Featured

Back to School

IMG_1518School started this week.  For the past three years, I’ve missed the first day of school, so in a way I was excited this year that my life has settled down enough that I could do something normal, like go to work without being paralyzed with grief, or wondering if my son was dead, or rushing off to a radiation appointment.  I was ready, right?  Positive.  Cheerful.  Thinking about new projects. Ready to see my pals.   But when I got into the auditorium on the first teacher day, all my excitement drained away.

First off, when  I looked around and it was like a flashback from twenty-three years ago when I first entered the same auditorium as a student teacher.  I remembered looking at women pushing fifty sporting new dye jobs and geometric patterned skirts and thinking, “Lord, don’t let that happen to me.”  And while I don’t dye my hair, or wear primary colors or chiffon, I realized I have become one of those women teachers who are making fans out of handouts and rolling my eyes at the new teachers rolling out their Pinterest bulletin boards.  I sat and listened to two days of educational presentations and realized new ideas are just old ones dressed up in new clothes.  I went into my classroom and colleagues came to me whining and complaining about a schedule that didn’t meet their needs.  I acquiesced to their wishes.  Even if it puts thirty rowdy nine year olds in my room at one time, it’s way easier to agree, than to argue about what’s best for kids.   I came home in tears, feeling drained and trapped.

Hours later I was still crying.  And I wondered if maybe I was going through a mid-life crises.  Do women have those?  I mean I don’t want a convertible or a trophy wife, but I also don’t know if I can handle all the stupid shit.  All the discussions of hallway rules, and auditorium rules and bathroom rules and math scores and reading programs.  I’m so tired of acting like these things are important.  Where else in the entire world do people line up in single file to get to a destination, except for elementary school?  And dealing with the emotions of a building were half the women are having babies and the other half, hot flashes is intense.  I know I’ve been through a lot in my life, but I wondered if this might be the breaking point.  Kids hadn’t even stepped in the building and I was already dreading the year.  To cheer myself up, I went into my backyard and sat on my swing and watched the hummingbirds in the rose garden.

Last week, the kids and I went on whirlwind tour of college campuses on the East Coast.  One day we went to the beach and took a ride on the Wonder Wheel.  The Wonder Wheel is a eccentric Ferris wheel, which means that some of the cars are built on tracks that swing up and down as the wheel rotates.  Imagine that, swinging 150 feet in the air with the skyline of Manhattan on one side, the Jersey shoreline on the other.  I told the kids that when I retire I am moving to the beach.  Darian thought that was a good idea.  Shayne didn’t respond; he was still not completely responding to his meds and spent most of the trip, lost in his own head.

So I was sitting on my swing, thinking about all this and knowing retirement is not an option, when Shayne came out and joined me.  We just found out that his kidneys are being damaged from the antipsychotic drugs.  The drugs are fighting one war and staging another.  No wonder, little petty things about school are under my skin, I am watching my kid die a little every day.  Shayne turned to me and said, “Thanks, mom.” I said, “For what, bud?”  And he waved his arm around, indicating the yard, “For all this, thanks.”  I smiled and put my hand on top of his.  So I guess I’m not really having a mid-life crises.   I just forgot that this journey is about breathing and enjoying every moment. No matter where I am.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Advertisements

House

IMG_1710

I moved into 2903 N. 5th fifteen years ago.  To be honest, I’ve never loved this house, but there were things that I liked about it.  First off, it has a huge garage.  I can store my Christmas stuff, and wine bottles that people keep giving me, and all my books from my childhood that my mother kept until I had a place big enough for all of them.  The backyard is pretty great.  It’s got a good mix of grass and growing space and shade trees. I have raspberries and roses and a swing and now a great porch covering that brings down the temperature in the house in the summer heat.  The master bedroom gets amazing morning sun and has a closet that holds all my clothes and shoes without being crowded.  And it has two full bathrooms.  I grew up in a house with one bathtub and multiple people. I don’t know how we did that.  I could never do that again.  Having my own bathroom that I don’t to share is a deal breaker for me now.  The location of the house is another bonus.  It’s a five minute walk to the Washington Street trailhead for Hogbacks trail system.  Shayne got his start on his cross country career running back there everyday for a decade and a half.

There are three things I am not crazy about: first off, the garage is built in front of the living room, so I only have northern windows in that room.  I like lots of light, so even though it’s cozy for a movie and shady in the summer, it’s dark in the living room.  The house is on Park Center water, which is a little more expensive than regular city water.  I lived on a thousand acre cattle ranch that had a well.  That water was ORANGE and my bathtub and toilet were rust colored from the mineral deposits.  So Park Center water is not like that, so I didn’t think too much about it. And it’s improved in the years that I’ve lived here.  I know some people have had problems with the water, but it hasn’t been horrible.   But the thing that brought me to consider moving was the bedroom layout.  All the bedrooms are on one side of the house.  Since Shayne’s mental illness has developed, living across the hall from him is tough.  I listen to him pace.  I listen to him talk to his voices.  I listen to his screams when the heater comes on and he hears the soul snatchers come up from the vents.  Music helps him drown out the voices.  So I also listen to his music which varies from hardcore gangster rap to mediation music that honestly makes me feel like someone is running their nails over and over on a chalkboard.

I’ve been watching Zillow.  I’ve been looking for a place with a two bathrooms, a garage, a yard and a “mother in law” situation.  But I’m also super conservative with money and I don’t want to go up in my mortgage.  I found a place a year and half ago, but then I got cancer and that just didn’t seem like a good time to make a decision like moving.    Then I decided maybe I would just stay put.  Darian’s going to college in a few months and maybe Shayne will be more stable and get his own place, and I’ll be fine here.  But then July happened and Shayne had that major setback and I realized that his mental health is a lot more precarious than I want to admit.  And honestly, he hasn’t been incredibly stable since July.  I’m okay with him living at home, but if I don’t get some privacy, I’m going to end up with some mental health issues myself.

I’ve heard for months how great the market is and how fast houses are selling.  My neighbors didn’t even have the sign up for a day when they had a contract on their house.  But my house is not selling–Park Center Water is one of the reasons.  I can’t change that and I’m not just giving the house away.  It’s got a new furnace and a new roof and was painted in August. Maybe letting D pick the colors was a bad idea.  It doesn’t stand out from the neighborhood, but it looks a little Mediterranean.  I found a house I like that has most of the things on my list, but I can’t buy it, if my house doesn’t sell.

And I keep thinking of my parents.  They helped me do so much at this place.  My last conversation with them took place in the driveway.   Then I think, maybe I’m not meant to move.  Maybe I’m supposed to stay here.  Maybe it’s a test of patience.  It’s just so hard to know.  I guess the only thing I can really do, is just take it day by day and see what the universe has in store for me.

 

Thanksgiving

spinach chicken pomegranate salad
Photo by Kaboompics .com on Pexels.com

Thanksgiving’s never been my holiday.  Oh sure, I like the food and the parade on TV and having a week off to celebrate is amazing, but it’s not my fave.  As an adult, it reminds me that I don’t have strong traditions in my life.  And without my parents, I barely have any.  So here I am, 49 years old, having my second Thanksgiving dinner ever at my own home with my small, non-traditional nuclear family.

I CAN cook, much to probably a lot of surprise to a lot of people.  I grew up with Rose after all, even if it was by more osmosis, I did learn a few things by watching her do it five million times.  Like I made deviled eggs this morning.  I didn’t need to get down a recipe book, or look it up on my smartie pants phone.  I actually knew exactly how to do it, even if I have never done it before.  I have never made stuffing before either, but I can read the directions on the bag.  I did go to college.  I threw it in the crockpot, because that seemed like a fun way to make it.  I think it tastes kind of mushy, but Shayne keeps taking tastes, so at least he likes it.  If no else eats it, it won’t go to waste.  James handled the turkey.  This is probably best.  Raw meat.  Salmonella.  I don’t want to poison anyone.  I’m NOT that good of a cook.

My mom has never been more on my mind.  I can’t believe she did this shit all by herself for like sixty years of her life.   I put on her bathrobe this morning when I went out to the kitchen to see if the turkey was thawed enough.  (It wasn’t).  Then since I was up, I went ahead and fixed appetizers and salad and cut up the sweet potatoes.  I had three hotflashes, so I sat on the deck with a drink of water and opted for shorts and my Johnny Cash t-shirt.  I thought about turning on the Thanksgiving Day parade.  But I can’t figure out the damn TV in the living room.  When Shayne got up, he gave me a look he reserves for lost puppies and homeless cats.  Apparently our cable in the living room isn’t working because the amount of wireless devices we have aren’t supported by our outdated wireless device.  Or something like that.  This translates in that I should get my ass to a Black Friday sale and pick up a new Roku or at least call the cable company.  Darian hasn’t poked one foot out of her door.  She says Thanksgiving is a day to celebrate our national pasttime of genocide.  She is also a vegetarian, so she could give a rip about the turkey.  James and I went out of her way to make sure there is food for her–hummus, green beans, salad, two kinds of potatoes.  If I was a betting kind of person, I’d lay down odds that she barely touches anything.  Well, at least we’ll have left overs.  Unless Shayne eats everything during a midnight snack.  I hope Mom is watching me cook this meal.  If she is, she is probably simultaneously rolling her eyes and being proud.  Or maybe laughing her ass off.

I remember seventeen years ago, I brought Darian home from the hospital on Thanksgiving Day.  Mom outdid herself even though she was just cooking for Dad and Shayne and me.  We sat at the oak table, instead of at the counter and we took turns holding the baby as we ate our meal.  I can’t help wonder where Darian will be next year.    She is going to college so far away.  This might be her last Thanksgiving at home for awhile.  Mom used to get all fatalistic at holidays and say things like, “I might not be here for the next one.”  And I’d get irritated and tell her not to talk that way.  But today, as I contemplate making mashed potatoes the way she used to make them, I kind of get why she would say stuff like that.  You just really never know what the world has in store from day to day.

Here’s to building new traditions, making new memories, and celebrating all the moments that have brought me to this point.  I am thankful each day for all my friends and family who have me joined me on this crazy journey of life.  Peace.

 

 

Alphabet Art

42489202_10212827403584657_3551009051150123008_nJames calls me an alphabet geek.  It’s true.  I collect alphabet books and alphabet art.  I alphabetize things when I can’t sleep at night–the fifty states, the countries in Africa, my cousins, the people I work with.  Ever since I was kid, I look around for letters from A-Z while I wait in line, or in a doctor’s office, or when I am bored in meetings.  I even wrote an alphabet comic book once.  So I guess it’s not too surprising that I came up with “alphabet art.”

Alphabet Art was born out of desperation.  I taught fifteen years before I stepped into an elementary classroom.  I had tough gang kids in my classroom, teen moms, crazy middle school kids with raging hormones.  Before that, I waitressed at a biker bar with a fair trade of cocaine flying out the backdoor, but not even that prepared me for kindergarten.  First off, the average five year old speaks gibberish.  If I ask, “What’s your name? ”  They just stare at me.  They pee on their chairs, because they forget to ask to go the bathroom.  They eat stuff like paper and glue.  And every year, someone says, “Is paint water poisonous?”  Always after someone has taken a sip.

I was provided a kindergarten curriculum that has fun lessons like–paint thick and thin stripes–draw a house with shapes, make rough and smooth lines.  I don’t know who wrote these lessons, but clearly, they have no idea what the hell they are talking about.  I tried to follow the book and some of the lessons worked, but more times than not, the kindergartens transformed into pterodactyls.  One time we went outside to gather leaves for leaf rubbings.  I did not give clear instructions, which would have been “stay in a single file line, follow me, don’t talk, don’t hit each other, only breathe enough to stay alive.”  Instead they raced outside, screaming at the top of their lungs, and proceeded to roll around in the leaves like puppies.  I rounded them up, gave each of them a leaf and made it back to the classroom with the whole class. Half of the monsters had lost their leaves on the way back.  I said, “Where’s your leaf?”  Shrugged shoulders and “it flew away,” where some of the answers.  Everyday after the kindergarten left, I’d stack tiny chairs, and sweep up paper, and wipe down sticky tables.  Somedays, I nearly wept in frustration.  After a couple of years of this, I decided I needed a better system and Alphabet Art was born.

Each week, I base my lesson on a letter of the alphabet, an animal starting with that letter, and an art concept.  The first year, I spent a lot of time researching art concepts that would work–b–beading, c–crayons, clay, d–drawing, e–earth art.  Some of the letters leant themselves to a concept more than others.  Sometimes the art is more about the animal associated with the letter.  For “A” the animal is an alligator, so I teach the kids to watercolor because alligators live in water.  They paint alligators.  Most of the letters have a story to go with the concept.  Most of the stories, I’ve made up on the fly.  V for vampire bat is my favorite story.  It’s about a vampire bat from Venezuela who is a vegetarian who only eats violet vegetables.  He decides to move to Vermont to join a vegetarian village, but he doesn’t have enough vitamins to fly, so he decides to walk.  He hitches a ride on top of. a VW van, but gets blown off.  Don’t worry, no one dies in the story.  Sometimes there are adults in my room when I tell these stories.  They either laugh or give me that look that screams, “Oh my god, this woman is crazy.”

Alphabet art has evolved over the years.  When I first started, my ideas got more and more elaborate with each letter.  Take H for example, I couldn’t think of anything “h” related for an art concept.  The animal is a horse.  I came across an article about horses in art history.  Kindergarteners don’t even really know what history is, but I take a stab at teaching them about art history around horses.  Horses were painted in caves thousands of years ago; the Greeks painted horses on their pottery; in modern times artists paint, draw and sculpt horses.  I set up three stations–I have a “cave” where kids add to a horse painted on the wall.  We make horses with red clay.  And I have a drawing, coloring station related to horses.  I cycle the kids through the stations in thirty minutes and wrangle two or three people to make it all work.  The letter “I” has a “build an inchworm” station.  I hot glue pom pom’s together as fast as I can, burning myself 40,000 times and holding in the “f” bomb.  The letter Q involves so much prep that I started questioning the whole concept of alphabet art and I realized that it didn’t have to be so hard and I simplified my ideas.  I still need volunteers on a few of the letters, but everything runs pretty smoothly.  I have a tub, and I just get the materials out each week and I’m ready to roll.

I like to think of alphabet art is an introduction to all the things kids will get to do in art in all the years to come.  I think the kids like it.  Sometimes the first graders ask to do alphabet art again.  And when I’m glazing the cats after “c”, or snakes after “s,”  kids always look over the cats and snakes knowingly and tell me that they still have their cats and snakes.  All the kids remember doing Earth art and want to know when they get to do that again.  And I couldn’t  get through Q, without the fifth graders helping me cut quilt squares.  The best thing about Alphabet art though is that I don’t feel like the kindergarteners are trying to kill me anymore. Now they wait until first grade.  I’m working on a survival strategy for them too.  First grade art is supposed to be all about self discovery in art.  I’m thinking about inventing “Monster Art” for them.  They could draw monsters.  It would be like self-portraits.  Who knows?  I might be on to something.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Clay

1901292_10201937393541212_8303811241300188525_nI never will forget getting a ball of clay for the first time.  I was in seventh grade.  The clay was cold and made my hands feel chalky and dry.  It didn’t do what I wanted it to do and my first attempt at a pinch pot sucked.  I crushed it and tried again.  And again.  The clay got all dry and cracky and I remember feeling tears on my lashes, but even back then, I just didn’t cry.  Drawing was so much easier.  I could make an eyeball look real with different lines and strokes, or make a box pop off the page, or draw a horse running across a desert.  My clay pot looked like something a six year old made while playing in the mud.

When I got my schedule my freshman year, I was kind of surprised to find myself in Ceramics 1.  I didn’t remember listing it as an alternative.  I didn’t want to take that class, but changing my schedule didn’t occur to me.  That wasn’t a thing that anyone did.  Ever.  I was gonna have to suck it up and deal with it.  I liked the teacher anyway, and I figured maybe it would go better the second time around.  I got lucky.  The class fell in the weeks before Christmas, and our art teacher decided to break with her formula of pinch pots, coil pots, and slab pots and have us make copious Christmas ornaments.  Cookie cutter style.  Easy.  I made candy canes, trees, snowmen and stars.  I carved in them and trimmed and sanded and painted them bright reds and greens and golds.  I didn’t have to make damn pots, so I left with a slightly more friendly feeling toward clay.

As I became an upper classman, I spent more and more time drawing and painting.  I worked with my art teacher designing the large backdrops for the school plays and spent most of my free time in the art room working on my portfolio for college.  By the end of my senior year, Ceramics 2 was the only art class I hadn’t taken, so I thought I’d give it a try.  It was my last class before graduation.  The assignment was to create a creative container and the object it contained.  The girls in my class had awesome ideas.  One girl made a boom box and little cassette tapes to put inside it.  Another one of my friends made a sheep and little sheep to go inside it.  I could not think of anything.  So day after day, I played with my clay until I had like this cone, funnel shape.  My art teacher took it out of my hands one day and held it up to her chest and asked me if I was making a boob.  Everybody laughed, except me, I burst into tears.  I honestly think my art teacher felt bad, she let me draw the rest of the time, but that sealed the deal; I hated clay.

When I started teaching art nine years ago, I took some classes to refresh my skills.  One of the ones I took was sculpture and the dreaded clay came back.  My professor sliced off chunks of clay for us and told us that we needed to build something inspired by the human body.  Really.  I can’t make this shit up.  I was not going to make another breast, but I had no idea what to make.  The women at my table immediately got started.  I sat and watched them smooth water on to their pieces and indent and pull with their fingers.  I picked my wedge up and started making grooves in it with my fingers.  I didn’t think.  I just made ridges and dips and valleys in the surface, keeping it as smooth as I could make it.  After an hour or so, I held it up and turned it slowly in my hands.  I showed my table mates–“it’s an ear, from this angle, and this one, and this one.”  Van Gogh would have been proud, or maybe I should say Picasso would have been proud.  It was definitely an interpretive ear.  My professor liked it and I got an A, but most of all, I learned that with clay, you have to feel, not think.

I probably would have avoided clay altogether when I started teaching elementary, but there was a kiln in one of the classrooms and the kids kept pestering me about when we were going to make something with clay and fire it in the kiln.  I didn’t even know how to turn on a kiln.  I found an instruction book and read about how to operate the kiln.  I went to the local ceramics shop and plagued the owner with questions.  She patiently explained the difference between Cone 05 and Cone 5 and gave me some tips.  I hoisted a bag of clay on my hip, dropped it down on the table in my classroom and had the custodian show me how to slice it into wedges.  Then I passed it out to the first graders.  All of it, with no instructions.  Kids were delighted.  They pounded and pulled and made the biggest, muddiest mess possible.  They made a lot of things that looked like penises  they called volcanoes.  I giggled, because somedays I’m not mature enough for my job.     And most everything crumbled or exploded in the kiln.  I called up my old art teacher and she spent a few hours reteaching me pinch, coil, and slab methods.  She taught me about glaze.  I poured over clay books and magazines and I went to all the clay workshops at the art educator conferences.  And I practiced.  I made dinosaurs and sea turtles and snowmen and masks.  I got to the point where clay wasn’t scary anymore and my skills are slightly better than a fifth grader.  And the best part is that when I get a little perfectionist artist and the tears come out with the clay, I know what to do to help him or her.

The summer before my parents died, I took a wheel class from a woman in Westcliffe.  She had a little studio, high on a hill, facing the Sangre de Cristo range.  She’d leave the door open and I’d feel the mountain air ripple across my skin as I spun the wheel and pulled the walls of bowls out of lumps of clay.  Hours would pass and my thoughts would fall away.  It’s the closest thing to Zen that I know.  I gave my dad my first pot.  He was thrilled.  He said, “Can you make another one like this?”  I laughed and said, “Not on purpose.”

Last year, I didn’t do all my clay projects with kids.  I was too sick and gone too much.  My muscles in my side and shoulder were damaged from my surgery and radiation and wedging clay and rolling out slabs for the little kids hurt too much.  This year, I’m making it up to the kids.  My PTO bought a slab roller for one of the schools and I’m getting prepared to introduce some new projects. So on the outside it’s business as usual, but on the inside, I have felt like I’ve been going through a soul crises.  Like I’m broken  and it’s hard to find the strength to put myself back together.  All my old ways of soldiering through things don’t seem to be working and I have been trying to figure out how to find a little peace.  A few week ago, I was looking for an old book in the garage and I passed by the pile of my mom and dad’s stuff, that I still haven’t dealt with.  On the top, was that pot that I’d made for my dad.  I picked it up and remembered his sheer delight when I handed it to him.  I asked Shayne to pull out my wheel from the corner of the garage and I signed up for a clay class at a new studio in town.  Maybe in the process of centering a lump of clay, I’ll find my way back to centering myself and begin to rebuild the walls of my soul.

 

 

 

Blogging

woman looking at sea while sitting on beach
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

I haven’t blogged much this month.  It’s not because I haven’t thought about it, but I’ve had so much going on that I’ve had a hard time narrowing down a topic.  At the beginning of the month, I thought I’d blog about being back at work.  Then I thought I might blog about apples or art.  Or about hot flashes again, because seriously, the heat outside and inside is making me absolutely CRAZY.  But the biggest reason, I haven’t blogged is that I reread something I wrote and it made me cry.  I don’t think I realized how sad I am.  I think, “it’s been three years since Mom and Dad died, why I’m crying.”  Still.  Probably because I didn’t let myself cry in the first place.  I completely suck at letting myself be sad.  And no one needs to hear about my tears.  But the thing about writing for me, is that it is a compulsion.  Eventually, the words spill out somehow or someway.

So here I am in the middle of this night, back to blogging.  I have been reading The Tale of Despereaux for this little book club, a colleague and I do with students.  The book is a fairy tale of a sorts about a mouse.  The story is charming, but in general mice scare the hell out of me.  So when I fell asleep tonight, I almost immediately had a dream where I was covered in mice and jerked myself away.  I shook it off and tried to get back to sleep, but then fell into a dream about riding a rollercoaster in the river.  Everyone fell off and drowned.  Again, I woke myself up.  My son is awake, so I lay awake listening to the sounds from his room for awhile and decided that if I was not going back to sleep, maybe I would write a bit.

I would love to say that Shayne is doing okay, but I’m not so sure.  He went back to work, but he’s been acting really weird.  He says he’s not hearing voices, but he is, I know.  He is constantly whispering and laughing to himself and lately, he is so distracted.  He barely can follow a conversation.  Sometimes he screams because he sees the soulsnatchers out of the corner of his eyes.  His screams can leave me terrified for hours. Yet, he isn’t saying paranoid things.  His eyes don’t have the tell tale glint of psychosis.  He seems to be taking his medicine.  I’d talk to his doctor, but she quit last week.  I guess a new provider will be showing up soon.  I could take him back to his old doctor, the one that just gives him drug after drug, or take our chances with the new person.  In the meantime, I am watching and listening to him.  It’s like waiting for a damn hurricane to hit.  Usually I try to get in front of the storm, but I’m not sure where it’s coming from this time.

Darian is navigating a storm of her own.  She started her last year of high school with a heavy course load and anxiety and tears.  I told her to talk to her counselor and change her schedule.  I never would have told her brother to do that, or done that for myself, but really high school is a small microcosm of life and in the big scheme of things, high school transcripts are not that important.  So she dropped Honors English for creative writing–a much better fit. She had to adjust her schedule a little and is taking an art class for the first time since middle school.  Darian never wants to be compared to me, so she steered away from art, but she’s got the eye for it and she is actually loving AP art history and drawing.  The really ironic thing is that Darian’s art teacher was my art teacher in high school.  This woman changed my life and it looks like she’ll also help Darian finish strong.  I’m trying not to think too much about Darian finishing high school this year and letting her go, because she is going for sure.  As far away as she can.  I am just trying to enjoy each moment that I have.

On a good note, I’m enjoying teaching more this year.  I realize that I haven’t been much of a teacher since mom and dad died.  That first year, holding everybody and everything together was so all encompassing, that school was way on the bottom of my list.  The second year, keeping Shayne alive and trying to figure out how to get some help for him was far more important to me than just about anything else.  And then last year, getting through cancer took all my focus.  I showed up to work and had a plan, and engaged kids, but my  personal engagement was completely turned off. This year, I’m working on being more present.   I’m really enjoying participating in the discussions about building a new school.  It’s so exciting watching the plans unfold.  I might get an art room with an outside terrace or balcony.  Although I’d be thrilled with storage and new sinks.  Currently, my closet floods whenever there is rain and I have mushrooms growing on the INSIDE of my door.  Apparently the sprinklers water the lawn AND the inside of my classroom.  And I’m really working hard on improving what I do with first grade. I always feel like teaching art to first grade is like teaching kittens to knit.  Sometimes they are more like tiger cubs.  I’ve changed up some of the projects and I’m trying to be better at embedding habits and routine.  I’m not saying I’m being successful.  Kids are still drinking the damn paint water and I’ve had kids finish something in two minutes that should take thirty minutes.  Today I was trying to get them to line up, one was crying, one was dancing in front of the mirror, three of them were still washing their hands, and one was under a table.  They all sounded like they were at a rock concert.  And that’s when my principal showed up at the door.  But overall, it feels better.  Like by Halloween, they might be tame.

The other morning, I reached for my toothbrush which is in a little white plastic tray that I took from my mother’s bathroom  She used to keep the tray under her sink and it had nail scissors and her nail file in it.  I just put my stuff on top of her stuff, and it’s been by my bathroom sink since she died.  For whatever reason, that morning, seeing her pink nail file brought tears to my eyes.  I swiped the tears away, sort of irritated with myself for crying over a nail file.  It seems like I miss her more than ever.  I miss my dad more than ever.  I have to remind myself that it’s okay to cry.  It’s okay to be sad.

So I guess dreaming about drowning on a rollercoaster it pretty indicative of where I am in my life.  I am  riding my bike, walking, skating some, and helping James with the harvesting when I can.  There’s a clay class starting next week to look forward to and another writing class coming up.  And of course I’m surrounded with great friends and family.  I know I avoid my tears and fake happy and try to pretend that everything is fine, but I guess when it comes down to it, I’m just doing the best I can.  I’m going to keep showing up and writing myself through this.

 

 

 

Joan Jett and the Class of ’19

40502028_10212675555588552_2524792199921532928_nI remember buying my first Joan Jett cassette tape.  I was about thirteen and I had money from my paper route, so I rode my brother’s BMX to Alco and forked over a ten dollar bill. I popped the cassette in my Walkman, and then in my car stereo when I started driving, then in my house stereo when I got my first apartment. Stevie Nicks, Janice Joplin, Melissa Etheridge, Lita Ford, Joan Jett and Ann and Nancy Wilson. They were my girls. I loved the guitars, and sultry vocals.  They kept me company on long drives, all night marathon study sessions, writing my grad school thesis, and grieving bad break ups. Except for Janice, I have seen them all on stage. That was back in the day, when people stood in line for concert tickets. And I did my time, sitting all night in front of the record store in all kinds of weather to get close to the stage. Sometimes I used my grocery money to get the t-shirt at the show. I could survive on ramen and hand-outs from my cousin’s kitchen.

Even though, I never stopped loving music, when I had kids, concerts stopped being a thing for me. First off, for years, concert tickets were a luxury I couldn’t afford. But more importantly, I never thought rock concerts were appropriate for kids–drunk, high people acting crazy.  One time when I was at Red Rocks seeing Stevie Nicks, and the couple right next to me started having sex. RIGHT NEXT TO ME.  It was traumatizing. So I never have taken my kids to a live rock show, but they had lots of other exposure to music. My son can play cello, guitar, and rock the house on the drums. My daughter plays the ukulele and guitar. Both have eclectic taste, and know the words to hundreds of songs. The radio gets way more play than our television and in the car we turn up the volume and sing along. I didn’t realize how much I missed live music though. When I was in Chicago in June, I went with my girlfriends to the Blues Festival.  We saw Mavis Staples take the stage.  She spoke about marching with King and moved the audience to tears with her rendition of “I’ll take you there.” It brought me back to the days when I loved sitting close to the stage and watching the musicians do their thing.  So when I got the chance last weekend to see Joan Jett, I broke my rules and asked Darian to go with me.  After all, she’s going to college next year and after what the girl has been through, I figured she was mature enough for a rock concert.

It turned out to be one of the best nights of my life.  First off, we got to go to the State Fair, which I secretly love.  I went every year with my parents.  We’d eat complete junk and wander through the livestock tents and catch the rodeo.  Dad and I would look at all the horses and usually someone would let me take a short ride around the corrals.  My brother and I would play games on the midway and ride the rides and we almost always ran into some of our relatives.  D and I walked through the creative arts tent and checked out the quilt show and she walked with me through the corrals as I talked to every horse that was peering over a stall.  She didn’t want to look at the livestock, but she did agree to do the dairy exhibition and gave milking the fake cow a try.  We got to our seats early and Darian was so excited–we were in the fourth row, center stage.  Once the music started, Darian shot out of her seat to dance.  She knew all the words to almost all of the songs. The ladies in front of us kept turning around to compliment D, impressed that she was so young and rocking out with them.  After the show, we rode back home, talking about how great the music was.  Darian knew without being told that Joan Jett is an icon. She is one of the first women to start a rock band.  She is one of the first women to play lead electric guitar. She took criticism from Rolling Stone and all the boy critics who didn’t think she could make it.  She has had bottles thrown at her on stage.   But she never gave up and helped pave the way for generations of women musicians.   Joan Jett is resilient and brave, which is how I often think of my daughter.

In August, Darian and I went on a whirlwind tour of colleges on the East Coast, with Shayne tagging along still dealing with the tail end of his psychosis.  I had this moment at Penn Station when I was trying to figure out what train to take to get to the Bronx to see Sarah Lawerence.  I looked over to check on the kids. Both looked so city; Shayne, gutter puppy city–he had on clothes that didn’t fit him because he’s so skinny and was looking down at the ground–moving quickly to pick up a rolling quarter.  And even through the crowd, I could see him talking to himself, in the way that he does since the voices came to call.  In a place like Penn Station, no one even noticed him.  Darian was leaning up against the marble wall, her bleached white hair curling around her face, tapping her Doc Marten to the beat of whatever she was listening to on her headphones.  I realized right then, that she already looks like she belongs.  I know in her mind she has already moved to the city.  It doesn’t matter how far away it is from what she knows, or how expensive, or what I say, she has already made up her mind that New York is where she is destined to be.   And I better catch up, or she will be gone before I realize it.

I used to think my dad was the bravest person I knew.  He left his small town to join the Army when he didn’t even speak English. He learned to jump out of helicopters in the midst of gunfire to save downed comrades.  He survived a prisoner of war camp.  He never ever once asked for anything, but got respect anyway because of his quiet, generous nature.  I know he left his strength for me, but I think he left his courage for Darian.  She might be little, but she is tough.  So many times in the last years, I’ve seen her gather herself together and move forward.  There has been a lot of tears and pain, so to watch her dance and laugh with a musician we both love was pure joy.  It’s impossible to know what the future holds, but I’m going to treasure every moment that I have left with my brave, wild child. She wants to change the world and even though I don’t know what form that will take, I bet she will succeed.  She’s already changed my world and I am grateful for her every day.

 

Bike wreck

18446646_10209329106689421_4810792243239010575_nFor quite some time, I was an avid bike rider.  I have both a mountain bike and a road bike and I’ve done some serious miles.  I’ve ridden to Rockvale, Pueblo, Cripple Creek, Florence, and Penrose many, many times.  Once, I even rode to Alamosa.  About ten years ago, I was in a pretty serious accident.  I was riding down Main Street and I jumped up on the sidewalk to avoid some construction, and my bike tire got caught between the grass and the sidewalk.  I flipped over and hit the low stone wall surrounding the canine unit on Second and Main.  The wall went through my chin and fractured my cheekbone and I damaged my kneecap, plus a million other scrapes and bruises.  I was riding before my stitches were out, but maybe not with the same fervor.  A year or so after that, I was attacked on the riverwalk while riding.  A man jumped in front of me and grabbed my handlebars.  He didn’t physically touch me, but he spit in my face.  I screamed and people on the riverwalk came running into view to help me and the creepy man ran into the woods.  Even though I was safe, riding my bike was never really quite the same for me.  I became a little skittish about riding alone.  Then the afternoon of my parents’ car accident, I didn’t answer the first phone call, because I wanted to go for a bike ride.  A million times I’ve thought–“What if I answered that call.  Maybe my dad would still be alive.  At least I might have been able to say good-bye.”  Every time I looked at my bike, I thought of my phone ringing, and I just quit putting on the miles.   One of the promises I made to myself after recovering from cancer was to take up bike riding again.

Here’s the thing, recovering my stamina hasn’t been as easy I thought it would be.  I still get fatigued pretty easily.  And if I get overtired, I almost feel sick.  So I have been riding, but I’m definitely not as fast or strong as once was.  Yesterday, I was so hot when I came home from work, that I thought a nice ride with the breeze blowing against my skin would be just the ticket.  However, I always feel like I should spend some time with my son when I get home and then my daughter came home from school in tears because she hates school so much.  So I got kind of a late start when I started out on my evening ride.  In hindsight, I should have settled for a quick ride around the neighborhood, but instead set off on a twenty-five mile journey that was one of my old routes when I was riding consistently.  Part of the journey involves the riverwalk from Centennial Park to Mackenzie Blvd.  I realized the sun was setting when I was at the highest point of the trail, and I might have turned around, but I ran into a friend that I hadn’t seen in awhile. So I stopped to catch up because that is what you do in a small town.  And I was rested enough after our ten or fifteen minute chat, that I felt like I could handle the rest of the route, so I kept on going.

I didn’t really notice the darkness until I reached the outskirts of town where Mackenzie meets the highway.  I paused for a moment and took a drink and unzipped my bike bag to get my cell phone and let the kids know I was okay.  That’s when I realized that I didn’t have my phone.  I knew they would be worried because I had been gone quite awhile.  So I tried to increase my speed and I decided to cut out part of journey to make the trip a little shorter, but I still had about five miles to go.  Maybe everything would have been fine, but a bug flew into my eye.  I tried to get it out with my hand, and I didn’t notice that I had steered into the soft dirt on the side of the road until my wheel skidded and I overcorrected with one hand and fell off, hitting my elbow on the asphalt of the road, hard.  My pedal knocked into my leg.  I lay for a minute on the side of the road, in the dark, with my bike on top of me.  I kind of either wanted to die or be transported into a nice bubble bath.  If I’d had my phone, I probably would have surrendered and had one of the kids come and get me.  I thought for a minute about who lived nearby and wondered if I should probably get some help, but instead I got up and took stock.  I had a tiny scrape on my elbow and my leg felt bruised, but basically I was fine, so I got back on my bike and did the long, painful last five or so miles, uphill in the dark.

When I finally got home, the porch light was one.  Darian greeted me first with, “DUDE, where have you been?  Are you okay?  Shayne is freaking out.”  Shayne came rushing in to the living room.  His eyes were big and bright.  I was scared for a minute that psychosis had taken over again, but he was coherent when he said, “You were gone for so long.  I tried to call you, but you left your phone here.  Are you okay?”  I reassured them both that I was fine.  Shayne went outside to put my bike away and Darian continued scolding me.  “You can’t do that.  He can’t handle it.  He was so freaked out and worried.  Remember he’s fragile, like a puppy.  And I thought you were dead.  I was making plans.  James would have to do the funeral, because I couldn’t handle that.  And I’d have to go to Chicago and enroll in school. I would do that over the Labor Day Weekend. And…”

I stopped her by saying, “Darian.  I’m not dead.”  Shayne came into the house then, walked over, and hugged me, then went to bed.  Darian waited till she heard his door shut and said, “Don’t forget–like a puppy.”

Well, that made a lot of sense, Darian would be tough and pull out her survival skills in a crises and Shayne would break down and fall into his voices.  I woke up with a bruised elbow and leg, but surprisingly little road rash.  I felt stronger, like I had broken through some kind of barrier.  Next spring, I turn fifty and I’ve always wanted to ride somewhere epic to celebrate–like to the Oregon coast, or along the Appalachian trail.   So I’m going to keep riding and building my strength.   I’ll just remember to bring my cell phone next time.  Maybe Shayne will ride with me.  We can take care of each other, so Darian won’t have to pick up the pieces.