Today, the Supreme Court's decisions on two anti-same-sex-marriage laws were publicly read. It was much anticipated. The results? The Defense of Marriage Act was deemed unconstitutional by a 5-4 vote, and California's Proposition 8 was also struck down for the same reason. (Prop 8, I believe, was an after-the-fact denunciation of same-sex marriages that had already been legalized in that state.)
I'm sorry I can't be more detailed. I haven't really been following the story closely. Why? Because I already knew the outcome. Although, as a country, we haven't always lived up to our own rhetoric, we have one Constitution that covers every citizen--male, female, gay, straight, of all human colors. There could be no resolution other than what came down today and still consider ourselves the land of the free. Time to put our money where our collective mouth is.
Look...I don't care what your reasoning, politics, or religion is. You can dislike homosexuality all you like, but it is not your job to fix it or legislate it. The verdict is still out on what causes it--nature or nurture. (I'm inclined to believe that people are born that way, but who knows?) My hairdresser is gay; many of my former students are gay. So?? Their gayness does not affect my life one little bit! I am 66 years old and have never been approached by a lesbian for a romantic reason, and even if I had, I would simply have said, "No thanks. I'm not gay." So where does homophobia come from? Are people afraid it will rub off on them by osmosis??
Maybe I'd be more protective of the definition of marriage as being between one man and one woman had we heterosexuals not made such a mess of things. The divorce rate in this "Christian" country of ours is well over 50%. Daytime TV, talk shows, Facebook posts, and other indicators of our collective health as a nation that supposedly values marriage and family is rife with infidelity. Political frontrunners have fallen due to their marital indiscretions. I'm convinced that the downfall of civilization will happen because people prefer to do what feels good rather than what is right. If I thought for a second that allowing gays to marry would risk our American way of life, such as it is, I'd be waving the first flag in the parade.
We all fear what we do not understand. So if we do not understand, why do we get in the way? I am a Christian. The Old Testament mentions homosexuality as being "an abomination to the Lord". BUT, so is cutting one's beard, eating pork, mixing meat and milk, and a thousand other things that modern society pays no attention to. Jesus said absolutely nothing about homosexuality. Nothing! I choose to think that his admonition to love each other, turn the other cheek, forgive your enemies, and give what you have to help others means everyone--not just those who are not gay.
Today's rulings by the Supreme Court begin a new dialogue. Interesting. This country is 237 years old...and we are only just now getting around to this???
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
Sunday, June 23, 2013
Paula Deen
Have you been following the Paula Deen story? Paula Deen is a gal from Georgia with an outrageous southern accent, replete with "y'alls" every step of the way. She has had a cooking show on TV for a long time and has been a popular personality. Awhile ago, she came under fire because her cooking was shamelessly full of butter and frying...and then she turned up diabetic and couldn't even eat the dishes she was promoting. Big freaking deal!
Now her show has been canceled. Why? Because she has been accused of making racist remarks. A Southern gal making racist remarks doesn't surprise me, but I've looked into what she has said...and now I wonder if she hasn't been blindsided. Unless I'm missing something, she has.
What I have read--(note: "read" without benefit of seeing facial expression or vocal inflection)--she was explaining slavery and the South, not defending it. There is a difference. One can be mistaken for the other. It happened to me.
In all my years of teaching, I haven't had many students of color, but when I did, I treated them all the same. I am probably the least racist person you will ever meet, although (by reason of definition) because I am of the majority race in the US, I am automatically considered racist. I get that. My very last year of teaching, I had an African-American student. (One.) She was living with an aunt and uncle--not parents--and seemed to be a positive child. Every class, she greeted me with "How are you today, Ms. McNary?" I complimented her on how nice it was to be so politely greeted instead of with the usual, "What are we doing in class today?"
At one point in our lessons, the term "nigger" came up. Made as I am, I figured that education would take the sting out of the word. I spent about 15 minutes in class explaining how the term originally came from the southern pronunciation of the word "negro" which is the official label for the African race, and that it only became an epithet when people used it to denigrate the whole race of people. I thought I had scored some understanding. I was wrong. A few days later, I was called to the principal's office. She told me that the student's uncle had appeared with a whole list of times that I had used the term "nigger" in my lesson. God bless the principal....she defended me simply by telling the man that she knew my heart would be broken by his accusations. She suggested that I call him to talk. I didn't. It sounded to me as though he had an ax to grind and that I was to be the victim. I could have defused the situation, perhaps, but there were other situations. The child went on to try to cover her tracks by reporting to the school that she would be beaten for her flagging grades. Child Protective Services was called. Stuff happened. It turned out not to be true. Suddenly, my lesson seemed to be just part of cover stories to keep her out of trouble at home.
If you've read this blog long at all, you know that I have struggled with the difference between supporting and enabling....and now I am troubled by the difference between explaining and defending. Suggestions????
Now her show has been canceled. Why? Because she has been accused of making racist remarks. A Southern gal making racist remarks doesn't surprise me, but I've looked into what she has said...and now I wonder if she hasn't been blindsided. Unless I'm missing something, she has.
What I have read--(note: "read" without benefit of seeing facial expression or vocal inflection)--she was explaining slavery and the South, not defending it. There is a difference. One can be mistaken for the other. It happened to me.
In all my years of teaching, I haven't had many students of color, but when I did, I treated them all the same. I am probably the least racist person you will ever meet, although (by reason of definition) because I am of the majority race in the US, I am automatically considered racist. I get that. My very last year of teaching, I had an African-American student. (One.) She was living with an aunt and uncle--not parents--and seemed to be a positive child. Every class, she greeted me with "How are you today, Ms. McNary?" I complimented her on how nice it was to be so politely greeted instead of with the usual, "What are we doing in class today?"
At one point in our lessons, the term "nigger" came up. Made as I am, I figured that education would take the sting out of the word. I spent about 15 minutes in class explaining how the term originally came from the southern pronunciation of the word "negro" which is the official label for the African race, and that it only became an epithet when people used it to denigrate the whole race of people. I thought I had scored some understanding. I was wrong. A few days later, I was called to the principal's office. She told me that the student's uncle had appeared with a whole list of times that I had used the term "nigger" in my lesson. God bless the principal....she defended me simply by telling the man that she knew my heart would be broken by his accusations. She suggested that I call him to talk. I didn't. It sounded to me as though he had an ax to grind and that I was to be the victim. I could have defused the situation, perhaps, but there were other situations. The child went on to try to cover her tracks by reporting to the school that she would be beaten for her flagging grades. Child Protective Services was called. Stuff happened. It turned out not to be true. Suddenly, my lesson seemed to be just part of cover stories to keep her out of trouble at home.
If you've read this blog long at all, you know that I have struggled with the difference between supporting and enabling....and now I am troubled by the difference between explaining and defending. Suggestions????
Friday, June 21, 2013
The Theater and Me
I got lost in a TV show on the Oprah Winfrey Network the other day. It was a documentary called Most Valuable Players, about schools in a tri-county area of Pennsylvania and New Jersey putting on musicals, then hoping for nominations for an Academy Award equivalent called the Freddy Awards. I'd seen it before, but it snared me again.
These are schools with honest-to-God theater/music departments. Schools that have honest-to-God auditoriums with honest-to-God stages...like my high school did. (I was spoiled by that. Never taught in a school that had one of those, which is one of the reasons that I flip-flopped my major and minor courses in college. I started out as a theater major with an English minor, but switched them along about my sophomore year. I never regretted that. Many schools have no auditoriums, stages, or even care about drama/music, but English courses are a four-year requirement. Smart move on my part!)
In any case, I was enthralled watching that documentary. Watching those kids was like watching my own life as a performer, and my daughter's life as a performer. The kids are spirited, creative, and close. What a thrill to experience those moments with them! It brought it all back to me!
My high school put on three major productions a year. The "fall play" was open to anyone to audition. Then there was the musical, which was only open to members of A Cappella Choir, which was comprised of juniors and seniors. The "senior play" was only open to seniors to audition. In those days, dance was not as big a deal as it is today...and show choirs were unheard of. Selection for parts was mostly based on ability to act and sing. Period. Dancing would come after training.
Understand that I only entered that school district in 6th grade. I was a newcomer and not the kind of kid willing to make a splash, even if I had a splash to make. Oak Park-River Forest High School had 3,500 students. I was a very tiny little duckling in a huge pond! I had zero performing experience, but I watched. Oh, how I watched! I went to every performance the school did, and remarked to myself that those kids looked like they were having such a good time that I wanted to be part of that. I sneaked in to the program. Got myself to be props mistress. Learned a little bit about stage craft. Got into A Cappella Choir, so was eligible to be part of the musical my junior year. (That year the show was Brigadoon, and I managed a tiny little solo.)
By the fall of my senior year, I had the confidence to decide that I would audition for the fall play...Harvey. I even talked the kid who sat in front of me in homeroom to try out, also. Wonder of wonders, he and I got the leads! Then came the musical. Plain and Fancy...about a couple of New Yorkers who get lost in the Amish country of Pennsylvania. I got the female character lead in that! Then there was the senior play...She Stoops to Conquer...a very old play by Oliver Goldsmith...and I got the lead in that, too! Basically, I spent my entire senior year in high school in rehearsal and in glorious performance. I remember telling my mother that I wanted to stay 17 for the rest of my life because it had been such a fantastic year for me!
Where did my love of performing come from? I have no clue! I was a pretty quiet kid prior to our settling in the Chicago area after Navy-roaming. My daughter caught the bug and out-did me in stage presence...and now my granddaughter seems to be smitten. All I know is that I get goose-bumps from watching student performances in spirited situations where the only thing at risk is fear of failure. When I first started voice lessons in high school, my father complained to my mother "What's she going to do with this? Sing lullabyes to her babies?" After I got solo opportunities and lead parts, he never complained again!
I did other theater performances after high school...in Pontiac, IL, and again when we moved to Indiana in 1988....but I was in the throes of divorce then and it wasn't as much fun. I believe I was led by God to do what I could do when I could still do it. My singing voice is gone. My physical mobility is about shot. This is why I love watching shows that can remind me of what used to be. It all works!
These are schools with honest-to-God theater/music departments. Schools that have honest-to-God auditoriums with honest-to-God stages...like my high school did. (I was spoiled by that. Never taught in a school that had one of those, which is one of the reasons that I flip-flopped my major and minor courses in college. I started out as a theater major with an English minor, but switched them along about my sophomore year. I never regretted that. Many schools have no auditoriums, stages, or even care about drama/music, but English courses are a four-year requirement. Smart move on my part!)
In any case, I was enthralled watching that documentary. Watching those kids was like watching my own life as a performer, and my daughter's life as a performer. The kids are spirited, creative, and close. What a thrill to experience those moments with them! It brought it all back to me!
My high school put on three major productions a year. The "fall play" was open to anyone to audition. Then there was the musical, which was only open to members of A Cappella Choir, which was comprised of juniors and seniors. The "senior play" was only open to seniors to audition. In those days, dance was not as big a deal as it is today...and show choirs were unheard of. Selection for parts was mostly based on ability to act and sing. Period. Dancing would come after training.
Understand that I only entered that school district in 6th grade. I was a newcomer and not the kind of kid willing to make a splash, even if I had a splash to make. Oak Park-River Forest High School had 3,500 students. I was a very tiny little duckling in a huge pond! I had zero performing experience, but I watched. Oh, how I watched! I went to every performance the school did, and remarked to myself that those kids looked like they were having such a good time that I wanted to be part of that. I sneaked in to the program. Got myself to be props mistress. Learned a little bit about stage craft. Got into A Cappella Choir, so was eligible to be part of the musical my junior year. (That year the show was Brigadoon, and I managed a tiny little solo.)
By the fall of my senior year, I had the confidence to decide that I would audition for the fall play...Harvey. I even talked the kid who sat in front of me in homeroom to try out, also. Wonder of wonders, he and I got the leads! Then came the musical. Plain and Fancy...about a couple of New Yorkers who get lost in the Amish country of Pennsylvania. I got the female character lead in that! Then there was the senior play...She Stoops to Conquer...a very old play by Oliver Goldsmith...and I got the lead in that, too! Basically, I spent my entire senior year in high school in rehearsal and in glorious performance. I remember telling my mother that I wanted to stay 17 for the rest of my life because it had been such a fantastic year for me!
Where did my love of performing come from? I have no clue! I was a pretty quiet kid prior to our settling in the Chicago area after Navy-roaming. My daughter caught the bug and out-did me in stage presence...and now my granddaughter seems to be smitten. All I know is that I get goose-bumps from watching student performances in spirited situations where the only thing at risk is fear of failure. When I first started voice lessons in high school, my father complained to my mother "What's she going to do with this? Sing lullabyes to her babies?" After I got solo opportunities and lead parts, he never complained again!
I did other theater performances after high school...in Pontiac, IL, and again when we moved to Indiana in 1988....but I was in the throes of divorce then and it wasn't as much fun. I believe I was led by God to do what I could do when I could still do it. My singing voice is gone. My physical mobility is about shot. This is why I love watching shows that can remind me of what used to be. It all works!
Thursday, June 13, 2013
The Memory Selection
During the last eight to ten years of my teaching career, I took it upon myself to include monthly memory selections in my English assigments--literary selections, usually short, that I required to be committed to memory for 25 points each. My reasoning was that, if I did my job wisely, the selections I chose would stay with my students for the rest of their lives. Thus, I was careful to select good material--things that I thought all good American citizens should know.
The students never had less than a month to memorize the selection. With each new assignment, I passed out copies, then put a copy on the overhead projector and went over it, line-by-line, discussing what it meant and why it was important. As the due date grew closer, I would remind them: Memory selections are due in a week. Memory selections are due in two days. One day. Tomorrow. Still, you'd think I was killing these kids! Memorize something? OMG! Never mind that they knew the lyrics to rapid-lyric rap songs and could recite their friends' phone numbers by rote. They thought that memorizing literature was teacher-administered torture! I thought it was a grand exercise in using the brain. No multiple choice answers here! You either know it or you don't. Period.
The first memory selection of the year was always the school's Fight Song. The athletes were required to know it by their coaches so they could lead the school with it at games, but the general spectators didn't always know the words. I just figured that every good student should know his/her own school's song! Other selections--which sometimes changed, but not usually--included:
"The Road Not Taken" by Robert Frost.
"The Preamble to the Constitution of the United States of America".
"Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening" by Robert Frost.
The opening of "The Declaration of Independence", down to "the consent of the governed".
"The New Colossus" by Emma Lazarus. (The poem inscribed at the base of the Statue of Liberty.)
"The Gettysburg Address" by Abraham Lincoln.
And here's how things shook out each month:
The "honors" class was almost 100% in memorization. No problem there.
The "regular" classes had less than 50% of students cooperating with the assignment, but creating challenges in cheating. (More about that in a minute.)
The class that included special ed. kids and afforded me a teacher's aide was challenging insofar as the spec. ed. kids wanted to succeed and tried, but asking them to write out the assignment was out of the question. I cut the memorization down by about half for them, and on the due date, sent them out of the room with the aide for them to recite it to her, one by one. That generally worked!
When I first started the memory thing, it was my intention that everyone write it out. I soon noted (see the special ed class above) that it wouldn't always work. Thus, I gave every class the opportunity to either recite or write. I had to be a little careful because if my attention was given to those reciting, I couldn't be watching for those who were cheating. In time, that worked itself out. I had a system. "Clear off your desks of everything but a piece of paper and your pencil, and make sure your copy of the selection is not in sight." I walked up and down the aisles while the kids were writing. (Recitations came after the writing was turned in.) And I was lenient. If a kid was writing but just seemed stuck, I would offer the next word or two to jog the memory. Oh, yeah!...and they would continue writing. I also gave partial credit. I didn't count off for spelling or punctuation, and lines didn't have to be exact, as long as the point was clear. The only people who received no credit were those who made no effort at all. If they got part of the assignment, they got an equal part of the credit. Some points were better than no points at all.
But then, there was the hard core cheating. At first, it was just copies of the selections just below the desk or on the student's lap. Busted most of those. Then found a student who had written the selection on the desktop in pencil (that could be rubbed off with a finger). His response? "Huh! How did that get there??" Then I noticed that less-than-good students were turning in perfect papers--spelling, punctuation, and all. When I told them to clear off their desks except for a piece of paper, they were hiding a perfectly written copy under a blank piece of paper, then turning in the perfect copy after I was done going down the aisles. I thwarted that by supplying unlined white copy paper for them to do the memory selection on. They caught onto that pretty fast! It wasn't hard for them to come up with unlined copy paper to substitute for what I had given them.
This is where I needed to get creative. I realized that I still had to provide the paper, but it needed to be a different color. I went to the office to beg the secretary for a ream of her precious colored copy paper. Understand that the secretary was proprietary about her stash (and rightly so), but when she found out that I was trying to prevent kids from cheating, she gladly gave me what she didn't think she needed. I almost heard a collective groan from the kids when I handed out blue paper for the memory selection that first day. Each month after that, there was a different color--and no one could guess what color it would be!
The bottom line for me, however, came when someone suspicious managed to skirt all of my efforts and still turn in a perfect copy. If I caught it that day, I would take the student's paper and slap a blank one in front of him/her and say, "Write it again." Then I would stand there to see what happened. One-hundred-percent of those ended with "You caught me. I don't know it." It was a joke to them. Can't blame a kid for trying, right?
Actually, it was a joke to me, too. Not knowing a memory selection isn't exactly being a failure at life. In all my years of assigning memory selections, I only had one parent complain. If a kid's grades were generally good, but he/she blew off the selection, it would hurt his/her grade just a little. But if a kid's grades weren't great, a 25-point zero made a big difference. This particular parent complained that he (the parent) didn't know about the assignment and so couldn't direct his kid to study it. My comment was that he (the 8th grade student) had known about the assignment for at least month, including my constant reminders. By way of concession, I gave the student a chance to recite the selection to me days after it was due, for partial credit. He still didn't know it. Oh well!
My biggest reward for this has come on Facebook from former (usually honors) students who have seen/heard references to the things I made them memorize... and recognized them. I may not have been the best English teacher in the world, but I do not regret for a second asking my students to learn the basics of our American institutions by way of literature.
And so, for now..."the woods are lovely, dark, and deep..but I have promises to keep...and miles to go before I sleep. And miles to go before I sleep". :)
The students never had less than a month to memorize the selection. With each new assignment, I passed out copies, then put a copy on the overhead projector and went over it, line-by-line, discussing what it meant and why it was important. As the due date grew closer, I would remind them: Memory selections are due in a week. Memory selections are due in two days. One day. Tomorrow. Still, you'd think I was killing these kids! Memorize something? OMG! Never mind that they knew the lyrics to rapid-lyric rap songs and could recite their friends' phone numbers by rote. They thought that memorizing literature was teacher-administered torture! I thought it was a grand exercise in using the brain. No multiple choice answers here! You either know it or you don't. Period.
The first memory selection of the year was always the school's Fight Song. The athletes were required to know it by their coaches so they could lead the school with it at games, but the general spectators didn't always know the words. I just figured that every good student should know his/her own school's song! Other selections--which sometimes changed, but not usually--included:
"The Road Not Taken" by Robert Frost.
"The Preamble to the Constitution of the United States of America".
"Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening" by Robert Frost.
The opening of "The Declaration of Independence", down to "the consent of the governed".
"The New Colossus" by Emma Lazarus. (The poem inscribed at the base of the Statue of Liberty.)
"The Gettysburg Address" by Abraham Lincoln.
And here's how things shook out each month:
The "honors" class was almost 100% in memorization. No problem there.
The "regular" classes had less than 50% of students cooperating with the assignment, but creating challenges in cheating. (More about that in a minute.)
The class that included special ed. kids and afforded me a teacher's aide was challenging insofar as the spec. ed. kids wanted to succeed and tried, but asking them to write out the assignment was out of the question. I cut the memorization down by about half for them, and on the due date, sent them out of the room with the aide for them to recite it to her, one by one. That generally worked!
When I first started the memory thing, it was my intention that everyone write it out. I soon noted (see the special ed class above) that it wouldn't always work. Thus, I gave every class the opportunity to either recite or write. I had to be a little careful because if my attention was given to those reciting, I couldn't be watching for those who were cheating. In time, that worked itself out. I had a system. "Clear off your desks of everything but a piece of paper and your pencil, and make sure your copy of the selection is not in sight." I walked up and down the aisles while the kids were writing. (Recitations came after the writing was turned in.) And I was lenient. If a kid was writing but just seemed stuck, I would offer the next word or two to jog the memory. Oh, yeah!...and they would continue writing. I also gave partial credit. I didn't count off for spelling or punctuation, and lines didn't have to be exact, as long as the point was clear. The only people who received no credit were those who made no effort at all. If they got part of the assignment, they got an equal part of the credit. Some points were better than no points at all.
But then, there was the hard core cheating. At first, it was just copies of the selections just below the desk or on the student's lap. Busted most of those. Then found a student who had written the selection on the desktop in pencil (that could be rubbed off with a finger). His response? "Huh! How did that get there??" Then I noticed that less-than-good students were turning in perfect papers--spelling, punctuation, and all. When I told them to clear off their desks except for a piece of paper, they were hiding a perfectly written copy under a blank piece of paper, then turning in the perfect copy after I was done going down the aisles. I thwarted that by supplying unlined white copy paper for them to do the memory selection on. They caught onto that pretty fast! It wasn't hard for them to come up with unlined copy paper to substitute for what I had given them.
This is where I needed to get creative. I realized that I still had to provide the paper, but it needed to be a different color. I went to the office to beg the secretary for a ream of her precious colored copy paper. Understand that the secretary was proprietary about her stash (and rightly so), but when she found out that I was trying to prevent kids from cheating, she gladly gave me what she didn't think she needed. I almost heard a collective groan from the kids when I handed out blue paper for the memory selection that first day. Each month after that, there was a different color--and no one could guess what color it would be!
The bottom line for me, however, came when someone suspicious managed to skirt all of my efforts and still turn in a perfect copy. If I caught it that day, I would take the student's paper and slap a blank one in front of him/her and say, "Write it again." Then I would stand there to see what happened. One-hundred-percent of those ended with "You caught me. I don't know it." It was a joke to them. Can't blame a kid for trying, right?
Actually, it was a joke to me, too. Not knowing a memory selection isn't exactly being a failure at life. In all my years of assigning memory selections, I only had one parent complain. If a kid's grades were generally good, but he/she blew off the selection, it would hurt his/her grade just a little. But if a kid's grades weren't great, a 25-point zero made a big difference. This particular parent complained that he (the parent) didn't know about the assignment and so couldn't direct his kid to study it. My comment was that he (the 8th grade student) had known about the assignment for at least month, including my constant reminders. By way of concession, I gave the student a chance to recite the selection to me days after it was due, for partial credit. He still didn't know it. Oh well!
My biggest reward for this has come on Facebook from former (usually honors) students who have seen/heard references to the things I made them memorize... and recognized them. I may not have been the best English teacher in the world, but I do not regret for a second asking my students to learn the basics of our American institutions by way of literature.
And so, for now..."the woods are lovely, dark, and deep..but I have promises to keep...and miles to go before I sleep. And miles to go before I sleep". :)
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
I Did It Again!
Yesterday, I went to Walmart to buy flowers for the pots on my patio. Almost was too late because stuff was mostly picked over...and not everything that I wanted was there. I got what I could and took it to my car to load in the trunk. A church friend drove by just then, so I spoke to her...then left. Drove to a grocery store to pick up the rest of the things I needed for the flower pots. Reached to the car seat for my purse. Ack! No purse! I knew immediately that I must have left my purse in the kiddie-seat part of the cart and headed back to Walmart immediately. I hate when I do these things. It is NOT the first time!
When I got back to the Walmart garden center, the cart that I had left was there, but no purse was in it. I went inside. No one in the garden center knew anything about a purse. I was sent to the Customer Service desk. (A bit of a walk!) Nothing there, either....but I left my name and phone number in hopes that it would be turned in. It had only been ten minutes since I took leave of my senses. Walked back out through the garden center wondering what to do next. Who to call? What to do?
A voice coming from a vehicle in the spot where I had been parked when I was there said, "Is your name Peggy??" Uh....yes. (I knew I had been saved!)
"What is your last name?"
"McNary."
"I have your purse."
The gal saw my purse, wide open in the shopping cart, and had plucked it out. She found my phone number in my checkbook and had called my home phone to leave a message. She had determined to deliver it to my home, but I showed up. I was so grateful to have it back!
So far, I've been lucky. The last time I did this, the purse was still in the cart in the parking lot. The time before that, an honest person found it and turned it in...which is REALLY lucky because I was in Zion, Illinois, at my grandchildren's, with zero reference in the purse as to where I could be located, locally. I guess God really does look after old people and drunks!
When I reported what I had done to my daughter, she said I was getting closer to being "sent to the home"--something she and Nathan used to refer to a lot in earlier times. Then she made some inane comment about if I had left the gas turned on, all would be over. Ka-BOOM! But then she posted something on Facebook about how unfair it is that she left a cell phone in a locked car in a locked, gated community when she first got to California, yet someone broke the car window and stole the phone.....but I leave my purse in a shopping cart in a public parking lot and people track me down to return the contents intact. Either I am very lucky or just don't have anything worth stealing. (My guess is the latter.)
In any case, no harm/no foul. I'm a lucky ducky!
When I got back to the Walmart garden center, the cart that I had left was there, but no purse was in it. I went inside. No one in the garden center knew anything about a purse. I was sent to the Customer Service desk. (A bit of a walk!) Nothing there, either....but I left my name and phone number in hopes that it would be turned in. It had only been ten minutes since I took leave of my senses. Walked back out through the garden center wondering what to do next. Who to call? What to do?
A voice coming from a vehicle in the spot where I had been parked when I was there said, "Is your name Peggy??" Uh....yes. (I knew I had been saved!)
"What is your last name?"
"McNary."
"I have your purse."
The gal saw my purse, wide open in the shopping cart, and had plucked it out. She found my phone number in my checkbook and had called my home phone to leave a message. She had determined to deliver it to my home, but I showed up. I was so grateful to have it back!
So far, I've been lucky. The last time I did this, the purse was still in the cart in the parking lot. The time before that, an honest person found it and turned it in...which is REALLY lucky because I was in Zion, Illinois, at my grandchildren's, with zero reference in the purse as to where I could be located, locally. I guess God really does look after old people and drunks!
When I reported what I had done to my daughter, she said I was getting closer to being "sent to the home"--something she and Nathan used to refer to a lot in earlier times. Then she made some inane comment about if I had left the gas turned on, all would be over. Ka-BOOM! But then she posted something on Facebook about how unfair it is that she left a cell phone in a locked car in a locked, gated community when she first got to California, yet someone broke the car window and stole the phone.....but I leave my purse in a shopping cart in a public parking lot and people track me down to return the contents intact. Either I am very lucky or just don't have anything worth stealing. (My guess is the latter.)
In any case, no harm/no foul. I'm a lucky ducky!
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
Little Slice of Heaven
I have always been an outdoor person. I love to camp; love to garden; love to travel and see the great sights that this gorgeous country has to offer. Once upon a time, I was an expert in all of those endeavors. Old age now limits me, but my heart is still outside.
In 1992, still freshly injured from a divorce, I bought this little house-on-a-slab in Plainfield, Indiana. 'Tis a "national home"--a late 60s version of a pre-fab subdivisional place to live. Small by most standards. This particular house had two features that attracted me: a half-bath that most of the homes in the subdivision didn't have, and a covered patio outside the back door by the kitchen. A lot has gone on in this house since those first years, but one thing has not changed: I enjoy being outside on the patio.
The yard is small. The flowers don't always bloom when I want them to. The privacy fence blocks views to the street, which means that I can go out there in my nightgown and not worry about who sees me. I don't have a mountain view or an oceanfront panorama or a desert scape to look at. What I have is a tiny little back yard with plants that I planted...and critters that come around to steal the peanuts that I put out for them. From my patio, I can watch the habits of ants and spiders, check the population of earwigs and lightning bugs, observe the robin parents feed their hungry young'uns, watch the spring and fall migration of birds, and revel in the simple things. In the early mornings, the yard almost sounds like a rain forest of bird calls. I can identify most of them! I never, ever get bored with it. I could yearn for more, but this is what life has given me, and I am grateful for every moment of what I have.
I guess what I am saying is that my little "slice of heaven" is pretty modest. It ain't much, but it's all I've got, and I will not apologize for the fact that it may not meet the standards of others who have more funds than I to carry on in a richer standard. Heaven isn't a place--it's a concept. I'm happy. Hope that's enough!
In 1992, still freshly injured from a divorce, I bought this little house-on-a-slab in Plainfield, Indiana. 'Tis a "national home"--a late 60s version of a pre-fab subdivisional place to live. Small by most standards. This particular house had two features that attracted me: a half-bath that most of the homes in the subdivision didn't have, and a covered patio outside the back door by the kitchen. A lot has gone on in this house since those first years, but one thing has not changed: I enjoy being outside on the patio.
The yard is small. The flowers don't always bloom when I want them to. The privacy fence blocks views to the street, which means that I can go out there in my nightgown and not worry about who sees me. I don't have a mountain view or an oceanfront panorama or a desert scape to look at. What I have is a tiny little back yard with plants that I planted...and critters that come around to steal the peanuts that I put out for them. From my patio, I can watch the habits of ants and spiders, check the population of earwigs and lightning bugs, observe the robin parents feed their hungry young'uns, watch the spring and fall migration of birds, and revel in the simple things. In the early mornings, the yard almost sounds like a rain forest of bird calls. I can identify most of them! I never, ever get bored with it. I could yearn for more, but this is what life has given me, and I am grateful for every moment of what I have.
I guess what I am saying is that my little "slice of heaven" is pretty modest. It ain't much, but it's all I've got, and I will not apologize for the fact that it may not meet the standards of others who have more funds than I to carry on in a richer standard. Heaven isn't a place--it's a concept. I'm happy. Hope that's enough!
Saturday, June 8, 2013
The Manslater
English is such a delightfully complicated language. There are the seven principle parts of speech--nouns, pronouns, adjectives, verbs, adverbs, prepositions, conjunctions, and interjections. There are verb tenses, pronoun cases, verbals. Synonyms, antonyms, homonyms. Similes, metaphors, hyperbole, euphemisms, malapropisms, idioms...and we haven't even gotten into literary terminology yet. This list goes on. And, fortunately for me, I understand it all because I taught it all. But there are others, fluent in the language, who don't always pick up on the little nuances of English and have to learn it the hard way.
I have discovered that there are groups of these people:
*Children obviously don't always get it because they lack vocabulary and experience. That changes with age.
*Hearing impaired/deaf people don't always get it because American Sign Language only has so many signs, and each sign represents a concept. For example, there is one sign for "father". That indicates a relationship...nothing more. "Dad", "Daddy", "Papa", "Pop", etc., do not translate without spelling out the word, and these words indicate a closer relationship than mere "father". I once attended a comedy club with a group of friends that included a deaf woman who brought her own interpreter. The raunchy comedian was using double-entendre by referring to a tennis player's "balls". How does one interpret that in sign language? If the interpreter signed for the real meaning of "balls", she would think of tennis balls, and there would be no joke. If he signed for "testicles"--which was what the comedian was referring to--the joke wouldn't have been funny. Before the comedian was done, I watched the interpreter just put his hands in his lap and give up.
*Autistic people don't always get it. Like the deaf, they take things quite literally, so using idiomatic expressions with them is an exercise in futility. Those who deal with them every day understand this. The rest of us catch on, in time. I had a special ed. class in my Media Center one time. I was trying to give instructions to a very bright autistic student, but I wasn't getting through. I looked at his teacher and said, "Can you help me out here? I'm hitting a brick wall." The student's quick response was, "No you're not. You're just standing there." How right he was!
*People with dementia, who USED to get it, begin to struggle with it. My sister and I used to be able to slaughter English for fun by saying things like, "He's got the heeby-jeebies". We can't do that anymore because her husband, with dementia, gets frustrated because he no longer understands that kind of thing.
*Foreigners--people who speak English as a second language--sometimes don't get it because their own languages don't have the little tweaks in vocabulary that change the meanings of things, or because they lack experience.
My son-in-law, The Russian, is one of the latter. For sure, Denis is fluent in English and does very well in the U.S. Still, he has some foibles. We laughed when he referred to his toes as "fingers". We laughed when he yelled out, "Look! A bear!" when a raccoon crossed the road in front of the car. We got tickled trying to teach him to say "hippopotamus". (No matter how hard he tried, it kept coming out as "hippo-puh-thomas".) Still, he doesn't mind being corrected--in fact, claims that he wants to be--so I'm in my element when attempting to explain the little connotations and denotations of the English language. But there is nothing to explain the perverse ways Americans communicate with each other. Denis suffers from this.
For example, a wife may say to a husband, "Is that what you are wearing to the party?" A man (like Denis) takes the question literally and at face value. The answer might be "Yes." Then the wife goes off on him, indicating (in so many words) that she does not approve of his wardrobe choice and would not be caught dead in public with him wearing what he has on. Denis claims that it would be so much simpler if the wife said, "Please change into something more acceptable before we leave for the party".
And apparently Denis isn't the only man who feels this way. Sometime ago, Saturday Night Live aired a spoof ad selling a hand-held device called a Manslater, which translated a woman's words into what she REALLY means when she speaks. Denis swears if such a thing really existed, he would buy it! (But he also sometimes jokingly takes his Manslater out of his pocket to translate what my daughter is saying.) It has made me aware of the intentions behind what we say. I'm better than most, but I'm guilty, also!! When I call Megan on it, then I do it, she calls me on it, too!
When I was a married lady, my husband and I would be on a trip somewhere. I would ask, "Are you hungry?" He would respond, "No"...and we'd keep driving. When I asked the question, my message really was, "I'm hungry. Let's stop somewhere." So simple. Why couldn't I have just said that to begin with??
We Americans have a lot to learn about communication. Keep It Simple, Stupid. (KISS) Not everyone gets what we mean when we try to say what we feel. If you don't have a Manslater, good luck with getting your needs met without a fight!
I have discovered that there are groups of these people:
*Children obviously don't always get it because they lack vocabulary and experience. That changes with age.
*Hearing impaired/deaf people don't always get it because American Sign Language only has so many signs, and each sign represents a concept. For example, there is one sign for "father". That indicates a relationship...nothing more. "Dad", "Daddy", "Papa", "Pop", etc., do not translate without spelling out the word, and these words indicate a closer relationship than mere "father". I once attended a comedy club with a group of friends that included a deaf woman who brought her own interpreter. The raunchy comedian was using double-entendre by referring to a tennis player's "balls". How does one interpret that in sign language? If the interpreter signed for the real meaning of "balls", she would think of tennis balls, and there would be no joke. If he signed for "testicles"--which was what the comedian was referring to--the joke wouldn't have been funny. Before the comedian was done, I watched the interpreter just put his hands in his lap and give up.
*Autistic people don't always get it. Like the deaf, they take things quite literally, so using idiomatic expressions with them is an exercise in futility. Those who deal with them every day understand this. The rest of us catch on, in time. I had a special ed. class in my Media Center one time. I was trying to give instructions to a very bright autistic student, but I wasn't getting through. I looked at his teacher and said, "Can you help me out here? I'm hitting a brick wall." The student's quick response was, "No you're not. You're just standing there." How right he was!
*People with dementia, who USED to get it, begin to struggle with it. My sister and I used to be able to slaughter English for fun by saying things like, "He's got the heeby-jeebies". We can't do that anymore because her husband, with dementia, gets frustrated because he no longer understands that kind of thing.
*Foreigners--people who speak English as a second language--sometimes don't get it because their own languages don't have the little tweaks in vocabulary that change the meanings of things, or because they lack experience.
My son-in-law, The Russian, is one of the latter. For sure, Denis is fluent in English and does very well in the U.S. Still, he has some foibles. We laughed when he referred to his toes as "fingers". We laughed when he yelled out, "Look! A bear!" when a raccoon crossed the road in front of the car. We got tickled trying to teach him to say "hippopotamus". (No matter how hard he tried, it kept coming out as "hippo-puh-thomas".) Still, he doesn't mind being corrected--in fact, claims that he wants to be--so I'm in my element when attempting to explain the little connotations and denotations of the English language. But there is nothing to explain the perverse ways Americans communicate with each other. Denis suffers from this.
For example, a wife may say to a husband, "Is that what you are wearing to the party?" A man (like Denis) takes the question literally and at face value. The answer might be "Yes." Then the wife goes off on him, indicating (in so many words) that she does not approve of his wardrobe choice and would not be caught dead in public with him wearing what he has on. Denis claims that it would be so much simpler if the wife said, "Please change into something more acceptable before we leave for the party".
And apparently Denis isn't the only man who feels this way. Sometime ago, Saturday Night Live aired a spoof ad selling a hand-held device called a Manslater, which translated a woman's words into what she REALLY means when she speaks. Denis swears if such a thing really existed, he would buy it! (But he also sometimes jokingly takes his Manslater out of his pocket to translate what my daughter is saying.) It has made me aware of the intentions behind what we say. I'm better than most, but I'm guilty, also!! When I call Megan on it, then I do it, she calls me on it, too!
When I was a married lady, my husband and I would be on a trip somewhere. I would ask, "Are you hungry?" He would respond, "No"...and we'd keep driving. When I asked the question, my message really was, "I'm hungry. Let's stop somewhere." So simple. Why couldn't I have just said that to begin with??
We Americans have a lot to learn about communication. Keep It Simple, Stupid. (KISS) Not everyone gets what we mean when we try to say what we feel. If you don't have a Manslater, good luck with getting your needs met without a fight!
Friday, June 7, 2013
Life's Little Blessings
I was sitting on my patio along about noon today, listening to the birds and enjoying the day in my nightgown, when my Yard Angel showed up out back, unannounced. He had things that he wanted to do in the back. Clean up an old compost pile that once had a viable fence around it but had become a cesspool of volunteer trees and weeds. Trim a shrub that was out of shape. Clean up my patio which has suffered from a garage remodeling project probably five years ago. Did I ask him to do it? No. But it NEEDED to be done. I knew it, and he knew it.
I've written about James before. He is the husband of one of my former students, now living in Plainfield. Our paths crossed several years ago, and Facebook kept us together. If you look at James, you would say that he is an unlikely candidate for physical labor. He's a big boy. He is disabled with back problems. But he has three things going for him: honesty, the desire to continue with a job until it is DONE, and to anticipate things that need to be done without being asked. He doesn't quit!
James doesn't do what he does around my house for money, although I surely pay him as I can. He takes pride in his projects, and I have to say that he has gone above and beyond the call of duty to help me out. Last fall, he and his family took care of my leaves. Last winter, he helped paint rooms, shampoo carpets, and get my house acceptable for lots of company. This spring, he has mowed my lawn, trimmed my shrubs, cleaned my gutters, pressure-washed the front of my house--even has come over in the wee hours of Friday mornings to take my trash cans to the curb.
I guess I should first have said that, every year, I have had to scramble to find someone to take care of these things. I had a fellow that mowed, and I was grateful for that. But James mows, and then some. And since J. is supporting a family of four kids on SS Disability, I have no qualms at all about letting him do what he can for me, so I can do what I can for him.
I am so blessed! I'm not sure if James understands that, without his help, I would be getting near the point of having to give up my house. I'm trying not to be sappy here, but I am so grateful for this man's help and his family's friendship. Thank you to my Yard Angel and his family. And thanks be to God for life's little blessings!
I've written about James before. He is the husband of one of my former students, now living in Plainfield. Our paths crossed several years ago, and Facebook kept us together. If you look at James, you would say that he is an unlikely candidate for physical labor. He's a big boy. He is disabled with back problems. But he has three things going for him: honesty, the desire to continue with a job until it is DONE, and to anticipate things that need to be done without being asked. He doesn't quit!
James doesn't do what he does around my house for money, although I surely pay him as I can. He takes pride in his projects, and I have to say that he has gone above and beyond the call of duty to help me out. Last fall, he and his family took care of my leaves. Last winter, he helped paint rooms, shampoo carpets, and get my house acceptable for lots of company. This spring, he has mowed my lawn, trimmed my shrubs, cleaned my gutters, pressure-washed the front of my house--even has come over in the wee hours of Friday mornings to take my trash cans to the curb.
I guess I should first have said that, every year, I have had to scramble to find someone to take care of these things. I had a fellow that mowed, and I was grateful for that. But James mows, and then some. And since J. is supporting a family of four kids on SS Disability, I have no qualms at all about letting him do what he can for me, so I can do what I can for him.
I am so blessed! I'm not sure if James understands that, without his help, I would be getting near the point of having to give up my house. I'm trying not to be sappy here, but I am so grateful for this man's help and his family's friendship. Thank you to my Yard Angel and his family. And thanks be to God for life's little blessings!
Thursday, June 6, 2013
Feelings
Can't you just hear Barry Manilow crooning the lyrics to the title of this post? "Feeeeelings....wo-wo-wo...feelings...." Sorry. Couldn't resist.
If you've ever been told that you are entitled to your feelings, then perhaps you and/or the person that told you that can explain to me why I sometimes feel guilty for having feelings that I have but don't think I'm entitled to. (That is a poorly constructed sentence that ended with a preposition. Hey...I'm off duty as an English teacher today.)
Let's see if I can make sense of that.
Once in awhile, I get totally envious of people who win the lottery. I mean, why couldn't that be me?? Well...it can't be me because I don't play the lottery. Can't win if you don't play, right? I've never been much of a risk-taker, and the odds of winning are so horrendous that buying tickets seems like flushing money down the toilet. And I don't have money to flush. Not playing is my choice, so why should I be jealous of those that do play and win? See what I mean?
There is a show on TV called Storage Wars, where people buy abandoned storage lockers at auction in the hope of finding treasures inside that they can resell for big bucks. (Hate the show. Don't watch it.) I get angry at that whole scenario. Yes, yes...I know that the storage bins have been abandoned--which means, essentially, that the renters stopped paying the monthly fee. It doesn't, however, mean they stopped caring about the contents. Think about it. Why do people rent storage units? Because they once had a house or apartment but had to move to other circumstances, requiring that they find a place to store their possessions until they have another place of their own. I seriously doubt that anyone rents a unit and stashes their belongings in it with the intention of defaulting. It usually means that they have fallen on hard times--don't have the money to continue paying, and have no other place to store their belongings--so the contents of the storage unit goes up for auction in order to make up for the lost revenue for the unit owners. It's all on the up-and-up, but I still get angry about it. To me, it seems like opportunistic vultures poring over the spoils of a kill; taking advantage of the unfortunate circumstances of others, but this is a consequence of life and not my place to get angry. Right?
I have this feeling that I should be able to save the world. If someone presents me with a problem, I feel as though I should be able to find a way to fix it. I went racing to my sister's in January to help her out when she had "shingles"...thinking that my mere presence would help. I think it did, some, but only because she had someone to assist with the things she didn't feel well enough to do. I couldn't fix her pain. Couldn't shorten the length of the illness. Couldn't do anything right by my bro-in-law who has dementia. I got frustrated with him...with her illness...with her daughters...although it wasn't my right. I was mad because something came between me and my need to feel good. Entitled? I don't think so! But that's the way I felt. So I felt guilty for feeling what I felt. Guilt: the gift that keeps on giving.
I could go on and on, but I'm aware that I'm rambling. If you're still reading this, you're bored, too!
If you've ever been told that you are entitled to your feelings, then perhaps you and/or the person that told you that can explain to me why I sometimes feel guilty for having feelings that I have but don't think I'm entitled to. (That is a poorly constructed sentence that ended with a preposition. Hey...I'm off duty as an English teacher today.)
Let's see if I can make sense of that.
Once in awhile, I get totally envious of people who win the lottery. I mean, why couldn't that be me?? Well...it can't be me because I don't play the lottery. Can't win if you don't play, right? I've never been much of a risk-taker, and the odds of winning are so horrendous that buying tickets seems like flushing money down the toilet. And I don't have money to flush. Not playing is my choice, so why should I be jealous of those that do play and win? See what I mean?
There is a show on TV called Storage Wars, where people buy abandoned storage lockers at auction in the hope of finding treasures inside that they can resell for big bucks. (Hate the show. Don't watch it.) I get angry at that whole scenario. Yes, yes...I know that the storage bins have been abandoned--which means, essentially, that the renters stopped paying the monthly fee. It doesn't, however, mean they stopped caring about the contents. Think about it. Why do people rent storage units? Because they once had a house or apartment but had to move to other circumstances, requiring that they find a place to store their possessions until they have another place of their own. I seriously doubt that anyone rents a unit and stashes their belongings in it with the intention of defaulting. It usually means that they have fallen on hard times--don't have the money to continue paying, and have no other place to store their belongings--so the contents of the storage unit goes up for auction in order to make up for the lost revenue for the unit owners. It's all on the up-and-up, but I still get angry about it. To me, it seems like opportunistic vultures poring over the spoils of a kill; taking advantage of the unfortunate circumstances of others, but this is a consequence of life and not my place to get angry. Right?
I have this feeling that I should be able to save the world. If someone presents me with a problem, I feel as though I should be able to find a way to fix it. I went racing to my sister's in January to help her out when she had "shingles"...thinking that my mere presence would help. I think it did, some, but only because she had someone to assist with the things she didn't feel well enough to do. I couldn't fix her pain. Couldn't shorten the length of the illness. Couldn't do anything right by my bro-in-law who has dementia. I got frustrated with him...with her illness...with her daughters...although it wasn't my right. I was mad because something came between me and my need to feel good. Entitled? I don't think so! But that's the way I felt. So I felt guilty for feeling what I felt. Guilt: the gift that keeps on giving.
I could go on and on, but I'm aware that I'm rambling. If you're still reading this, you're bored, too!
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
Alone, Alone, All, All Alone...
From The Rime of the Ancient Mariner....by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
"Alone, alone, all, all alone...alone on a wide wide sea..."
Someone mentioned to my daughter a week ago that he could understand how I wouldn't want to take a four-hour trip alone. She was incredulous, as am I. I take trips of that length, and more, every time I go up to visit my daughter and grandchildren...alone. I have driven a 13-hour trip to visit friends--and back--in one day, alone. I go to church alone, cook meals alone, clean house alone, and generally face the world alone. Guess what? It's not a problem for me! It's been my life for 22 years. I don't have a spouse to spot for me, so I do what I can.
The only things I won't do alone are: go to restaurants or movies. Thankfully, my church and radio friends fill in the gaps. I am so blessed! Friend Ryan and I shared Les Miserables, and I have been out to eat with him and his wife, plus my Sunday School class, just this week alone. God provides!
I live alone, but I am NOT alone. I do enjoy my solitude. It's part of who I am. I understand that many people in my situation would shrivel, but I'm not a shrinking violet.
So don't give up on me yet. I am still mobile and able...and the rest of the world can kiss my rear!
"Alone, alone, all, all alone...alone on a wide wide sea..."
Someone mentioned to my daughter a week ago that he could understand how I wouldn't want to take a four-hour trip alone. She was incredulous, as am I. I take trips of that length, and more, every time I go up to visit my daughter and grandchildren...alone. I have driven a 13-hour trip to visit friends--and back--in one day, alone. I go to church alone, cook meals alone, clean house alone, and generally face the world alone. Guess what? It's not a problem for me! It's been my life for 22 years. I don't have a spouse to spot for me, so I do what I can.
The only things I won't do alone are: go to restaurants or movies. Thankfully, my church and radio friends fill in the gaps. I am so blessed! Friend Ryan and I shared Les Miserables, and I have been out to eat with him and his wife, plus my Sunday School class, just this week alone. God provides!
I live alone, but I am NOT alone. I do enjoy my solitude. It's part of who I am. I understand that many people in my situation would shrivel, but I'm not a shrinking violet.
So don't give up on me yet. I am still mobile and able...and the rest of the world can kiss my rear!
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
Picking My Battles; a Question of Grief
There aren't many times in life when one is compelled to swallow one's pride and take the high road in a unique situation of no one's choosing. The events of this next weekend become one of those for me.
My former stepson died in late December, 2012, of a particularly virulent form of cancer that takes no prisoners. Eric passed after a year-long battle with the disease that had been pronounced "terminal" from the very beginning. Eric was cremated. His memorial services--one in northern Indiana and one in Detroit--will take place this weekend. What to do?
Eric's father and I have been divorced since 1991. For the thirteen years before that, I was Eric's stepmother. After that date, I was demoted to "friend". Since his father--my former husband--remarried three months later, I didn't even have the honor of being nominated as Stepmother Emeritus before the stepmother job was filled again. In light of all of that, I didn't see Joe's children all that much. They were adults and had moved on in their own lives. And my daughter Megan--their half-sister--didn't see them much, either. In some respects, Megan and I were personae non grata. She was left out, and so was I. I'm not sure the others left Meg out intentionally. I just think the whole situation was just so dysfunctional that we both learned to accept the unacceptable. Still, we both cared about Eric and Stephanie. We saw them and communicated when we could.
I was at Megan's, sitting on my grandson's bed on my computer in the early morning of December 27th when the news came through: "We lost Eric this morning." Meg emerged from her bedroom shortly. We hugged, both of us wondering how to comfort each other--she as the outsider half-sibling, and me as the outsider former parent. I had decided many months before just to do what I needed to do to support her. Apparently, she was thinking the same about me. She rubbed my back and said how unfair it was that I was the forgotten mourner. That was all I needed to get by.
I wish I could say the same about my relationship with her father. Somehow, although he was the one that strayed from the marriage and he was the one who wanted the divorce (although he never said so in words), I became the enemy. It's all part of the crazy-making that caused me to distance myself from him, especially in light of the insane ways he carried on. I think, somehow, he just wanted me to disappear and/or forgive his indiscretions, even though he steadfastly refused to resolve things with honest communication about them. I know he thinks he has grievances against me, for which I have answers, but it was never productive to attempt to engage him in conversation about all of that. I just let it go. Maybe I shouldn't have because he still treats me as an enemy to his well being, although I have no feelings at all toward him. That's what divorce is all about. But here we are. His son has died. The services are coming up. And I have had to make a choice about what to do.
I have chosen not to go. I explained to Eric's wife that I won't be there, and why. She wasn't happy about my decision. I have a personal invitation from Eric's mother to be there. There is a part of me that wants to say, "Damn the torpedoes; full speed ahead! I have as much right to be there as anyone else." But the "hero" part of me says no. As much as I would like to be there to help celebrate the life of my former stepson, I am aware that his father would be uncomfortable with my presence, which would make my daughter uncomfortable. And I'm not going to do that to her. Things are dicy enough without my presence. So, at the risk of making myself seem uncaring to others, I am deliberately staying away, with all due respect to him and his family. I hope they come to understand why.
In the grand scheme of things, I actually doubt anyone will miss me. I'm not stupid enough to think I'm that important. Still, my presence will be felt, and I can live vicariously through that. The services/celebration of life will and should be about Eric. Not Eric's dad. Not me. Not anyone else with an ax to grind. And so it will be. Party on, fellow mourners. Eric wanted it that way!
My former stepson died in late December, 2012, of a particularly virulent form of cancer that takes no prisoners. Eric passed after a year-long battle with the disease that had been pronounced "terminal" from the very beginning. Eric was cremated. His memorial services--one in northern Indiana and one in Detroit--will take place this weekend. What to do?
Eric's father and I have been divorced since 1991. For the thirteen years before that, I was Eric's stepmother. After that date, I was demoted to "friend". Since his father--my former husband--remarried three months later, I didn't even have the honor of being nominated as Stepmother Emeritus before the stepmother job was filled again. In light of all of that, I didn't see Joe's children all that much. They were adults and had moved on in their own lives. And my daughter Megan--their half-sister--didn't see them much, either. In some respects, Megan and I were personae non grata. She was left out, and so was I. I'm not sure the others left Meg out intentionally. I just think the whole situation was just so dysfunctional that we both learned to accept the unacceptable. Still, we both cared about Eric and Stephanie. We saw them and communicated when we could.
I was at Megan's, sitting on my grandson's bed on my computer in the early morning of December 27th when the news came through: "We lost Eric this morning." Meg emerged from her bedroom shortly. We hugged, both of us wondering how to comfort each other--she as the outsider half-sibling, and me as the outsider former parent. I had decided many months before just to do what I needed to do to support her. Apparently, she was thinking the same about me. She rubbed my back and said how unfair it was that I was the forgotten mourner. That was all I needed to get by.
I wish I could say the same about my relationship with her father. Somehow, although he was the one that strayed from the marriage and he was the one who wanted the divorce (although he never said so in words), I became the enemy. It's all part of the crazy-making that caused me to distance myself from him, especially in light of the insane ways he carried on. I think, somehow, he just wanted me to disappear and/or forgive his indiscretions, even though he steadfastly refused to resolve things with honest communication about them. I know he thinks he has grievances against me, for which I have answers, but it was never productive to attempt to engage him in conversation about all of that. I just let it go. Maybe I shouldn't have because he still treats me as an enemy to his well being, although I have no feelings at all toward him. That's what divorce is all about. But here we are. His son has died. The services are coming up. And I have had to make a choice about what to do.
I have chosen not to go. I explained to Eric's wife that I won't be there, and why. She wasn't happy about my decision. I have a personal invitation from Eric's mother to be there. There is a part of me that wants to say, "Damn the torpedoes; full speed ahead! I have as much right to be there as anyone else." But the "hero" part of me says no. As much as I would like to be there to help celebrate the life of my former stepson, I am aware that his father would be uncomfortable with my presence, which would make my daughter uncomfortable. And I'm not going to do that to her. Things are dicy enough without my presence. So, at the risk of making myself seem uncaring to others, I am deliberately staying away, with all due respect to him and his family. I hope they come to understand why.
In the grand scheme of things, I actually doubt anyone will miss me. I'm not stupid enough to think I'm that important. Still, my presence will be felt, and I can live vicariously through that. The services/celebration of life will and should be about Eric. Not Eric's dad. Not me. Not anyone else with an ax to grind. And so it will be. Party on, fellow mourners. Eric wanted it that way!
Saturday, June 1, 2013
Class of 2013
Last night, the Monroe-Gregg School District of Monrovia, Indiana, had their Commencement exercises for the Class of 2013. It was a monumental day for the graduates, but also one for me. I taught English in that district for 19 years, from 4th grade through 12th, with 9th grade being the only grade I never taught. In all of those years, some students had me only once, but most had me at least twice--and some, three or four!
My final teaching assignment came when the district opened up a middle school and, because of my dual certification, asked if I would teach 8th grade English. It was quite a switch from my seniors, but I took it. It meant that I would be teaching in a newly-remodeled school, in a classroom with carpeting, a sink, furniture that all matched, and built-in cabinets. Wow! It took most of my first year in that classroom to get used to the nature of the 8th grade "animal", but after that I could proudly boast, "Nothing scares me because I teach 8th grade!"
I retired four years ago, in May of 2009. The students that I had in class that last year went on to become Monrovia High School's Class of 2013. Thus, this year's graduates are the last group of kids that I had. From this point onward, I will know no students at the school...and not too many of the teachers. (Many of the "old guard"--even Wavelyn Bettenhausen, school secretary--have retired, too.) I keep up with many of the kids on Facebook. In fact, the only reason I am on Facebook to begin with is because the kids begged me to set up an account so they could stay in touch...
Time for us all to move on, but I have to admit I had a few moments of sadness last night with the realization that the Class of 2013, and Ms. McNary, are in the history books now. Congratulations to "my" kids. You aren't children any more!
My final teaching assignment came when the district opened up a middle school and, because of my dual certification, asked if I would teach 8th grade English. It was quite a switch from my seniors, but I took it. It meant that I would be teaching in a newly-remodeled school, in a classroom with carpeting, a sink, furniture that all matched, and built-in cabinets. Wow! It took most of my first year in that classroom to get used to the nature of the 8th grade "animal", but after that I could proudly boast, "Nothing scares me because I teach 8th grade!"
I retired four years ago, in May of 2009. The students that I had in class that last year went on to become Monrovia High School's Class of 2013. Thus, this year's graduates are the last group of kids that I had. From this point onward, I will know no students at the school...and not too many of the teachers. (Many of the "old guard"--even Wavelyn Bettenhausen, school secretary--have retired, too.) I keep up with many of the kids on Facebook. In fact, the only reason I am on Facebook to begin with is because the kids begged me to set up an account so they could stay in touch...
Time for us all to move on, but I have to admit I had a few moments of sadness last night with the realization that the Class of 2013, and Ms. McNary, are in the history books now. Congratulations to "my" kids. You aren't children any more!
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