a headlock. The other kid was clawing and trying to get out of it, to no avail. Zach was saying, "I'm not going to hurt him, Ms. McNary. I just want him to stop running his mouth." There was no doubt in my mind that the other kid asked for what he was getting, but here I was the person responsible for keeping order, and I had to do something. My mind raced. Do I need to call a male teacher to come in and break this up? Do I need to call the office for assistance? What to do?? I started by standing close to the boys and saying, "I am going to ask you, in the nicest way I know how, to stop!" To my absolute shock, Zach let the kid go, and the kid didn't retaliate. Crisis averted! In my mind, I was saying, "That worked??? Ask a kid to stop fighting, and he does????" Everyone settled down and class went on as usual. I told Zach that I would still have to write him up for the incident, which he accepted with no complaint at all. Whatever punishment he got from the office was okay with him, I guess. Zach made me look like a genius that day.
Later that same year, I had Zach's class in the Media Center, doing research. We were sharing the facility with a freshman class that had a young teacher. Somehow, Zach got sideways with the freshman teacher. He smarted off to her, disrespectfully, and she came to me about it (as she should have). Internally, I sighed because, once again, I had to think of the best way to deal with this so that all of the parties would come out happy. I didn't want the teacher to go unsupported, but I didn't particularly want to set Zach off, either. (That never works.) I told the other teacher that I was going to call Zach out in the hall to have a three-way conversation with the both of them and me, but I needed to know what she wanted as an outcome. She said, "An apology would be acceptable." So all I had to do was figure out how to get an apology out of this kid. Hmmm...
We met in the hall. I don't remember how the conversation went, but I talked to Zach like an adult--not a hot-headed kid--and the next thing I knew, he was saying that he sometimes had trouble keeping his mouth shut and was apologizing to the other teacher. Well! That was easy! She accepted his apology. We all went back into the Media Center and continued with our business as if nothing had happened. The other teacher came to me at the end of the period and told me how well I had handled the whole situation. I was still bumfuzzled by the fact that Zach had made me look like a genius again!
Zach was just one of those kids who wasn't afraid of mischief but wasn't going to lie about it, either. (So different from most students.) I really, really respected that about him. After those incidents, I think I would have trusted him with my life. In fact, I did. Zach went on to become a Marine whose service protected us all. He lives in Stilesville, IN, now and is one of my Facebook friends, so many years later.
2. Bomb threat.
Teaching seniors in Monrovia. I have written about this incident on this blog before, in another context. I had a student in my very last class of the day. While the kids were lined up at the door waiting for the bell, the young man became upset by something that had come down from the office to him. He commented, "I should just come back and blow this place up." This was quite soon after the Columbine school disaster. The comment put me in a pinch. I was quite sure that he didn't mean it. I knew the kid pretty well. HOWEVER, he made the comment in right in front of other students, and I understood that if I didn't report it, and he acted on his threat, it would be MY neck that would be dragged through the headlines as the guilty party. I could imagine kids saying, "Ms. McNary was standing right there when he made the threat but didn't do anything about it." I had no choice. I reported the threat, and the kid (who actually lived out of the district boundaries anyway) was expelled from school. I've always felt a little bad about that one.
3. Marijuana.
Again, teaching seniors. I had a student who was arrested for marijuana possession and ended up in jail. After he served his time, he was back in class telling us all that, as soon as he was 18, he was going to move to Amsterdam where pot is legal. I was appalled. I think my comment was something like, "You are going to leave your home and family so you can have a drug? Is pot that important to you??" He said it was. Then, one day, he announced in an amused sort of way, that he had been drug tested the day before and knew it would come back "dirty". More jail time for violation of probation. I'm not sure whatever happened to him. Obviously, he didn't graduate. Wonder if he ever made it to Amsterdam...
1. I love this story, as will become obvious...
Teaching seniors at Monrovia High School. I had a student named Zach. Zach wasn't a bad kid, but he wasn't a shrinking violet, either. He wasn't afraid to buck authority if he thought he should.
One day, still during the passing period but before class started, Zach and a classmate entered my room in a dispute about something. Suddenly, Zach put the other kid in a headlock. The other kid was clawing and trying to get out of it, to no avail. Zach was saying, "I'm not going to hurt him, Ms. McNary. I just want him to stop running his mouth." There was no doubt in my mind that the other kid asked for what he was getting, but here I was the person responsible for keeping order, and I had to do something. My mind raced. Do I need to call a male teacher to come in and break this up? Do I need to call the office for assistance? What to do?? I started by standing close to the boys and saying, "I am going to ask you, in the nicest way I know how, to stop!" To my absolute shock, Zach let the kid go, and the kid didn't retaliate. Crisis averted! In my mind, I was saying, "That worked??? Ask a kid to stop fighting, and he does????" Everyone settled down and class went on as usual. I told Zach that I would still have to write him up for the incident, which he accepted with no complaint at all. Whatever punishment he got from the office was okay with him, I guess. Zach made me look like a genius that day.
Later that same year, I had Zach's class in the Media Center, doing research. We were sharing the facility with a freshman class that had a young teacher. Somehow, Zach got sideways with the freshman teacher. He smarted off to her, disrespectfully, and she came to me about it (as she should have). Internally, I sighed because, once again, I had to think of the best way to deal with this so that all of the parties would come out happy. I didn't want the teacher to go unsupported, but I didn't particularly want to set Zach off, either. (That never works.) I told the other teacher that I was going to call Zach out in the hall to have a three-way conversation with the both of them and me, but I needed to know what she wanted as an outcome. She said, "An apology would be acceptable." So all I had to do was figure out how to get an apology out of this kid. Hmmm...
We met in the hall. I don't remember how the conversation went, but I talked to Zach like an adult--not a hot-headed kid--and the next thing I knew, he was saying that he sometimes had trouble keeping his mouth shut and was apologizing to the other teacher. Well! That was easy! She accepted his apology. We all went back into the Media Center and continued with our business as if nothing had happened. The other teacher came to me at the end of the period and told me how well I had handled the whole situation. I was still bumfuzzled by the fact that Zach had made me look like a genius again!
Zach was just one of those kids who wasn't afraid of mischief but wasn't going to lie about it, either. (So different from most students.) I really, really respected that about him. After those incidents, I think I would have trusted him with my life. In fact, I did. Zach went on to become a Marine whose service protected us all. He lives in Stilesville, IN, now and is one of my Facebook friends, so many years later.
2. Bomb threat.
Teaching seniors in Monrovia. I have written about this incident on this blog before, in another context. I had a student in my very last class of the day. While the kids were lined up at the door waiting for the bell, the young man became upset by something that had come down from the office to him. He commented, "I should just come back and blow this place up." This was quite soon after the Columbine school disaster. The comment put me in a pinch. I was quite sure that he didn't mean it. I knew the kid pretty well. HOWEVER, he made the comment in right in front of other students, and I understood that if I didn't report it, and he acted on his threat, it would be MY neck that would be dragged through the headlines as the guilty party. I could imagine kids saying, "Ms. McNary was standing right there when he made the threat but didn't do anything about it." I had no choice. I reported the threat, and the kid (who actually lived out of the district boundaries anyway) was expelled from school. I've always felt a little bad about that one.
3. Marijuana.
Again, teaching seniors. I had a student who was arrested for marijuana possession and ended up in jail. After he served his time, he was back in class telling us all that, as soon as he was 18, he was going to move to Amsterdam where pot is legal. I was appalled. I think my comment was something like, "You are going to leave your home and family so you can have a drug? Is pot that important to you??" He said it was. Then, one day, he announced in an amused sort of way, that he had been drug tested the day before and knew it would come back "dirty". More jail time for violation of probation. I'm not sure whatever happened to him. Obviously, he didn't graduate. Wonder if he ever made it to Amsterdam...
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
The Teacher in Me III
More stories. God bless you for reading!
1. Passing gas.
Teaching juniors in Monrovia, IN. This particular year was one of those tough groups. There were "ringers" in almost every class...sometimes many more than one. I don't have an explanation for it, but even elementary teachers can attest to the bad classes...all the way through the school system. I was desperately trying to teach a lesson one day when one of my young Lochinvars leaned over in his seat, loudly passed gas, and then sat and grinned while the rest of the class erupted in response. It was total disrespect for me and what I was trying to do. I admit that I didn't respond well. I immediately assigned him a detention, at which point, another kid--who had nothing to do with the original offense--loudly disagreed with me. So I assigned HIM a detention, too! I had learned long ago that it is best not to get involved in power struggles with kids, but it you do, you have to win. Suddenly, this whole thing got out of control.
The kid who got the original suspension went to his mommy and told her that it was an "accident"...that he hadn't meant to do anything wrong. Yeah...right. The second kid was an Office Aide so getting a detention was a big deal that could affect that. His mother wasn't happy, either. In fact, she wrote me a note demanding to know what punishment the other kid got. When I told her I was not at liberty to talk about the other student, she then demanded a meeting with me and the Assistant Principal after school. This all transpired over a couple of weeks with neither the second kid nor I backing down. At one point, he caught me in the hallway while he was in the process of collecting attendance sheets. I told him that he had every right to object to my punishment of the other kid but that he didn't have the right to challenge my authority in front of the other kids--that he had put me on the spot. Then, suddenly, he said that he had a problem controlling his mouth...and all was well between us after that. Then I had to meet with his still-angry mother after school. We went back and forth in front of the Asst. Prin. At 3:30, he excused himself and left me defenseless in front of this woman! She and I went to another office. I admitted that I could have handled the whole thing better, then asked if she understood that her son now thought of himself as the man of the household since her husband had deserted the family. Her attitude changed from angry mom to concerned parent. She's had no clue that her son was feeling that. When our conversation ended, we were on good terms. She understood that I cared about her son. I ran into the kid several years after he graduated, and he called me "the best". I'll never forget that whole thing.
2. Abuse.
Teaching 5th grade at Hall Elementary. I had a student who came to me one day and complained that her mother's live-in boyfriend had yanked her around. She pointed to a very small red spot on her forehead. As teachers, we are required by law to report abuse--and although I wasn't sure that a tiny red spot constituted abuse, I just decided to tell the principal about it. The principal handed me her phone and a phone number to call authorities. I did as was required. I didn't know it, but there was a history with this family. The children had been taken away before--sent to live with their grandmother--and told that the only way the children could be restored to the home was if the boyfriend wasn't there. That particular day, I sent my class to music...then suddenly, the mother showed up in my classroom wanting to know where the class was. I told her. She went down the hall and yanked her child out of music to remove her from school. I warned the principal, but the damage was done. The principal couldn't stop the mother so yelled to the secretary, "Call the police!" Apparently, the mother gave herself up a little later in the day because there was a warrant for her arrest. The children went to be with Grandma. The child, God bless her, knew exactly what she was doing when she told me about the abuse. She didn't want her whole family to be turned upside down, but she DID want the abuse to stop. This was the first and only time I ever had to report child abuse, although I'm sure there were many other cases that should have been reported, had I known about them. The young lady is now a young mother on her own and a friend of mine on Facebook. Um...the mother removing the child from school in the way that she did could not have happened now with current security measures. Still, I'm glad it all, finally, turned out okay.
3. Abuse of Older Kids.
Teaching seniors at Monrovia. I had a kid in class--a big kid--who was involved in show choir and just surprised the daylights out of me because he seemed to be the tough type that wouldn't allow himself to be stigmatized by his male peers by singing and dancing on stage. I loved that about him! His father was a crazy, angry drunk, who did unbelievable things. Since the kid was 18, I couldn't exactly report abuse, but I stayed in touch with what was going on at home with him. Toward the very end of his senior year, he told me how he had to go to the ER to treat a wound on his leg that his father had caused. The doctors asked questions and he answered honestly...and suddenly, there was an abuse case on the books. There was a protection order installed that made it impossible for the son and father to be in the same place at the same time. Authorities took over. Father was arrested and sent to jail. Both mother and father had asked the kid to change his story...to say that HE had thrown the first punch in hopes of lessening the dad's legal punishment, but the prosecuting attorney for the state indicated that it didn't matter--that the law didn't allow for that in cases like this. (Too many victims of abuse try to make things easier for the abuser.)
When the kid's dad got out of jail, the mother accepted him back, which meant that the kid no longer had a place to live. I talked to him, at length. "Do you realize what this means? Your mother is taking him over you!" He got it all too well. Before that day was over, I found him in the hall. He was going to stay with friends. I gave him $50 and said, "I know things are tough but you need to make sure your butt is in school every day until graduation." Well...that admonition wasn't successful. In short order, he was found sleeping in the football building at school...and then robbing the snack machines, etc. It went downhill from there.
I was sitting at home a year or two ago when I was half-watching a show on TV that followed prison inmates. I heard a voice that sounded familiar, so I looked up at a face that was also familiar. Then the screen displayed his name. My student!!! He did some time but is now out and, as far as I know, is doing okay. I wish him well!
4. Hunger Games.
Just being a grandma this time. A few months ago, my granddaughter wanted to go to the library in Zion, IL, to watch the movie "Hunger Games". She had already read the book and all sequels and was quite an officianado. It was her weekend to be with her mother and stepdad, and I was there...so Denis and I took her. The library supplied face painting supplies/hair stuff, a large cardboard cutout of the main character, prizes for trivia questions, and another prize for the kid who looked the most like the main character, and snacks. And, of course, the movie. Denis and I stayed in the background. There were probably 25 kids in attendance. I think most of the kids had already seen the movie, so toward the end, there was a faction across the room that got "talky". They were loud enough that they were disrupting the movie, and I knew from experience that if that were allowed to continue, the rest of the movie would be compromised. The two librarians in charge sat at the back of the room and did nothing to change things. Well! The teacher in me kicked in. Every good teacher on the planet understands that children will shut up and behave in the presence of an authority. I just changed positions. I went over and stood close to the talkers and made eye contact. They didn't have a clue who I was or what I was, but they decided to quiet down. I didn't have to say or do a thing! My granddaughter didn't have to be embarrassed by her grandmother. In fact, she won a couple of prizes.
4. Freak.
Teaching sophomores in Monrovia. Half of the curriculum during sophomore year in Indiana is public speaking. I loved that. Was using stuff from my own high school years to direct my students, many of whom were terrified to speak in front of an audience. One particular year, I had a student who had a persona different from the norm. She dressed in "goth" but was otherwise quite creative and normal. The assignment was a denunciation speech--a chance to vent against pet peeves and the like. When it was her turn, she started her speech by shouting, "Freak!" Then she went on to lambast her peers for judging her by her dress and looks. She started to weep, then got easily back in control and finished her speech. You could have heard a pin drop in my classroom! At the end of every speech, I asked the inevitable questions: Did the speaker get your attention? Keep your attention? Make his/her point? Conclude things adequately? All agreed that she did. The student got an A+ on her speech. She's never forgotten it...and neither have I.
5. Sweet Tarts.
Teaching juniors/seniors in Monrovia...a difficult class of juniors. I had a class divide into groups to come to a conclusion about a literature question. There was a group of boys huddled together in one of those groups, looking very suspicious, so I moved in their direction to check out what was going on. It turned out that one of their number had taken a dare for $5, had crushed some Sweet Tarts into powder, and had snuffed them up into his nose through a rolled-up-dollar-bill tube. His face was red and his nose was running. Then the bell rang. I didn't know what to do.
First, I went to the school nurse to determine if he could have actually hurt himself by snuffing sugar into his sinuses. She said no. So then I had to call his mommy. His "mommy" had previously been part of a big-time critical movement against the school, led by the local Baptist minister. I told her, simply, that her son wasn't in any danger but that I thought she should know...
The next fall, my teaching assignment was changed. I would no longer have seniors that year. That student's mother met me in the hall, in tears, that I wouldn't have her son that year. I'm not sure I was sad about that, but she sure was!
6. ISTEP.
Teaching seniors in Monrovia. Indiana has a proficiency test called ISTEP. The graduation test is taken during the sophomore year. Those who don't pass supposedly have three more chances to pass it in order to graduate. Seniors in the first semester who haven't passed it are targeted for special attention from teachers, especially in English and math, but there were no scheduled sessions for that. Study halls had been eliminated. Teachers were supposed to figure out before or after school tutoring on their own time, when the kids were available.
One year, I got a hand-written list of students to remediate. A few weeks later, the principal accosted me in the hall. He was not pleased. "So-and-so tells me you haven't been working with her for ISTEP remediation." I thought for a second and said, "She isn't on my list." His response was, "She has to be!" Well...okay. I tucked my tail between my legs and went up to my classroom, found the list in his handwriting on my desk, saw that she was (indeed) not on it, and took it back down to him for proof. He looked it over and flustered a bit. He didn't apologize for making me feel like a chastised child. Just muttered something about how the student was supposed to be on my list but he must have put it on another teacher's list--a teacher he liked better than me but who had obviously not remediated the student, either. (To be honest, I think he didn't put the student on ANY list, but couldn't admit his mistake.) At the time, I wondered why he seemed so angry about the whole thing. I just found out a couple of months ago, via Facebook, that he was angry because the student had given him a hard time about it all. She said she had passed the ISTEP but that he had failed to keep track of it, which was his job to do. The student went to college and got a degree, with honors. And that was the end of that!
So much for my stories of the day. More later, if I can remember them all. Good night!
1. Passing gas.
Teaching juniors in Monrovia, IN. This particular year was one of those tough groups. There were "ringers" in almost every class...sometimes many more than one. I don't have an explanation for it, but even elementary teachers can attest to the bad classes...all the way through the school system. I was desperately trying to teach a lesson one day when one of my young Lochinvars leaned over in his seat, loudly passed gas, and then sat and grinned while the rest of the class erupted in response. It was total disrespect for me and what I was trying to do. I admit that I didn't respond well. I immediately assigned him a detention, at which point, another kid--who had nothing to do with the original offense--loudly disagreed with me. So I assigned HIM a detention, too! I had learned long ago that it is best not to get involved in power struggles with kids, but it you do, you have to win. Suddenly, this whole thing got out of control.
The kid who got the original suspension went to his mommy and told her that it was an "accident"...that he hadn't meant to do anything wrong. Yeah...right. The second kid was an Office Aide so getting a detention was a big deal that could affect that. His mother wasn't happy, either. In fact, she wrote me a note demanding to know what punishment the other kid got. When I told her I was not at liberty to talk about the other student, she then demanded a meeting with me and the Assistant Principal after school. This all transpired over a couple of weeks with neither the second kid nor I backing down. At one point, he caught me in the hallway while he was in the process of collecting attendance sheets. I told him that he had every right to object to my punishment of the other kid but that he didn't have the right to challenge my authority in front of the other kids--that he had put me on the spot. Then, suddenly, he said that he had a problem controlling his mouth...and all was well between us after that. Then I had to meet with his still-angry mother after school. We went back and forth in front of the Asst. Prin. At 3:30, he excused himself and left me defenseless in front of this woman! She and I went to another office. I admitted that I could have handled the whole thing better, then asked if she understood that her son now thought of himself as the man of the household since her husband had deserted the family. Her attitude changed from angry mom to concerned parent. She's had no clue that her son was feeling that. When our conversation ended, we were on good terms. She understood that I cared about her son. I ran into the kid several years after he graduated, and he called me "the best". I'll never forget that whole thing.
2. Abuse.
Teaching 5th grade at Hall Elementary. I had a student who came to me one day and complained that her mother's live-in boyfriend had yanked her around. She pointed to a very small red spot on her forehead. As teachers, we are required by law to report abuse--and although I wasn't sure that a tiny red spot constituted abuse, I just decided to tell the principal about it. The principal handed me her phone and a phone number to call authorities. I did as was required. I didn't know it, but there was a history with this family. The children had been taken away before--sent to live with their grandmother--and told that the only way the children could be restored to the home was if the boyfriend wasn't there. That particular day, I sent my class to music...then suddenly, the mother showed up in my classroom wanting to know where the class was. I told her. She went down the hall and yanked her child out of music to remove her from school. I warned the principal, but the damage was done. The principal couldn't stop the mother so yelled to the secretary, "Call the police!" Apparently, the mother gave herself up a little later in the day because there was a warrant for her arrest. The children went to be with Grandma. The child, God bless her, knew exactly what she was doing when she told me about the abuse. She didn't want her whole family to be turned upside down, but she DID want the abuse to stop. This was the first and only time I ever had to report child abuse, although I'm sure there were many other cases that should have been reported, had I known about them. The young lady is now a young mother on her own and a friend of mine on Facebook. Um...the mother removing the child from school in the way that she did could not have happened now with current security measures. Still, I'm glad it all, finally, turned out okay.
3. Abuse of Older Kids.
Teaching seniors at Monrovia. I had a kid in class--a big kid--who was involved in show choir and just surprised the daylights out of me because he seemed to be the tough type that wouldn't allow himself to be stigmatized by his male peers by singing and dancing on stage. I loved that about him! His father was a crazy, angry drunk, who did unbelievable things. Since the kid was 18, I couldn't exactly report abuse, but I stayed in touch with what was going on at home with him. Toward the very end of his senior year, he told me how he had to go to the ER to treat a wound on his leg that his father had caused. The doctors asked questions and he answered honestly...and suddenly, there was an abuse case on the books. There was a protection order installed that made it impossible for the son and father to be in the same place at the same time. Authorities took over. Father was arrested and sent to jail. Both mother and father had asked the kid to change his story...to say that HE had thrown the first punch in hopes of lessening the dad's legal punishment, but the prosecuting attorney for the state indicated that it didn't matter--that the law didn't allow for that in cases like this. (Too many victims of abuse try to make things easier for the abuser.)
When the kid's dad got out of jail, the mother accepted him back, which meant that the kid no longer had a place to live. I talked to him, at length. "Do you realize what this means? Your mother is taking him over you!" He got it all too well. Before that day was over, I found him in the hall. He was going to stay with friends. I gave him $50 and said, "I know things are tough but you need to make sure your butt is in school every day until graduation." Well...that admonition wasn't successful. In short order, he was found sleeping in the football building at school...and then robbing the snack machines, etc. It went downhill from there.
I was sitting at home a year or two ago when I was half-watching a show on TV that followed prison inmates. I heard a voice that sounded familiar, so I looked up at a face that was also familiar. Then the screen displayed his name. My student!!! He did some time but is now out and, as far as I know, is doing okay. I wish him well!
4. Hunger Games.
Just being a grandma this time. A few months ago, my granddaughter wanted to go to the library in Zion, IL, to watch the movie "Hunger Games". She had already read the book and all sequels and was quite an officianado. It was her weekend to be with her mother and stepdad, and I was there...so Denis and I took her. The library supplied face painting supplies/hair stuff, a large cardboard cutout of the main character, prizes for trivia questions, and another prize for the kid who looked the most like the main character, and snacks. And, of course, the movie. Denis and I stayed in the background. There were probably 25 kids in attendance. I think most of the kids had already seen the movie, so toward the end, there was a faction across the room that got "talky". They were loud enough that they were disrupting the movie, and I knew from experience that if that were allowed to continue, the rest of the movie would be compromised. The two librarians in charge sat at the back of the room and did nothing to change things. Well! The teacher in me kicked in. Every good teacher on the planet understands that children will shut up and behave in the presence of an authority. I just changed positions. I went over and stood close to the talkers and made eye contact. They didn't have a clue who I was or what I was, but they decided to quiet down. I didn't have to say or do a thing! My granddaughter didn't have to be embarrassed by her grandmother. In fact, she won a couple of prizes.
4. Freak.
Teaching sophomores in Monrovia. Half of the curriculum during sophomore year in Indiana is public speaking. I loved that. Was using stuff from my own high school years to direct my students, many of whom were terrified to speak in front of an audience. One particular year, I had a student who had a persona different from the norm. She dressed in "goth" but was otherwise quite creative and normal. The assignment was a denunciation speech--a chance to vent against pet peeves and the like. When it was her turn, she started her speech by shouting, "Freak!" Then she went on to lambast her peers for judging her by her dress and looks. She started to weep, then got easily back in control and finished her speech. You could have heard a pin drop in my classroom! At the end of every speech, I asked the inevitable questions: Did the speaker get your attention? Keep your attention? Make his/her point? Conclude things adequately? All agreed that she did. The student got an A+ on her speech. She's never forgotten it...and neither have I.
5. Sweet Tarts.
Teaching juniors/seniors in Monrovia...a difficult class of juniors. I had a class divide into groups to come to a conclusion about a literature question. There was a group of boys huddled together in one of those groups, looking very suspicious, so I moved in their direction to check out what was going on. It turned out that one of their number had taken a dare for $5, had crushed some Sweet Tarts into powder, and had snuffed them up into his nose through a rolled-up-dollar-bill tube. His face was red and his nose was running. Then the bell rang. I didn't know what to do.
First, I went to the school nurse to determine if he could have actually hurt himself by snuffing sugar into his sinuses. She said no. So then I had to call his mommy. His "mommy" had previously been part of a big-time critical movement against the school, led by the local Baptist minister. I told her, simply, that her son wasn't in any danger but that I thought she should know...
The next fall, my teaching assignment was changed. I would no longer have seniors that year. That student's mother met me in the hall, in tears, that I wouldn't have her son that year. I'm not sure I was sad about that, but she sure was!
6. ISTEP.
Teaching seniors in Monrovia. Indiana has a proficiency test called ISTEP. The graduation test is taken during the sophomore year. Those who don't pass supposedly have three more chances to pass it in order to graduate. Seniors in the first semester who haven't passed it are targeted for special attention from teachers, especially in English and math, but there were no scheduled sessions for that. Study halls had been eliminated. Teachers were supposed to figure out before or after school tutoring on their own time, when the kids were available.
One year, I got a hand-written list of students to remediate. A few weeks later, the principal accosted me in the hall. He was not pleased. "So-and-so tells me you haven't been working with her for ISTEP remediation." I thought for a second and said, "She isn't on my list." His response was, "She has to be!" Well...okay. I tucked my tail between my legs and went up to my classroom, found the list in his handwriting on my desk, saw that she was (indeed) not on it, and took it back down to him for proof. He looked it over and flustered a bit. He didn't apologize for making me feel like a chastised child. Just muttered something about how the student was supposed to be on my list but he must have put it on another teacher's list--a teacher he liked better than me but who had obviously not remediated the student, either. (To be honest, I think he didn't put the student on ANY list, but couldn't admit his mistake.) At the time, I wondered why he seemed so angry about the whole thing. I just found out a couple of months ago, via Facebook, that he was angry because the student had given him a hard time about it all. She said she had passed the ISTEP but that he had failed to keep track of it, which was his job to do. The student went to college and got a degree, with honors. And that was the end of that!
So much for my stories of the day. More later, if I can remember them all. Good night!
The Teacher in Me II
As promised, here are a few of my school experiences, both good and bad. Most, of course, are going to paint me in a good light. (I remember both the good and the bad. Just don't always like to talk about the bad!) These are not in chronological order.
1. Mommy is a teacher.
I was the Media Center Director in my daughter's elementary school in Pontiac, IL. Along about 2nd or 3rd grade, she complained to me before school that her stomach hurt. Yeah, right. Go to school. Tough it out. We'll see how you feel later. In short, I didn't believe her. It wasn't too far into the school day when one of Megan's classmates stuck her head into my library and said, "Megan just threw up in the hallway!" Oh, geez... I found a sub and collected my sick kid from the school nurse to go home. Lesson? Sometimes kids really aren't just trying to play hooky when they say they don't feel good.
2. Senioritis.
When my daughter was a senior in high school, she had a bad case of Senioritis in the spring. (If you don't know what Senioritis is, I can attest that it is a very real ailment that hits high school seniors and military short-timers. They are just putting in time before they are set "free".) Meg had skipped a class--went to another place in the school building--got caught, and then lied to the Assistant Principal about it. Busted! He assigned her a Saturday School as punishment. The problem was that the particular Saturday that she was to serve was the weekend of an overnight show choir competition for which I had already paid for a motel room. If she served it, the entire show choir program would have to be re-choreographed, plus I would be out a chunk of money, which was really tight in those days. I called the Asst. Principal and explained that I agreed that Meg must serve her Saturday School assignment, but asked if it could be done on any other Saturday but that one. He was not pleased, to say the least. (I think he thought I was being a meddling parent...but I was also being a teacher.) He told me he would "think about it" and get back to me. In the end, he did assign her to a different Saturday School--probably more in defference to Mr. Sims, the tyrant music director, than to me, the meddling parent. (Even assistant principals sometimes seek the avenue of least resistance!)
3. Spider Bite.
I was teaching 4th grade in the "dungeon" basement classroom of Hall Elementary in Monrovia, IN. I had a male student whose family struggled with finances. He showed up at school one day with the whole left side of his face red and swollen. I asked him what had happened. He said a spider had bitten him. Did you feel it? Did you see it? No...but that's what my mother thinks. I sent him to the school nurse. He told her, as he had told me, that his mother was going to make a doctor's appointment. Case closed....except...as the day went on, his face got redder and more swollen. When I had a break, I went to the nurse and asked her to please contact the mother to make SURE she had made a doctor's appointment. She hadn't, but did, upon the nurse's insistence. The next day, the boy was not in school. Turns out that he had a sinus infection that had turned into cellulitis, dangerously close to his brain. He was put on strong antibiotics and complete bed rest, short of hospitalization. Had I not been alert, who knows what might have happened?
4. Lice.
Again, 4th grade at Hall Elementary. On the very first day of school, my class was called to the nurse for head checks. One of my kids hung back. He confessed to me that he had head lice but that his mother couldn't afford to get the insecticide shampoo until after pay day. In short, his mother sent him to school knowing that he was infected but didn't care enough about the other kids--or him--to save any of them from the embarrassment or infestation. I felt so bad for the child!
5. African-American.
Teaching high school in Monrovia this time. Periodically, the administration would schedule convocations with inspirational speakers. This day, we were to hear a former NFL player who had lost his career due to drugs. He was a good-looking African-American fellow, quite articulate, with something of value to share with the students. As it happened, just as the convo began, the light flickered out and came back on again...except there in the gym, the lights were halogen lamps which took awhile to warm up and get bright. One of the students sitting behind me to my left in the bleachers called out, "We can't see you." The kid got a chuckle from his buddies. (In case you are more naive than even I, he was referring to the fact that the man was black and the lights were dim.) I was hoping beyond hope that our guest speaker hadn't heard, but I was furious! I didn't know the kid, but I slunk out of my seat, standing low, and hissed at the boy through clenched teeth while shaking my finger in his face, "Don't you DARE embarrass me or this school or your classmates like this EVER again! Keep your mouth SHUT, or I will PERSONALLY yank you out of here in front of everyone and see to it that you don't get to stay in school for long while!" He smirked but said not another word. A short time later, when the lights were finally fully aglow, our speaker said, with an edge to his voice, "Can you see me NOW?" I was never so publicly embarrassed in all my life.
6. Senior.
Teaching seniors at Monrovia this time. Being the teacher of seniors is a slippery slope. With graduation in the immediate future, the spring semester is fraught with pitfalls. If a student has an F in one of the two 9-weeks grading periods and fails the final exam, he/she automatically fails the semester. A failed semester in a required course like English means no graduation. Although the teachers were encouraged to work the kids right up to the last minute to prevent Senioritis, doing so only set up kids who were already at risk to fail. I spent a lot of time tracking down kids who were failing to let them know that they could still turn in assignments and could still pull themselves out of the abyss just in case they didn't pass the final. One such student had some mental health issues. In fact, he was taking TWO English courses his senior year in order to make up for previously failed semesters. I found him in the other English class at the end of the period to tell him. The other teacher--not a fan of mine--gave him some flack about my having to track him down. He turned to her, looked her directly in the eye, and said, "At least she cares enough to come and find me about it." The teacher thought I was being weak by trying to draw him in; he thought I was caring. Worked for me!
More stories, next post.
1. Mommy is a teacher.
I was the Media Center Director in my daughter's elementary school in Pontiac, IL. Along about 2nd or 3rd grade, she complained to me before school that her stomach hurt. Yeah, right. Go to school. Tough it out. We'll see how you feel later. In short, I didn't believe her. It wasn't too far into the school day when one of Megan's classmates stuck her head into my library and said, "Megan just threw up in the hallway!" Oh, geez... I found a sub and collected my sick kid from the school nurse to go home. Lesson? Sometimes kids really aren't just trying to play hooky when they say they don't feel good.
2. Senioritis.
When my daughter was a senior in high school, she had a bad case of Senioritis in the spring. (If you don't know what Senioritis is, I can attest that it is a very real ailment that hits high school seniors and military short-timers. They are just putting in time before they are set "free".) Meg had skipped a class--went to another place in the school building--got caught, and then lied to the Assistant Principal about it. Busted! He assigned her a Saturday School as punishment. The problem was that the particular Saturday that she was to serve was the weekend of an overnight show choir competition for which I had already paid for a motel room. If she served it, the entire show choir program would have to be re-choreographed, plus I would be out a chunk of money, which was really tight in those days. I called the Asst. Principal and explained that I agreed that Meg must serve her Saturday School assignment, but asked if it could be done on any other Saturday but that one. He was not pleased, to say the least. (I think he thought I was being a meddling parent...but I was also being a teacher.) He told me he would "think about it" and get back to me. In the end, he did assign her to a different Saturday School--probably more in defference to Mr. Sims, the tyrant music director, than to me, the meddling parent. (Even assistant principals sometimes seek the avenue of least resistance!)
3. Spider Bite.
I was teaching 4th grade in the "dungeon" basement classroom of Hall Elementary in Monrovia, IN. I had a male student whose family struggled with finances. He showed up at school one day with the whole left side of his face red and swollen. I asked him what had happened. He said a spider had bitten him. Did you feel it? Did you see it? No...but that's what my mother thinks. I sent him to the school nurse. He told her, as he had told me, that his mother was going to make a doctor's appointment. Case closed....except...as the day went on, his face got redder and more swollen. When I had a break, I went to the nurse and asked her to please contact the mother to make SURE she had made a doctor's appointment. She hadn't, but did, upon the nurse's insistence. The next day, the boy was not in school. Turns out that he had a sinus infection that had turned into cellulitis, dangerously close to his brain. He was put on strong antibiotics and complete bed rest, short of hospitalization. Had I not been alert, who knows what might have happened?
4. Lice.
Again, 4th grade at Hall Elementary. On the very first day of school, my class was called to the nurse for head checks. One of my kids hung back. He confessed to me that he had head lice but that his mother couldn't afford to get the insecticide shampoo until after pay day. In short, his mother sent him to school knowing that he was infected but didn't care enough about the other kids--or him--to save any of them from the embarrassment or infestation. I felt so bad for the child!
5. African-American.
Teaching high school in Monrovia this time. Periodically, the administration would schedule convocations with inspirational speakers. This day, we were to hear a former NFL player who had lost his career due to drugs. He was a good-looking African-American fellow, quite articulate, with something of value to share with the students. As it happened, just as the convo began, the light flickered out and came back on again...except there in the gym, the lights were halogen lamps which took awhile to warm up and get bright. One of the students sitting behind me to my left in the bleachers called out, "We can't see you." The kid got a chuckle from his buddies. (In case you are more naive than even I, he was referring to the fact that the man was black and the lights were dim.) I was hoping beyond hope that our guest speaker hadn't heard, but I was furious! I didn't know the kid, but I slunk out of my seat, standing low, and hissed at the boy through clenched teeth while shaking my finger in his face, "Don't you DARE embarrass me or this school or your classmates like this EVER again! Keep your mouth SHUT, or I will PERSONALLY yank you out of here in front of everyone and see to it that you don't get to stay in school for long while!" He smirked but said not another word. A short time later, when the lights were finally fully aglow, our speaker said, with an edge to his voice, "Can you see me NOW?" I was never so publicly embarrassed in all my life.
6. Senior.
Teaching seniors at Monrovia this time. Being the teacher of seniors is a slippery slope. With graduation in the immediate future, the spring semester is fraught with pitfalls. If a student has an F in one of the two 9-weeks grading periods and fails the final exam, he/she automatically fails the semester. A failed semester in a required course like English means no graduation. Although the teachers were encouraged to work the kids right up to the last minute to prevent Senioritis, doing so only set up kids who were already at risk to fail. I spent a lot of time tracking down kids who were failing to let them know that they could still turn in assignments and could still pull themselves out of the abyss just in case they didn't pass the final. One such student had some mental health issues. In fact, he was taking TWO English courses his senior year in order to make up for previously failed semesters. I found him in the other English class at the end of the period to tell him. The other teacher--not a fan of mine--gave him some flack about my having to track him down. He turned to her, looked her directly in the eye, and said, "At least she cares enough to come and find me about it." The teacher thought I was being weak by trying to draw him in; he thought I was caring. Worked for me!
More stories, next post.
The Teacher in Me
I wasn't born to be a teacher. I mean, I didn't grow up with the desire to be a fireman or a policeman or a doctor or nurse the way we sometimes hear people say. I didn't have any passions, in that regard. I had talents, of course, but everything I could think that I'd like to do just didn't seem reasonable to me. The only guidance I got from my mother was that nursing and teaching were "respectable" vocations for women to fall back on, "in case something happens to your husband". Such was the generation in which I was raised. Both of my parents were teachers, as was my grandmother, so it just happened for me to go in that direction (as with so many other things in my life). No plan. No thought to whether or not I would even be good at it. In retrospect, I can see that there were several other fields of endeavor that I could have excelled in (and made more money), but the die was cast, and teaching became my career.
Truth be known, I don't think I was a very good teacher in terms of getting students to do their best work. But I cared about them, and they knew it. They liked me, mostly. I've even had a few that have come back to me now to say that I had single-handedly gotten them through some tough times in their lives--something I wasn't aware of back then. I did have a skill that someone needs to explain to me, though: even though I had been a Goody-Two-Shoes student during my own school years (never breaking rules or skipping assignments or talking out of turn), as a teacher I seemed to be able to get along with the troubled kids. There were times when the Guidance Department actually assigned them to me, if they could, just to help them get through the year with the least wear-and-tear on everyone. Go figure!
Forty years of teaching experience changed me. To this day, I cannot enter a room full of kids--big or little--without feeling that I should somehow take charge, or at least listen carefully to what is going on. I find myself correcting my grandchildren when their parents are right there. (Not my job!) I find myself giving unsolicited advice to my daughter, and former students. (Not always welcome!) Sometimes, I become aware that my efforts to be "helpful" to others can be seen as disrespectful to their maturity or ability to handle things themselves, or even their circumstances. (Not my intention!) So, in my retired old age, even the teacher is still learning.
All of this comes to mind due to a conversation I was having with a couple of same-age parents at church yesterday during the Homeless Mission's weekly cooking session. During a break, we were rehashing the respective school experiences of our children, which caused me to remember that I was both a parent and a teacher when my daughter was a student. (Poor kid!)
In the next couple of posts, I'll talk about some of my "moments" in teaching. They are, of course, the ones I remember most. If you aren't interested, skip the entries that have "The Teacher in Me" as the subject line. :)
Truth be known, I don't think I was a very good teacher in terms of getting students to do their best work. But I cared about them, and they knew it. They liked me, mostly. I've even had a few that have come back to me now to say that I had single-handedly gotten them through some tough times in their lives--something I wasn't aware of back then. I did have a skill that someone needs to explain to me, though: even though I had been a Goody-Two-Shoes student during my own school years (never breaking rules or skipping assignments or talking out of turn), as a teacher I seemed to be able to get along with the troubled kids. There were times when the Guidance Department actually assigned them to me, if they could, just to help them get through the year with the least wear-and-tear on everyone. Go figure!
Forty years of teaching experience changed me. To this day, I cannot enter a room full of kids--big or little--without feeling that I should somehow take charge, or at least listen carefully to what is going on. I find myself correcting my grandchildren when their parents are right there. (Not my job!) I find myself giving unsolicited advice to my daughter, and former students. (Not always welcome!) Sometimes, I become aware that my efforts to be "helpful" to others can be seen as disrespectful to their maturity or ability to handle things themselves, or even their circumstances. (Not my intention!) So, in my retired old age, even the teacher is still learning.
All of this comes to mind due to a conversation I was having with a couple of same-age parents at church yesterday during the Homeless Mission's weekly cooking session. During a break, we were rehashing the respective school experiences of our children, which caused me to remember that I was both a parent and a teacher when my daughter was a student. (Poor kid!)
In the next couple of posts, I'll talk about some of my "moments" in teaching. They are, of course, the ones I remember most. If you aren't interested, skip the entries that have "The Teacher in Me" as the subject line. :)
Sunday, January 13, 2013
In the Category of Things I'm Glad I Did
I'm still writing a post-mortem of the holidays here.
In preparation for the onslaught of guests in my house over the holidays, I had a lot of help from my young friends Amy and James. James is a worker! Some of the things that were done included painting the ceilings in two rooms, repainting the main bathroom, shampooing the living room and hallway carpets, washing the kitchen and bathroom floors, and lots of other little tasks that we don't think about in normal cleaning routines.
While James was shampooing the carpets, Amy and I were sitting at the kitchen table when I happened to think about the refrigerator crisper drawers. While we chatted, I checked. Ack! They were bad! Rotting fruits and vegetables had left a brown slime on the bottom of the drawers, so I got busy and cleaned them. I'm glad I did! The very first thing that happened when my Russian guests arrived in my house was that they needed a place to put their precious vegetables. Out came the drawers. In went the veggies. I didn't have to be embarrassed!
Back over the Thanksgiving weekend, I'd had a toilet overflow which required throwing down towels, then washing the towels and bleaching the floor. What I hadn't done, however, was move the wicker cabinet in that bathroom to clean under it. I don't care how clean you keep your house, stuff gathers under furniture that is off the floor just a tad. I would not have moved it before company, but when James repainted the bathroom, he moved it out and washed the floor. What's so special about that is that sometime when my company was here for New Year's, the artificial plant that normally sits on top of the wicker cabinet got knocked behind it (not sure how), and someone pulled the cabinet out to retrieve it, unsuccessfully. In other words, had the floor not been cleaned prior, the mess under the cabinet would have been obvious to all. Glad that didn't happen!
One thing I did mess up on was ceiling fans. Some of the ceiling fans are on all the time when the light switch is flipped. Can't see the crud on the blades when they are moving. My Russian guests shut off the fan in the garage room, and the filth on the blades was quite obvious. Oops! I got the fans in the kitchen and living room cleaned, but missed the most important one. Oh well!
And one last thing: I somewhat chided James for working so hard at shampooing the living room and hallway carpets, believing them to be too far gone to really help...but when he was finished, he had eliminated 99.9% of the stains on the rugs. Hallelujah! This is a case in which I'm glad I DIDN'T shut him down early. Some of those stains had been there for a very long time!
Okay...maybe I'm done with the holiday stuff now. Thanks for your patience!
In preparation for the onslaught of guests in my house over the holidays, I had a lot of help from my young friends Amy and James. James is a worker! Some of the things that were done included painting the ceilings in two rooms, repainting the main bathroom, shampooing the living room and hallway carpets, washing the kitchen and bathroom floors, and lots of other little tasks that we don't think about in normal cleaning routines.
While James was shampooing the carpets, Amy and I were sitting at the kitchen table when I happened to think about the refrigerator crisper drawers. While we chatted, I checked. Ack! They were bad! Rotting fruits and vegetables had left a brown slime on the bottom of the drawers, so I got busy and cleaned them. I'm glad I did! The very first thing that happened when my Russian guests arrived in my house was that they needed a place to put their precious vegetables. Out came the drawers. In went the veggies. I didn't have to be embarrassed!
Back over the Thanksgiving weekend, I'd had a toilet overflow which required throwing down towels, then washing the towels and bleaching the floor. What I hadn't done, however, was move the wicker cabinet in that bathroom to clean under it. I don't care how clean you keep your house, stuff gathers under furniture that is off the floor just a tad. I would not have moved it before company, but when James repainted the bathroom, he moved it out and washed the floor. What's so special about that is that sometime when my company was here for New Year's, the artificial plant that normally sits on top of the wicker cabinet got knocked behind it (not sure how), and someone pulled the cabinet out to retrieve it, unsuccessfully. In other words, had the floor not been cleaned prior, the mess under the cabinet would have been obvious to all. Glad that didn't happen!
One thing I did mess up on was ceiling fans. Some of the ceiling fans are on all the time when the light switch is flipped. Can't see the crud on the blades when they are moving. My Russian guests shut off the fan in the garage room, and the filth on the blades was quite obvious. Oops! I got the fans in the kitchen and living room cleaned, but missed the most important one. Oh well!
And one last thing: I somewhat chided James for working so hard at shampooing the living room and hallway carpets, believing them to be too far gone to really help...but when he was finished, he had eliminated 99.9% of the stains on the rugs. Hallelujah! This is a case in which I'm glad I DIDN'T shut him down early. Some of those stains had been there for a very long time!
Okay...maybe I'm done with the holiday stuff now. Thanks for your patience!
Friday, January 11, 2013
Blah
Hey...I'll take 60 degrees in early January. Works for me! Virtually all of our snow is gone now, except for the piles in parking lots; however, we have a forecast of heavy rain and thunderstorms for the weekend. It's okay. Any little break from cold and snow just makes fewer days that we have to suffer.
The last couple of days, I've been sort of blah. Haven't really gone anywhere or done anything except have brunch with a dear friend on Wednesday. Today, I had the munchies and just ate unreasonably all day. This is not good! I have to take control and try to find a way to cut back in order to lose some of this weight. It's tough when you live alone and/or just open cans for meals. I always start out well but fail in the long run. 'Tis ever thus!
The flu season has hit with avengeance strongly and early this year all over the country. It was my intention to get a flu shot, but I haven't done that yet. With my horrific lungs, I really, really don't want to get sick, so my hermit life might actually be beneficial. That isn't likely to change anytime soon. I am very conscious of my hands and what they have touched. No, I'm not a germophobe. I'm just trying to get through this with my meager health intact!
As usual, I am making a to-do list for projects that need to be done around here. Baby steps, Peggy. Baby steps...
The last couple of days, I've been sort of blah. Haven't really gone anywhere or done anything except have brunch with a dear friend on Wednesday. Today, I had the munchies and just ate unreasonably all day. This is not good! I have to take control and try to find a way to cut back in order to lose some of this weight. It's tough when you live alone and/or just open cans for meals. I always start out well but fail in the long run. 'Tis ever thus!
The flu season has hit with avengeance strongly and early this year all over the country. It was my intention to get a flu shot, but I haven't done that yet. With my horrific lungs, I really, really don't want to get sick, so my hermit life might actually be beneficial. That isn't likely to change anytime soon. I am very conscious of my hands and what they have touched. No, I'm not a germophobe. I'm just trying to get through this with my meager health intact!
As usual, I am making a to-do list for projects that need to be done around here. Baby steps, Peggy. Baby steps...
Thursday, January 10, 2013
Entertaining Russian Guests
After my family returned from their Bahamas/Florida adventure, my time was divided into three parts:
*Having the Russian contingent here without their son as translator.
*Christmas in Illinois with everyone.
*New Year's with everyone back at my house.
I'm not sure if I got suckered or if it was true, but my son-in-law told me for weeks that his parents wanted to spend time at my house without him so they could practice their English. I agreed to do it. (What was I thinking??)
Denis said that his mother (Luda) just thought I should drop them off at a mall somewhere and pick them up 4 or 5 hours later. Yeah, right! Plainfield has a mall, but it is outdoors, and this is winter. The next closest indoor mall is Lafayette Square which is so riddled with crime now that it is all but dead. No one wants to go there. The best option is the Greenwood Park Mall. It is indoors with lots and lots of stores...but 30-45 minutes away. I vowed and declared that there was NO WAY I was going to turn non-English-speaking people loose in an American mall. Unfortunately, I don't have the physical capability of taking them and staying with them. (They move a whole lot faster than I do!)
They all arrived at my house on a Monday. Meg and Denis stayed overnight, then departed, minus the Russian contingent, the next day. Luda (the mega-shopper) approached me about going shopping. I explained (or tried to) that I could take them to Plainfield's Metropolis mall, but that it was outdoors. That was okay with her. I armed them with my cell phone, took them over, and dropped them off. No biggie...I was close by. In a couple of hours, Luda called to say they were ready to be picked up. Judy and Phil Heffelman--my grandchildren's paternal grandparents--had us over for supper. Their house was Christmasy and warm and inviting. It was very pleasant. We came home full, settled in, and went to bed. End of Day One.
Wednesday, Luda was ready to go shopping somewhere else. I went against everything I thought I should do and took them to the Greenwood Mall. I had considered staying with them, but the mall only has wheelchairs for the handicapped...no scooters...so...we arranged a meeting time and place, with the information that they should call if they were ready sooner, but that it would take me at least 30 minutes to get to them. I had stew beef cooking in the crockpot for stroganoff, and I desperately needed some down time. (I admit that I succumbed to temptation for aloneness!) They did call earlier than our appointed time. I think there were too many stores, even for Luda! We came home to a very popular stroganoff supper.
Well...I guess I should say that I think it was a popular supper. Luda ate the daylights out of it. Sergey started out with a "snack" of the tuna salad that I had made, which he mostly devoured--THREE cans of tuna worth--then created a huge platter of stroganoff for "later". The platter consisted of curly noodles on the bottom, very carefully placed, then broccoli on top of that, then probably a half-bag of shredded cheddar cheese over that...and then the stroganoff sauce on top, plus Parmesan cheese. His concoction was at least as high as a single layer cake!! All the while, he had been imbibing in beer, so wasn't in a big hurry to eat it. Luda had the dishes done before he even finished making his creation... I took a quick run to the store. When I got back, Sergey had eaten most of his platter and was crashed in bed. Luda and I stayed up, talking...with an English lesson or two in there. When we went to bed, we were happy. Day Two.
Thursday, Luda wanted to go back to Metropolis in Plainfield. She had seen some boots or something that she decided to buy. The weather was to change to cold and windy, so I was alert to the fact that they probably wouldn't last as long as they thought they would. True enough. We had a chicken stir fry supper. They liked it. That's good because I really didn't give them a choice! She came home showing off her purchases. Happy lady! We were to head to the Chicago area the next day, so I was trying to gear up. I think we all went to bed early.
The weather forecast for Friday had been for light snow and very strong winds. I was a little concerned because of the plains north of Lafayette that sometimes get socked with lake effect snow. Largely because of the wind, I made the executive decision not to head that way until Saturday when there would be sunshine and the snowplows would have a chance to clear the roads. Sergey did some odd jobs around the house. Basically, we just vegged and prepared to depart on Saturday. No one seemed upset. Meg actually seemed relieved that we wouldn't be there for another day!
On Saturday, the sun was shining brightly. Sergey got everything loaded in the car--Christmas presents, luggage, etc. The roads were clear. In fact, the only snow we saw was in the Indy area and in the Grayslake area. Still, I'm not sorry that we waited a day. There is always the possibility of a car breakdown. I just didn't want to be caught out on the roads in that horrible wind.
Thus ended my unattended visit with the Russian guests. I don't think anyone suffered...
*Having the Russian contingent here without their son as translator.
*Christmas in Illinois with everyone.
*New Year's with everyone back at my house.
I'm not sure if I got suckered or if it was true, but my son-in-law told me for weeks that his parents wanted to spend time at my house without him so they could practice their English. I agreed to do it. (What was I thinking??)
Denis said that his mother (Luda) just thought I should drop them off at a mall somewhere and pick them up 4 or 5 hours later. Yeah, right! Plainfield has a mall, but it is outdoors, and this is winter. The next closest indoor mall is Lafayette Square which is so riddled with crime now that it is all but dead. No one wants to go there. The best option is the Greenwood Park Mall. It is indoors with lots and lots of stores...but 30-45 minutes away. I vowed and declared that there was NO WAY I was going to turn non-English-speaking people loose in an American mall. Unfortunately, I don't have the physical capability of taking them and staying with them. (They move a whole lot faster than I do!)
They all arrived at my house on a Monday. Meg and Denis stayed overnight, then departed, minus the Russian contingent, the next day. Luda (the mega-shopper) approached me about going shopping. I explained (or tried to) that I could take them to Plainfield's Metropolis mall, but that it was outdoors. That was okay with her. I armed them with my cell phone, took them over, and dropped them off. No biggie...I was close by. In a couple of hours, Luda called to say they were ready to be picked up. Judy and Phil Heffelman--my grandchildren's paternal grandparents--had us over for supper. Their house was Christmasy and warm and inviting. It was very pleasant. We came home full, settled in, and went to bed. End of Day One.
Wednesday, Luda was ready to go shopping somewhere else. I went against everything I thought I should do and took them to the Greenwood Mall. I had considered staying with them, but the mall only has wheelchairs for the handicapped...no scooters...so...we arranged a meeting time and place, with the information that they should call if they were ready sooner, but that it would take me at least 30 minutes to get to them. I had stew beef cooking in the crockpot for stroganoff, and I desperately needed some down time. (I admit that I succumbed to temptation for aloneness!) They did call earlier than our appointed time. I think there were too many stores, even for Luda! We came home to a very popular stroganoff supper.
Well...I guess I should say that I think it was a popular supper. Luda ate the daylights out of it. Sergey started out with a "snack" of the tuna salad that I had made, which he mostly devoured--THREE cans of tuna worth--then created a huge platter of stroganoff for "later". The platter consisted of curly noodles on the bottom, very carefully placed, then broccoli on top of that, then probably a half-bag of shredded cheddar cheese over that...and then the stroganoff sauce on top, plus Parmesan cheese. His concoction was at least as high as a single layer cake!! All the while, he had been imbibing in beer, so wasn't in a big hurry to eat it. Luda had the dishes done before he even finished making his creation... I took a quick run to the store. When I got back, Sergey had eaten most of his platter and was crashed in bed. Luda and I stayed up, talking...with an English lesson or two in there. When we went to bed, we were happy. Day Two.
Thursday, Luda wanted to go back to Metropolis in Plainfield. She had seen some boots or something that she decided to buy. The weather was to change to cold and windy, so I was alert to the fact that they probably wouldn't last as long as they thought they would. True enough. We had a chicken stir fry supper. They liked it. That's good because I really didn't give them a choice! She came home showing off her purchases. Happy lady! We were to head to the Chicago area the next day, so I was trying to gear up. I think we all went to bed early.
The weather forecast for Friday had been for light snow and very strong winds. I was a little concerned because of the plains north of Lafayette that sometimes get socked with lake effect snow. Largely because of the wind, I made the executive decision not to head that way until Saturday when there would be sunshine and the snowplows would have a chance to clear the roads. Sergey did some odd jobs around the house. Basically, we just vegged and prepared to depart on Saturday. No one seemed upset. Meg actually seemed relieved that we wouldn't be there for another day!
On Saturday, the sun was shining brightly. Sergey got everything loaded in the car--Christmas presents, luggage, etc. The roads were clear. In fact, the only snow we saw was in the Indy area and in the Grayslake area. Still, I'm not sorry that we waited a day. There is always the possibility of a car breakdown. I just didn't want to be caught out on the roads in that horrible wind.
Thus ended my unattended visit with the Russian guests. I don't think anyone suffered...
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
Holiday Stuff
Somehow, I let my father's birthday/parents' anniversary (same day) slip by without mentioning it on the 5th. Bad daughter! Of course, both of my parents passed quite a few years ago, but I rarely let the occasion get by without saying something. I blame busy-ness.
This year, with the Russians here for their major holiday (New Year), we had quite a family celebration. Luda and Sergey spent HOURS making traditional Russian dishes. One is called Salad Olivier--which is not much more than a glorified potato salad, but with pickles, peas, and meat. All of the recipes for Olivier Salad that I saw online called for pickles that are brine cured--not vinegar cured. Last year I looked and looked. You just can't buy brine-cured pickles in the US unless you live near a Russian store--which Megan and Denis do. Thus, they arrived at my house with brine-cured pickles for the salad, and it makes all the difference in the world in the taste of the salad!
Another traditional dish that they made was a fish concoction that Luda said her mother-in-law taught her how to make. She had bought a large tin of whole herring, which she took off the bone in little pieces by hand. Then she boiled two beets and shredded them. And then there was the Russian mayonnaise (which also came from the Russian store up north). The whole thing was layered--fish, then beets, then mayo...and I'm not sure what else. I knew my family wasn't going to eat much of it because it contained fish, but Luda made a BIG casserole dish of the stuff. I tried it. It wasn't bad. Just not something that I'd crave....but, believe it or not, by the time they all departed after the holiday, there was only a small chunk of it left.
I boiled a dozen eggs to make deviled eggs for NYE. Luda took four of them to make their traditional garlic-and-cheese "deviled" eggs. Her eggs were full of fresh chopped garlic and shredded cheese and mayo. Whew! Sergey eats garlic cloves like candy. That stuff is pretty potent!
Anyway, Luda and Sergey stayed up until 2:00 AM on NYE day preparing their traditional foods. I crashed long before that. But we had quite a spread for New Year's Eve: the fish dish, the Olivier salad, deviled eggs (Russian and otherwise), California Onion Dip and chips, large shrimp and cocktail sauce, some roast beef rollups--some with green onions in the center, and some with pickles, green and black olives, some crackers and cheese, a pineapple upside-down cake that Megan made, and a lemon bundt cake that Phil made. (Judy and Phil...also known as Grandma Judy and Grandpa Phil, plus their son Dan...joined us for the celebration and contributed the lemon cake and the pickle rollups.) We played games earlier in the evening...and then Father Frost came.
Father Frost is Russia's answer to Santa Claus. Luda announced that Father Frost had been here, and she gathered everyone to the kitchen for gifts. I'm not sure who all got what, but what was given was pretty much in the Russian tradition. Robin got a doll in traditional long Russian fur-lined coat (gold lame'), that was supposed to represent Father Frost's daughter. I got a singing Father Frost, also in traditional Russian garb, who intoned a traditional Russian song. I think Ryan got a computer game or something. And the children both got very decorative letters from FF (in Russian) that were pretty neat. (I hope they take them to school to share.)
But the tables were turned on Luda and Sergey. Unbeknownst to them, Megan and Denis spent many long hours after their collective return from Florida and the Bahamas, creating a digital scrapbook of their trip that was printed and delivered to my house on the day of New Year's Eve! Megan selected the pictures and did the layout. Denis did the text in Russian. I'm pretty sure Luda and Sergey thought the kids were just being lazy with all of the hours they spent quietly on the computer...but when the book was presented to them, Luda was in awe. Here was a very tangible memory book to take back to Russia to show their friends and reminisce about their trip to the US. Score!! (I think Luda said something that could be translated loosely as, "Father Frost rocks this year!")
At midnight, we all counted down with the ball in Times Square and had a champagne toast, except for the children and Uncle Dan who had a white grape juice/peach concoction that they seemed to love. Shortly thereafter, our guests went home and the rest of us wound down.
I don't know how the NYE celebration fared with the Russians. I'm sure it was not as much fun for them as it would have been had they been home with their own traditions, but we did our dead-level best to blend cultures and make them happy.
On New Year's Day, I cooked two corned beef rounds (basically all day), plus cabbage, potatoes, carrots, onions, and green beans. Traditional. Luda and Sergey--particularly Sergey--acted as though they'd never had corned beef before, (probably hadn't) and proclaimed that it couldn't be "more perfect". (The grandkids love it, too.) I enjoy serving food that people like! There was enough C. beef left to provide sandwiches for everyone to take to the Children's Museum the next day, plus a breakfast for Denis the day after that.
Luda and Sergey are now safely back at home in Russia. Megan and Denis and the cat are home and recuperating. I have mostly recuped. It's all good. I'm quite sure that L and S have some jet lag to catch up on... Such is eastbound travel through time zones. All's well that ends well!
This year, with the Russians here for their major holiday (New Year), we had quite a family celebration. Luda and Sergey spent HOURS making traditional Russian dishes. One is called Salad Olivier--which is not much more than a glorified potato salad, but with pickles, peas, and meat. All of the recipes for Olivier Salad that I saw online called for pickles that are brine cured--not vinegar cured. Last year I looked and looked. You just can't buy brine-cured pickles in the US unless you live near a Russian store--which Megan and Denis do. Thus, they arrived at my house with brine-cured pickles for the salad, and it makes all the difference in the world in the taste of the salad!
Another traditional dish that they made was a fish concoction that Luda said her mother-in-law taught her how to make. She had bought a large tin of whole herring, which she took off the bone in little pieces by hand. Then she boiled two beets and shredded them. And then there was the Russian mayonnaise (which also came from the Russian store up north). The whole thing was layered--fish, then beets, then mayo...and I'm not sure what else. I knew my family wasn't going to eat much of it because it contained fish, but Luda made a BIG casserole dish of the stuff. I tried it. It wasn't bad. Just not something that I'd crave....but, believe it or not, by the time they all departed after the holiday, there was only a small chunk of it left.
I boiled a dozen eggs to make deviled eggs for NYE. Luda took four of them to make their traditional garlic-and-cheese "deviled" eggs. Her eggs were full of fresh chopped garlic and shredded cheese and mayo. Whew! Sergey eats garlic cloves like candy. That stuff is pretty potent!
Anyway, Luda and Sergey stayed up until 2:00 AM on NYE day preparing their traditional foods. I crashed long before that. But we had quite a spread for New Year's Eve: the fish dish, the Olivier salad, deviled eggs (Russian and otherwise), California Onion Dip and chips, large shrimp and cocktail sauce, some roast beef rollups--some with green onions in the center, and some with pickles, green and black olives, some crackers and cheese, a pineapple upside-down cake that Megan made, and a lemon bundt cake that Phil made. (Judy and Phil...also known as Grandma Judy and Grandpa Phil, plus their son Dan...joined us for the celebration and contributed the lemon cake and the pickle rollups.) We played games earlier in the evening...and then Father Frost came.
Father Frost is Russia's answer to Santa Claus. Luda announced that Father Frost had been here, and she gathered everyone to the kitchen for gifts. I'm not sure who all got what, but what was given was pretty much in the Russian tradition. Robin got a doll in traditional long Russian fur-lined coat (gold lame'), that was supposed to represent Father Frost's daughter. I got a singing Father Frost, also in traditional Russian garb, who intoned a traditional Russian song. I think Ryan got a computer game or something. And the children both got very decorative letters from FF (in Russian) that were pretty neat. (I hope they take them to school to share.)
But the tables were turned on Luda and Sergey. Unbeknownst to them, Megan and Denis spent many long hours after their collective return from Florida and the Bahamas, creating a digital scrapbook of their trip that was printed and delivered to my house on the day of New Year's Eve! Megan selected the pictures and did the layout. Denis did the text in Russian. I'm pretty sure Luda and Sergey thought the kids were just being lazy with all of the hours they spent quietly on the computer...but when the book was presented to them, Luda was in awe. Here was a very tangible memory book to take back to Russia to show their friends and reminisce about their trip to the US. Score!! (I think Luda said something that could be translated loosely as, "Father Frost rocks this year!")
At midnight, we all counted down with the ball in Times Square and had a champagne toast, except for the children and Uncle Dan who had a white grape juice/peach concoction that they seemed to love. Shortly thereafter, our guests went home and the rest of us wound down.
I don't know how the NYE celebration fared with the Russians. I'm sure it was not as much fun for them as it would have been had they been home with their own traditions, but we did our dead-level best to blend cultures and make them happy.
On New Year's Day, I cooked two corned beef rounds (basically all day), plus cabbage, potatoes, carrots, onions, and green beans. Traditional. Luda and Sergey--particularly Sergey--acted as though they'd never had corned beef before, (probably hadn't) and proclaimed that it couldn't be "more perfect". (The grandkids love it, too.) I enjoy serving food that people like! There was enough C. beef left to provide sandwiches for everyone to take to the Children's Museum the next day, plus a breakfast for Denis the day after that.
Luda and Sergey are now safely back at home in Russia. Megan and Denis and the cat are home and recuperating. I have mostly recuped. It's all good. I'm quite sure that L and S have some jet lag to catch up on... Such is eastbound travel through time zones. All's well that ends well!
Friday, January 4, 2013
Eric
Slightly more than just a year ago, my former stepson, Eric, was diagnosed with cholangiocarcinoma, a very rare cancer of the liver bile duct(s). He was 43 at the time and was very "yellow". He had bile drains surgically installed and was told that when the toxins in his bloodstream came down to acceptable levels, they would do surgery to remove his gall bladder, part of his liver, etc...in hopes of a cure. Unfortunately, this cancer is a "sleeper", meaning that it is often not discovered until it is too late to cure.
On my birthday in very early March, he was scheduled for surgery. When they opened up his belly, they discovered that the cancer had spread too much to put him through it all, so they sewed him back up and gave him a few months to live, without treatment, and a couple more, with. He opted for chemotherapy which made him sick for two days after each treatment. (He called it "Two Days Toxic" which we all thought would be a great name for a band, since he was so into the music world.) Eric et. al. was told that he would be "lucky" to make it to Christmas this year. He and his wife did their dead-level best to keep life as normal as possible for him in the meantime. One of his last broadcast messages was, "I refuse to get depressed." And guess what? If he who was suffering the most refused to get depressed, the rest of us should, too!
Eric's wife, Diana, started a Caring Bridge Journal a few weeks ago...one that Eric contributed to...so we could all keep up on how things were going. The plan was for Eric and Diana to fly to Vero Beach, Florida, to visit with his father (my "ex") and other family for Christmas. Diana just wanted to get Eric on a beach one last time. Eric's sister flew down from Dallas; his mother and stepfather flew down from Arizona; Diana's parents flew down from Indiana (just before or just after the blizzard) Megan--(my daughter and Eric's half-sister), had just been there with her Russian in-laws.
Unbeknownst to everyone at a distance, Eric had lost so much weight that he looked awful and was quite jaundiced. On the packed plane down, he got very sick to his stomach--something that had been going on for some time--and was in such pain that the people in the seats next to him stood awhile to let him stretch out. I guess other passengers were wondering why he was allowed on the flight. When they finally landed, Eric's father was appalled at how bad he looked. Eric was too weak to walk the 50 feet to the beach and could barely talk. Everyone came to understand that he wasn't going to be able to make the trip back to Detroit on a plane. Arrangements were being made to find a way to rent a van and drive him back to Detroit at the end of the Christmas stay so he could make the trip in a reclining position.
Eric couldn't make it to the Christmas celebration for which his mother had made traditional Slovak food. (His heritage.) They brought the celebration to him. Megan and Denis talked to him on Skype, as best they could. The day after Christmas, it was decided to send Eric to a hospice center in Vero Beach because he was so dehydrated, etc. He went by ambulance. I think his wife hoped that they could rehydrate him and send him home. It was not to be.
In the morning of December 27th, Eric passed away, with his wife holding one hand and his sister holding the other. Everyone else was present. Had it not happened just this way, some family members could not have been there with him. If there were ever a perfect way to die, this was it. Eric was 44.
I was sitting at my computer at Megan's in the early hours when the message came through. When she emerged from her bedroom, we hugged for a bit. No words were needed. Thankfully, Eric was cremated and his memorial services will take place in the spring/summer when winter travel problem potentials have passed.
Eric's long battle with cancer is over. He is now without pain. I will be meeting his wife in Indy for "coffee" tomorrow. (She's in town for a music "gig".) Thus endeth a long saga that did not have a happy ending, but couldn't have ended better. If that makes any sense at all...
On my birthday in very early March, he was scheduled for surgery. When they opened up his belly, they discovered that the cancer had spread too much to put him through it all, so they sewed him back up and gave him a few months to live, without treatment, and a couple more, with. He opted for chemotherapy which made him sick for two days after each treatment. (He called it "Two Days Toxic" which we all thought would be a great name for a band, since he was so into the music world.) Eric et. al. was told that he would be "lucky" to make it to Christmas this year. He and his wife did their dead-level best to keep life as normal as possible for him in the meantime. One of his last broadcast messages was, "I refuse to get depressed." And guess what? If he who was suffering the most refused to get depressed, the rest of us should, too!
Eric's wife, Diana, started a Caring Bridge Journal a few weeks ago...one that Eric contributed to...so we could all keep up on how things were going. The plan was for Eric and Diana to fly to Vero Beach, Florida, to visit with his father (my "ex") and other family for Christmas. Diana just wanted to get Eric on a beach one last time. Eric's sister flew down from Dallas; his mother and stepfather flew down from Arizona; Diana's parents flew down from Indiana (just before or just after the blizzard) Megan--(my daughter and Eric's half-sister), had just been there with her Russian in-laws.
Unbeknownst to everyone at a distance, Eric had lost so much weight that he looked awful and was quite jaundiced. On the packed plane down, he got very sick to his stomach--something that had been going on for some time--and was in such pain that the people in the seats next to him stood awhile to let him stretch out. I guess other passengers were wondering why he was allowed on the flight. When they finally landed, Eric's father was appalled at how bad he looked. Eric was too weak to walk the 50 feet to the beach and could barely talk. Everyone came to understand that he wasn't going to be able to make the trip back to Detroit on a plane. Arrangements were being made to find a way to rent a van and drive him back to Detroit at the end of the Christmas stay so he could make the trip in a reclining position.
Eric couldn't make it to the Christmas celebration for which his mother had made traditional Slovak food. (His heritage.) They brought the celebration to him. Megan and Denis talked to him on Skype, as best they could. The day after Christmas, it was decided to send Eric to a hospice center in Vero Beach because he was so dehydrated, etc. He went by ambulance. I think his wife hoped that they could rehydrate him and send him home. It was not to be.
In the morning of December 27th, Eric passed away, with his wife holding one hand and his sister holding the other. Everyone else was present. Had it not happened just this way, some family members could not have been there with him. If there were ever a perfect way to die, this was it. Eric was 44.
I was sitting at my computer at Megan's in the early hours when the message came through. When she emerged from her bedroom, we hugged for a bit. No words were needed. Thankfully, Eric was cremated and his memorial services will take place in the spring/summer when winter travel problem potentials have passed.
Eric's long battle with cancer is over. He is now without pain. I will be meeting his wife in Indy for "coffee" tomorrow. (She's in town for a music "gig".) Thus endeth a long saga that did not have a happy ending, but couldn't have ended better. If that makes any sense at all...
Not Your Cup
I always keep a supply of disposable cups in my house. When I'm here by myself, I know all of the used cups are mine, so there is no problem. When company comes, having the cups cuts down on the dishwasher load, but used cups can become a problem for identification. Once in awhile, we write our names on them with a Sharpie, but most of the time, they go unidentified.
I had six extra people in my house for a week. A couple of days ago, I picked up a foam cup on the table that someone had written on: NOT YOUR CUP. I chuckled. Perfect! No name required! All anyone needed to know if they inquired was that it wasn't theirs. Whose it was didn't matter. It was not their cup!
Of course, it took only seconds to figure out that this was my granddaughter's creation, but my mind raced to other applications to prevent theft. Not Your Money. Not Your Credit Card. Not Your Pillow. Robin (my granddaughter) probably doesn't know how ingenius I thought her missive was. How creative! I should have tattooed on my "ex", NOT YOUR HUSBAND. Ha! But I digress...
I had six extra people in my house for a week. A couple of days ago, I picked up a foam cup on the table that someone had written on: NOT YOUR CUP. I chuckled. Perfect! No name required! All anyone needed to know if they inquired was that it wasn't theirs. Whose it was didn't matter. It was not their cup!
Of course, it took only seconds to figure out that this was my granddaughter's creation, but my mind raced to other applications to prevent theft. Not Your Money. Not Your Credit Card. Not Your Pillow. Robin (my granddaughter) probably doesn't know how ingenius I thought her missive was. How creative! I should have tattooed on my "ex", NOT YOUR HUSBAND. Ha! But I digress...
So Much to Write!
So much has happened since I last posted that it will take a little time for me to catch up. Some things that I write will be out of chronological order, but if you follow this blog, you might get it.
Early in December, my daughter (Megan) and son-in-law (Denis) went to Florida where they picked up his parents from Russia at the airport in Orlando, took a 5-day cruise to the Bahamas, visited Meg's father in Vero Beach, toured Disney World, Kennedy Space Center, the Everglades, and other balmy places before heading back to my house-on-a-slab in Indiana, to be reunited with their cat--in my possession--and to drop the Russian parents off for a short visit at my house without the son-in-law to translate. Then I drove the Russians up to Meg's house in IL for Christmas with the grandchildren...then back to my house for New Year's Eve/New Year (which is the biggest Russian holiday). My children, grandchildren, and Russian in-law-in-laws (which is what I call them) make six extra people in my tiny house. We survived! They all left for IL just after noon today. The Russians (Luda and Sergey) don't fly back to Russia until the 7th. They have seen much of the country this trip and fell in love with Florida. (Who wouldn't??)
I write all of this to set the stage for other posts about our experiences. If you don't understand the rest, you'll need a scorecard. This is it!
Early in December, my daughter (Megan) and son-in-law (Denis) went to Florida where they picked up his parents from Russia at the airport in Orlando, took a 5-day cruise to the Bahamas, visited Meg's father in Vero Beach, toured Disney World, Kennedy Space Center, the Everglades, and other balmy places before heading back to my house-on-a-slab in Indiana, to be reunited with their cat--in my possession--and to drop the Russian parents off for a short visit at my house without the son-in-law to translate. Then I drove the Russians up to Meg's house in IL for Christmas with the grandchildren...then back to my house for New Year's Eve/New Year (which is the biggest Russian holiday). My children, grandchildren, and Russian in-law-in-laws (which is what I call them) make six extra people in my tiny house. We survived! They all left for IL just after noon today. The Russians (Luda and Sergey) don't fly back to Russia until the 7th. They have seen much of the country this trip and fell in love with Florida. (Who wouldn't??)
I write all of this to set the stage for other posts about our experiences. If you don't understand the rest, you'll need a scorecard. This is it!
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