On April 22, 1970, my parents, my brother, and I lived in Houston, Texas. I was a sixth grader at Anderson Elementary School in Westbury. Our PTA bought white roses to plant in a star shape between two of the buildings. Each class was given an empty plastic pill bottle from a pharmacy and we were instructed to write our first name and last name on a narrow slip of paper. My teacher, Mrs. L (aka Cruella deVil) folded it up and squished it into the little clear bottle. She snapped the lid on it and when the office called our class, we all marched out to the flower bed and waited for directions. All the classes stood in lines, waiting, and someone said, "Ten, nine, eight, seven..." We all chimed in and counted down to zero then our teacher dropped the pill bottle in the hole. We marched back to class and went back to our school work. No explanation.
On April 22, 1971, my parents and I were living in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma. A year had passed, the seventies were in full swing (literally) and my Scientific Geography (no kidding, it was really a class) teacher had days before explained how carbon monoxide was polluting the air and possibly killing us, too. He encouraged us not to litter, to walk whenever possible, and probably eat more vegetables... At least someone informed my class what Earth Day represented. So, the next morning, I was riding the school bus to school and someone said, "Hey! We should get off this bus and walk to school!" I am sure we all cheered, but I know that minutes later that bus was empty and we were all standing on the corner as the bus drove away...and left us all in a cloud of exhaust. Thirty minutes later we trucked into school, tardy and probably a little sweaty.
Many years passed and it was April 22, and I was a CHAMPS leader at Douglas Junior High. Together we went to the local nursery and used some of our fund raised money to buy roses to plant in the front of our school. We took turns digging the holes and planting our roses. Until there weren't any CHAMPS left, the roses were watered each week of the growing season by my kids. One day, a truck from a construction company ran over two of the bushes and they died. There is still one rose bush left in front of the school. I look for it whenever I am on campus or I drive by the school.
Earth Days came and went... Sometimes it seemed important and other times it didn't in our country. My own involvement didn't soar after that Earth Day in Oklahoma City. I wish I could say I always recycle, I have a compost pile, and I drive an electric car, but I don't. I can do more. Tomorrow is Earth Day, April 22, 2010. Get off your bus. Plant a rose bush. Recycle. Talk about it. Think about it. Just do something.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Sunday, April 11, 2010
The Get-To-Know-Each-Other Question
When people begin to get-to-know-each-other one question inevitably is asked... "Where are you from?" As you know, this usually means "where did you grow-up/who are your people/what environment molded you, etc..." This question seems simple, but for me, it is a little difficult to answer. To avoid a long explanation at least until I know someone better my usual reply is "I'm from Texas and my family is still lives there, but I moved around a lot when I was growing up." It usually satisfies but yet doesn't turn into one of those "Too Much Information" moments.
I was born in Lubbock, Texas in 1958. My parents were from nearby Tahoka and Post, both West Texas born and bred. My grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, great aunts and uncles all seemed to live in this area, too. If anyone lived away, I was unaware of it because heck, I was a baby! My dad worked for Orkin Exterminating as a salesman and my mother had resigned from her job in a hat shop when I was born. My dad then entered the management division of Orkin. When I was a 10 month old, our family was "transferred" to Plainview, Texas, and away we went.
[Orkin Exterminating is an extremely large corporation. At my last point of interest in Orkin, it was part of the Rollins family corporate dynasty. Being transferred was not unusual for people in management at Orkin, in fact, it became a part of our family culture.]
Plainview, Texas, is not very far from Lubbock. It is part of North West Texas. It was and is smaller than Lubbock. Mother told me that our things were moved in my uncle Daniel's horse trailer. My parents, my brother, and I must have thrived in Plainview because the friends our family made became life-long friends. We lived there until I was four or very close to being four. My memories of Plainview are those of a really young child: watching fireworks from our front porch, playing with Billy, Sarah, Misha, and Melinda, our friends the Holumns, the Davises, and the Kinards, going to Sunbeams at church, a huge ceramic chicken in front of a restaurant, a tornado, hardwood floors in our house, and things like this. At four, though, Orkin called and the movers showed-up to pack our possessions and away we moved to Amarillo.
Amarillo, Texas is only about two hours north from Lubbock and is just as windy. Dad was a branch manager for Orkin, Gary was in junior high school, and at home, it was Mom and me. Friends were made in the neighborhood and at church as was the norm for our family. Our family made life-long friends that my parents communicated with until the friends recently passed away. I have clearer memories of Amarillo, since I was older. During first grade, when I was six, the company moved us back to Lubbock.
"Going home" was the message I understood when we moved back to Lubbock. We lived in the same small city as family members and of course, others lived close-by. Gary entered and completed high school in Lubbock and had planned to attend Texas Tech. Dad was the branch manager of the office where he began with Orkin. Old friends still lived there and between family, old friends, and new friends we lived a very happy life. We were active in our church and many of my memories involve Southcrest Baptist Church. I turned seven the summer we moved to Lubbock and was eleven when the company transferred us to Houston. My mother and her sisters cried when we left, my grandparents promised to visit, my brother had to change his college plans, and the movers came.
We had visited Houston during a vacation the summer prior to our move. My mother's comment was, "It's a nice place to visit, but I certainly wouldn't want to move here." Orkin had other ideas. Houston is a nine hour drive into unfamiliar sounds, sights, smells, cultures, and worlds to a family from West Texas. Even in 1969, it was enormous! The term "great melting pot" described the people from Houston. People from all other the world were represented here. It was truly an amazing learning experience. Our school visited the museums and attend the symphony. I saw Leonard Berstein and Andre Previn conduct the Houston Symphony. I had the opportunity to get close to the art of Mary Cassatt, Monet, Jackson Pollack, and Cezanne. I heard languages that belonged to people we studied in our Social Studies books. I tasted shrimp, crab, and frogs legs for the first time. Gary enrolled in the University of Houston and started his adult life. We joined and attended church, but no life-long friends were made here. Living in a neighborhood of pre-pubescent girls was impossible and school was no joy either. Kids teased me about my West Texas Twang and isolated me from their groups. My grandparents kept their promise and visited, but when they left to return to West Texas, I cried to go with them. Before the year was over, the company gave its orders, but this time Dad started to look for another job. However, after weeks of interviews, and a country entering a recession, my father took the transfer and the movers came. Except this time, Gary stayed behind.
Hello Oklahoma City. I was twelve years old and suddenly the only child living in our home. My parents, my dog, Shorty, and my pet gerbil were all I had from my life in Texas. Three aunts and uncles, several cousins and their families, and even a great uncle and aunt lived in and outside OKC. One of my mother's brothers and his family lived a little over an hour away. We spent time with family I really had never spent much time with before. We spent holidays in Del City and Kingfisher, enjoyed cook-outs in Midwest City, and they came to our home to get to know us, too. My grandfather died that first year and my dad's two sisters helped us get ready to go back to West Texas for his funeral. My brother visited us at holidays, we went to Houston whenever to see him whenever we could, and we talked on the phone every Sunday. My dad traveled between three and four days a week for the company. I was the only girl in a neighborhood of boys which was a relief from the "cat-fight" attitude of the neighborhood in Houston. I began junior high in OKC and my education took a turn in that there was a focus on building inter-racial relationships. I learned about the Native Americans of Oklahoma and attended an exchange program where I attended English class one day a week at a "black" junior high school across town for a semester. I was active as a pre-teen in choir and youth group at our church. Church provided me with summer camp, retreats, singing in a special group, and a choir tour one summer. But there were no life-long friends made, and 18 months later, it was no surprise that the movers were coming.
Even though I was pretty conditioned to "pack and go", it was having a greater effect on me as a teen. I had a melt-down when Mom, Dad, and I went "house-hunting" in Tulsa. Aside from the visits from my brother and my grandmother, their were no visits from either side of the families. Despite the turmoil of relocating, I did adjust to being the "only child in the home" and really enjoyed the nine months we lived there. Church was good, I made friends easily, I discovered S.E. Hinton, my favorite adolescent literature author, and Shorty (the dog) had become more of a sibling than a pet. The company called, the movers came, and there was no pretense that we would leave behind any friends, period.
Moving to Little Rock in November was not a pretty site. It was a cold and rainy weekend, the trees looked like skeletons from the highway, and as we got closer to our hotel, I was a basket-case. We moved into our home during a snowfall and the heater went out that first night. I begged not to begin school for a couple of days to help unpack and my "we never miss school" mother agreed to my request. I was bussed across Little Rock to a high crime neighborhood where the school was bordered by three cemetaries and a highway. I had no friends, I didn't want friends, and I buried myself in the books from the school and public library. I was 13 and a half, depressed, and I told all my family members that I hated living in Little Rock. Church activites were my only refuge. My brother married Sally and they would come to visit us and called every Sunday. Shorty was my younger brother by then. (LOL) And finally, after many months, I let go and opened my eyes and my heart and began to make friends. That first Christmas in LR, my dad gave me a silver locket with the promise that I would never have to move again, if I didn't want to. I am sure he saw something scary when he looked into my eyes during those first dark months. Dad was the district manager of Arkansas for Orkin by then. He still traveled every week, but Mom and I did okay together and always looked forward to the days he would be home. Family visits were few and far between--my dad's brother and wife from California came once and my mother's sister and her family came to dinner once, and of course, my mother's mother came to stay for a week or two each year. As always, we spent a week or two in West Texas every summer. When I entered high school, the depression left and I embraced being a full-fledged high schooler. I loved my church and was extremely involved. I saw the beauty and the wonder of living in Arkansas. The four seasons are amazing. I became a U of A, hog-hat, callin' the hogs fan. It was a great place to live. When I graduated from high school, I made the move alone and went off to college at Ouachita Baptist Univervsity in Arkadelphia, Arkansas.
When I was a sophomore at OBU, Mom and Dad came to see me one Sunday. I knew by the look in her eyes what the news would be. After six years, Orkin had called and they were moving back to Houston. Dad kept his promise, but they did ask me to go with them and go to college in Houston. I stayed at OBU, visited Houston whenever I could and we talked on the phone at least once a week, but certainly every Sunday. During the summer weeks when I lived at home in Houston, I made friends, went to church, and enjoyed spending time with Gary and Sally. I met Bosco at OBU and we married when I graduated in 1981. I packed most of my things, loaded them, my headboard, and my cedar chest and moved across the county to Douglas, Arizona. No company called, just my heart.
I have lived here in Douglas for 29 years. I married a home-town boy, had my children, and raised them here. I talk to my parents every Sunday and other days in between. They visit us when they can and we visit them when we can. They always come when I need them and I go there if they need me. I have a great church and life-long friends. I taught my kids that while there is no place like home, there is a lot to be learned by living other places, too. Meghan moved to the midwest when she graduated from college and Jordan is living in Tucson, going to the University of Arizona. If they want to move to Douglas, to Arizona, to Kalamazoo, or to Katmandoo, that will be okay. Because no matter where they go, I am probably going to be staying here, calling them everyday, and going to visit them whevenever we can as long as we can. I tried to give them an answer to that "get-to-know you" question. Douglas, Arizona.
For a long time I blamed Orkin for all the moves in our lives, but now I think we were supposed to go on that journey. God has plans for us and we need to listen to his call and to our hearts. I am stronger for a I led, and I am wiser for it, too.
I was born in Lubbock, Texas in 1958. My parents were from nearby Tahoka and Post, both West Texas born and bred. My grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, great aunts and uncles all seemed to live in this area, too. If anyone lived away, I was unaware of it because heck, I was a baby! My dad worked for Orkin Exterminating as a salesman and my mother had resigned from her job in a hat shop when I was born. My dad then entered the management division of Orkin. When I was a 10 month old, our family was "transferred" to Plainview, Texas, and away we went.
[Orkin Exterminating is an extremely large corporation. At my last point of interest in Orkin, it was part of the Rollins family corporate dynasty. Being transferred was not unusual for people in management at Orkin, in fact, it became a part of our family culture.]
Plainview, Texas, is not very far from Lubbock. It is part of North West Texas. It was and is smaller than Lubbock. Mother told me that our things were moved in my uncle Daniel's horse trailer. My parents, my brother, and I must have thrived in Plainview because the friends our family made became life-long friends. We lived there until I was four or very close to being four. My memories of Plainview are those of a really young child: watching fireworks from our front porch, playing with Billy, Sarah, Misha, and Melinda, our friends the Holumns, the Davises, and the Kinards, going to Sunbeams at church, a huge ceramic chicken in front of a restaurant, a tornado, hardwood floors in our house, and things like this. At four, though, Orkin called and the movers showed-up to pack our possessions and away we moved to Amarillo.
Amarillo, Texas is only about two hours north from Lubbock and is just as windy. Dad was a branch manager for Orkin, Gary was in junior high school, and at home, it was Mom and me. Friends were made in the neighborhood and at church as was the norm for our family. Our family made life-long friends that my parents communicated with until the friends recently passed away. I have clearer memories of Amarillo, since I was older. During first grade, when I was six, the company moved us back to Lubbock.
"Going home" was the message I understood when we moved back to Lubbock. We lived in the same small city as family members and of course, others lived close-by. Gary entered and completed high school in Lubbock and had planned to attend Texas Tech. Dad was the branch manager of the office where he began with Orkin. Old friends still lived there and between family, old friends, and new friends we lived a very happy life. We were active in our church and many of my memories involve Southcrest Baptist Church. I turned seven the summer we moved to Lubbock and was eleven when the company transferred us to Houston. My mother and her sisters cried when we left, my grandparents promised to visit, my brother had to change his college plans, and the movers came.
We had visited Houston during a vacation the summer prior to our move. My mother's comment was, "It's a nice place to visit, but I certainly wouldn't want to move here." Orkin had other ideas. Houston is a nine hour drive into unfamiliar sounds, sights, smells, cultures, and worlds to a family from West Texas. Even in 1969, it was enormous! The term "great melting pot" described the people from Houston. People from all other the world were represented here. It was truly an amazing learning experience. Our school visited the museums and attend the symphony. I saw Leonard Berstein and Andre Previn conduct the Houston Symphony. I had the opportunity to get close to the art of Mary Cassatt, Monet, Jackson Pollack, and Cezanne. I heard languages that belonged to people we studied in our Social Studies books. I tasted shrimp, crab, and frogs legs for the first time. Gary enrolled in the University of Houston and started his adult life. We joined and attended church, but no life-long friends were made here. Living in a neighborhood of pre-pubescent girls was impossible and school was no joy either. Kids teased me about my West Texas Twang and isolated me from their groups. My grandparents kept their promise and visited, but when they left to return to West Texas, I cried to go with them. Before the year was over, the company gave its orders, but this time Dad started to look for another job. However, after weeks of interviews, and a country entering a recession, my father took the transfer and the movers came. Except this time, Gary stayed behind.
Hello Oklahoma City. I was twelve years old and suddenly the only child living in our home. My parents, my dog, Shorty, and my pet gerbil were all I had from my life in Texas. Three aunts and uncles, several cousins and their families, and even a great uncle and aunt lived in and outside OKC. One of my mother's brothers and his family lived a little over an hour away. We spent time with family I really had never spent much time with before. We spent holidays in Del City and Kingfisher, enjoyed cook-outs in Midwest City, and they came to our home to get to know us, too. My grandfather died that first year and my dad's two sisters helped us get ready to go back to West Texas for his funeral. My brother visited us at holidays, we went to Houston whenever to see him whenever we could, and we talked on the phone every Sunday. My dad traveled between three and four days a week for the company. I was the only girl in a neighborhood of boys which was a relief from the "cat-fight" attitude of the neighborhood in Houston. I began junior high in OKC and my education took a turn in that there was a focus on building inter-racial relationships. I learned about the Native Americans of Oklahoma and attended an exchange program where I attended English class one day a week at a "black" junior high school across town for a semester. I was active as a pre-teen in choir and youth group at our church. Church provided me with summer camp, retreats, singing in a special group, and a choir tour one summer. But there were no life-long friends made, and 18 months later, it was no surprise that the movers were coming.
Even though I was pretty conditioned to "pack and go", it was having a greater effect on me as a teen. I had a melt-down when Mom, Dad, and I went "house-hunting" in Tulsa. Aside from the visits from my brother and my grandmother, their were no visits from either side of the families. Despite the turmoil of relocating, I did adjust to being the "only child in the home" and really enjoyed the nine months we lived there. Church was good, I made friends easily, I discovered S.E. Hinton, my favorite adolescent literature author, and Shorty (the dog) had become more of a sibling than a pet. The company called, the movers came, and there was no pretense that we would leave behind any friends, period.
Moving to Little Rock in November was not a pretty site. It was a cold and rainy weekend, the trees looked like skeletons from the highway, and as we got closer to our hotel, I was a basket-case. We moved into our home during a snowfall and the heater went out that first night. I begged not to begin school for a couple of days to help unpack and my "we never miss school" mother agreed to my request. I was bussed across Little Rock to a high crime neighborhood where the school was bordered by three cemetaries and a highway. I had no friends, I didn't want friends, and I buried myself in the books from the school and public library. I was 13 and a half, depressed, and I told all my family members that I hated living in Little Rock. Church activites were my only refuge. My brother married Sally and they would come to visit us and called every Sunday. Shorty was my younger brother by then. (LOL) And finally, after many months, I let go and opened my eyes and my heart and began to make friends. That first Christmas in LR, my dad gave me a silver locket with the promise that I would never have to move again, if I didn't want to. I am sure he saw something scary when he looked into my eyes during those first dark months. Dad was the district manager of Arkansas for Orkin by then. He still traveled every week, but Mom and I did okay together and always looked forward to the days he would be home. Family visits were few and far between--my dad's brother and wife from California came once and my mother's sister and her family came to dinner once, and of course, my mother's mother came to stay for a week or two each year. As always, we spent a week or two in West Texas every summer. When I entered high school, the depression left and I embraced being a full-fledged high schooler. I loved my church and was extremely involved. I saw the beauty and the wonder of living in Arkansas. The four seasons are amazing. I became a U of A, hog-hat, callin' the hogs fan. It was a great place to live. When I graduated from high school, I made the move alone and went off to college at Ouachita Baptist Univervsity in Arkadelphia, Arkansas.
When I was a sophomore at OBU, Mom and Dad came to see me one Sunday. I knew by the look in her eyes what the news would be. After six years, Orkin had called and they were moving back to Houston. Dad kept his promise, but they did ask me to go with them and go to college in Houston. I stayed at OBU, visited Houston whenever I could and we talked on the phone at least once a week, but certainly every Sunday. During the summer weeks when I lived at home in Houston, I made friends, went to church, and enjoyed spending time with Gary and Sally. I met Bosco at OBU and we married when I graduated in 1981. I packed most of my things, loaded them, my headboard, and my cedar chest and moved across the county to Douglas, Arizona. No company called, just my heart.
I have lived here in Douglas for 29 years. I married a home-town boy, had my children, and raised them here. I talk to my parents every Sunday and other days in between. They visit us when they can and we visit them when we can. They always come when I need them and I go there if they need me. I have a great church and life-long friends. I taught my kids that while there is no place like home, there is a lot to be learned by living other places, too. Meghan moved to the midwest when she graduated from college and Jordan is living in Tucson, going to the University of Arizona. If they want to move to Douglas, to Arizona, to Kalamazoo, or to Katmandoo, that will be okay. Because no matter where they go, I am probably going to be staying here, calling them everyday, and going to visit them whevenever we can as long as we can. I tried to give them an answer to that "get-to-know you" question. Douglas, Arizona.
For a long time I blamed Orkin for all the moves in our lives, but now I think we were supposed to go on that journey. God has plans for us and we need to listen to his call and to our hearts. I am stronger for a I led, and I am wiser for it, too.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
One Tarzan, One Jane, and a Whole Lot of Cheetahs
When I was a young girl, my favorite playmates were my cousins. There was so many of us who were close to the same age and when we were together it bordered on chaos. Most of us lived close to each other so we had the opportunity to spend time together on Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving, and now and then during the summer. The best place to spend time together was on my grandparents' farm.
When we were really young, games of hide and seek, chase, swinging statues, and circus kept us occupied for hours. One of the worse things that could happen would be "bad weather" which could mean 10 to 13 kids hanging out together in the back room in my grandparents' home. Being told by various aunts and uncles to stop yelling was common place. Being swatted for jumping on the bed with three or four other kids happened, too. Swearing never to tell who had knocked a hole in the wall was expected. And being released from "back room prison" was such a sweet release!
Outside the house was a wonderful world to be explored. You could play army in the orchard and actually run from someone shooting b-bs at your legs.(It was unsafe to shoot above the waist!) You could play circus by walking on the chicken-house. You could slide down the cellar door, but you had to dodge the tin that would cut your leg or arm. We could sit on my grandpa's tractor and push the starter so it would lunge forward and scare the little kids. But best of all, you could play all sorts of things in the big mulberry tree that grew next to the garage.
The mulberry tree was huge. It was easy to climb and its branches provided some wonderful places to sit. It was perfect for swinging on a branch and dropping to the ground below. A tire-swing even hung from it for years. I loved riding in that swing. But my favorite thing to play in the tree was Tarzan.
Tarzan movies, starring Johnny Weismuller, were re-run on Saturday or Sunday afternoons on our local TV station. They were old even then, black and white, grainy, but exciting. I spent a lot of time watching Tarzan save Jane from quicksand, lions, blood-thirsty natives, and other predators. It was true-love between Tarzan and Jane. She was cultured, obviously educated at some British boarding school, a fine English lady, sometimes wore jungle-garb, and had impecible grammar. She could swing on her own, but usually rode with her macho-man, Tarzan, as he swung from vine to vine. Tarzan could do anything and once he somehow made it to New York and rescued some of his jungle homies who had been stolen and shipped to America. Tarzan's best buddy, Cheetah the chimpanzee, was never far behind along with "Boy", the jungle foster child Tarzan and Jane were raising. Tarzan was a giant among men, Jane his lady fair, Cheetah the comedian in the act, and Boy completed the blended family.
Picture a large leafy mulberry tree... One of the older boys got to be Tarzan. One of the younger boys got to be Boy. That left Jane and Cheetah. Ten kids. Jane had to be worldly, educated past the second grade, not afraid to climb to the highest branches, and most of all able to convince the other girls that no one else could swing with ease through the breeze of the trees. Why, of course that was ME, the oldest girl! It also helped that I could convince the rest that they were all Cheetahs--really the soul of the show who had all the fun! No Tarzan flick was complete without the fun from Cheetah! I thought it was a great trade-off.
I loved standing on the trunk of that big ole tree, looking out over the cotton fields which seemed to go on forever. It was thrilling climbing out on a really long limb, feeling my feet dangle over the edge. It was comforting to have a sweaty little monkey cousin lean against me, the two of us savoring the feel of a sunny Sunday afternoon. Even now, as I write these words, it's not so far away. For what seemed like such a short time in my life is such a sweet memory in my heart and mind.
There was never a place so magical or imaginative as that farm. When you are a kid who moves every three or four years, having to start over and over, home isn't always where your bedroom is. Sometimes it's a place that never really changes, where everyone knows you and loves you, and what you remember when you are fifty-one years old and you are trying to fall asleep at night. It's filled with adventure, fun, and security. There's one Tarzan, one Jane, and a whole lot of Cheetahs.
ahhhhhh-AHHHHHHHH-yaaaahhhhhhh!!!!! (Tarzan's call!)
When we were really young, games of hide and seek, chase, swinging statues, and circus kept us occupied for hours. One of the worse things that could happen would be "bad weather" which could mean 10 to 13 kids hanging out together in the back room in my grandparents' home. Being told by various aunts and uncles to stop yelling was common place. Being swatted for jumping on the bed with three or four other kids happened, too. Swearing never to tell who had knocked a hole in the wall was expected. And being released from "back room prison" was such a sweet release!
Outside the house was a wonderful world to be explored. You could play army in the orchard and actually run from someone shooting b-bs at your legs.(It was unsafe to shoot above the waist!) You could play circus by walking on the chicken-house. You could slide down the cellar door, but you had to dodge the tin that would cut your leg or arm. We could sit on my grandpa's tractor and push the starter so it would lunge forward and scare the little kids. But best of all, you could play all sorts of things in the big mulberry tree that grew next to the garage.
The mulberry tree was huge. It was easy to climb and its branches provided some wonderful places to sit. It was perfect for swinging on a branch and dropping to the ground below. A tire-swing even hung from it for years. I loved riding in that swing. But my favorite thing to play in the tree was Tarzan.
Tarzan movies, starring Johnny Weismuller, were re-run on Saturday or Sunday afternoons on our local TV station. They were old even then, black and white, grainy, but exciting. I spent a lot of time watching Tarzan save Jane from quicksand, lions, blood-thirsty natives, and other predators. It was true-love between Tarzan and Jane. She was cultured, obviously educated at some British boarding school, a fine English lady, sometimes wore jungle-garb, and had impecible grammar. She could swing on her own, but usually rode with her macho-man, Tarzan, as he swung from vine to vine. Tarzan could do anything and once he somehow made it to New York and rescued some of his jungle homies who had been stolen and shipped to America. Tarzan's best buddy, Cheetah the chimpanzee, was never far behind along with "Boy", the jungle foster child Tarzan and Jane were raising. Tarzan was a giant among men, Jane his lady fair, Cheetah the comedian in the act, and Boy completed the blended family.
Picture a large leafy mulberry tree... One of the older boys got to be Tarzan. One of the younger boys got to be Boy. That left Jane and Cheetah. Ten kids. Jane had to be worldly, educated past the second grade, not afraid to climb to the highest branches, and most of all able to convince the other girls that no one else could swing with ease through the breeze of the trees. Why, of course that was ME, the oldest girl! It also helped that I could convince the rest that they were all Cheetahs--really the soul of the show who had all the fun! No Tarzan flick was complete without the fun from Cheetah! I thought it was a great trade-off.
I loved standing on the trunk of that big ole tree, looking out over the cotton fields which seemed to go on forever. It was thrilling climbing out on a really long limb, feeling my feet dangle over the edge. It was comforting to have a sweaty little monkey cousin lean against me, the two of us savoring the feel of a sunny Sunday afternoon. Even now, as I write these words, it's not so far away. For what seemed like such a short time in my life is such a sweet memory in my heart and mind.
There was never a place so magical or imaginative as that farm. When you are a kid who moves every three or four years, having to start over and over, home isn't always where your bedroom is. Sometimes it's a place that never really changes, where everyone knows you and loves you, and what you remember when you are fifty-one years old and you are trying to fall asleep at night. It's filled with adventure, fun, and security. There's one Tarzan, one Jane, and a whole lot of Cheetahs.
ahhhhhh-AHHHHHHHH-yaaaahhhhhhh!!!!! (Tarzan's call!)
Sunday, March 21, 2010
The Elephant Ride
Recently, while driving past our neighborhood supermarket, I saw that a carnival had been set-up in the parking lot. I have seen quite a few carnivals in parking lots in Southern Arizona, but this is the first time I have seen a ferris wheel, a roller coaster, and a "Ring of Fire" in our neighborhood. At night, I could see the lights from the ferris wheel from our front yard and I thought about how excited the kids must be, seeing their roof-tops and streets from high above the Food City parking lot. I could not help but remember about the time I rode an elephant when I was a little girl in Amarillo, Texas.
My family lived in Amarillo, Texas for a few years in the 1960's. One day, my mother and I went grocery shopping at the local Piggly Wiggly store and low and behold, there in the parking lot was a small carnival. It was on the small side meaning that it had a couple of rides for little kids, a "Scrambler" for the big kids, and it also had an elephant. For a price, you could sit in a seat for four and ride around the parking lot while a man led the elephant. I was instantly interested in seeing this elephant. Mother and I stood and watched people ride around on top of this enormous animal. She kept a tight hold on my hand just in case I decided to get too close for her comfort. But for me, at that moment, I had made up my mind that I was going to ride that elephant! When I asked my mother, she said the most dreaded words I hated to hear... "Let's ask your daddy."
Now, "Let's ask your daddy" was code in my home for "It's probably not going to happen." I had heard this phrase most of my five year old life. "Can I have a dog?" "Let's ask your daddy." "Can I have a horse?" "Let's ask your daddy." Can I have a Chatty Cathy?" "Let's ask your daddy." Needless to say, I didn't get a dog, a horse, or a Chatty Cathy. All afternoon long, while dreaming of my triumphant ride, I was planning on how to secure my daddy's agreement to ride the elephant. I even thought of recruiting my brother Gary, but since he was seven years older than me, he usually thought my ideas were not what the cool junior high boys did. So, I was on my own to work this plan out.
When Daddy came home from the office, I started my campaign the second he walked in the door. He smiled and kinda chuckled, but he didn't tell me "no". We sat down for dinner and I told him all about the elephant ride in the parking lot of the Piggly Wiggly. I was prepared to launch into a crying, begging, wailing fit, but to my surprise, when the table had been cleared, my daddy said, "Let's go ride that elephant."
I was so terribly excited! As a family, we drove to the Piggly Wiggly, and there it was in all its glory. THE ELEPHANT! Mother, Daddy, and I stood in line with the other people and waited for my turn. When it was time for me to ride, the man pulled on the elephant and it bent its front legs and back legs and kneeled on the pavement. The man took my money and helped me into the metal chair that held four people. Three other children were also lifted into the seat. When we were settled, the man gave a command and the elephant rocked back and forth to stand up right. Holy Moly! The powerfulness of that elephant was so intense as it rocked to stand up that I was absolutely terrified as it was all happening. I know my eyes had to look like saucers! However, once we were settled and the ride began, I was in control of my of my fears, but I held onto the metal bar in front of me for dear life. We slowly paraded around the parking lot and I even chanced a wave at my family. I just know I looked like a princess on top of that elephant. It seemed like forever as we walked around and around.
I don't remember the elephant lowering itself to the parking lot or me getting off the elephant. I don't remember the ride home or even discussing the experience. But I do remember the fear, the power, and the glory it felt that day. I could do anything because I had ridden an elephant!
Many years later, when I was a mom and Meg was a Brownie, the circus came to town. Meghan and her troop went to the circus together. However, when she came home she was horrified that one of the elephants had dropped its sequin clad rider and the ambulance had taken her away. Hmmm... I knew better than to mention an elephant ride at that moment.
My family lived in Amarillo, Texas for a few years in the 1960's. One day, my mother and I went grocery shopping at the local Piggly Wiggly store and low and behold, there in the parking lot was a small carnival. It was on the small side meaning that it had a couple of rides for little kids, a "Scrambler" for the big kids, and it also had an elephant. For a price, you could sit in a seat for four and ride around the parking lot while a man led the elephant. I was instantly interested in seeing this elephant. Mother and I stood and watched people ride around on top of this enormous animal. She kept a tight hold on my hand just in case I decided to get too close for her comfort. But for me, at that moment, I had made up my mind that I was going to ride that elephant! When I asked my mother, she said the most dreaded words I hated to hear... "Let's ask your daddy."
Now, "Let's ask your daddy" was code in my home for "It's probably not going to happen." I had heard this phrase most of my five year old life. "Can I have a dog?" "Let's ask your daddy." "Can I have a horse?" "Let's ask your daddy." Can I have a Chatty Cathy?" "Let's ask your daddy." Needless to say, I didn't get a dog, a horse, or a Chatty Cathy. All afternoon long, while dreaming of my triumphant ride, I was planning on how to secure my daddy's agreement to ride the elephant. I even thought of recruiting my brother Gary, but since he was seven years older than me, he usually thought my ideas were not what the cool junior high boys did. So, I was on my own to work this plan out.
When Daddy came home from the office, I started my campaign the second he walked in the door. He smiled and kinda chuckled, but he didn't tell me "no". We sat down for dinner and I told him all about the elephant ride in the parking lot of the Piggly Wiggly. I was prepared to launch into a crying, begging, wailing fit, but to my surprise, when the table had been cleared, my daddy said, "Let's go ride that elephant."
I was so terribly excited! As a family, we drove to the Piggly Wiggly, and there it was in all its glory. THE ELEPHANT! Mother, Daddy, and I stood in line with the other people and waited for my turn. When it was time for me to ride, the man pulled on the elephant and it bent its front legs and back legs and kneeled on the pavement. The man took my money and helped me into the metal chair that held four people. Three other children were also lifted into the seat. When we were settled, the man gave a command and the elephant rocked back and forth to stand up right. Holy Moly! The powerfulness of that elephant was so intense as it rocked to stand up that I was absolutely terrified as it was all happening. I know my eyes had to look like saucers! However, once we were settled and the ride began, I was in control of my of my fears, but I held onto the metal bar in front of me for dear life. We slowly paraded around the parking lot and I even chanced a wave at my family. I just know I looked like a princess on top of that elephant. It seemed like forever as we walked around and around.
I don't remember the elephant lowering itself to the parking lot or me getting off the elephant. I don't remember the ride home or even discussing the experience. But I do remember the fear, the power, and the glory it felt that day. I could do anything because I had ridden an elephant!
Many years later, when I was a mom and Meg was a Brownie, the circus came to town. Meghan and her troop went to the circus together. However, when she came home she was horrified that one of the elephants had dropped its sequin clad rider and the ambulance had taken her away. Hmmm... I knew better than to mention an elephant ride at that moment.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
The Notebook
Three or four years ago, when I was visiting my daughter in Las Cruces, we decided we would take in a movie. It would be a typical evening for us when we were together--go to dinner and go see a movie. Girl Time! Meghan told me that she really wanted to see the "Notebook." I had seen the previews and it looked like one of those wonderfully sappy love stories that you just love getting lost in.
We bought our tickets and entered the theater. The first thing I noticed were all the older people who were at the movie. It was kinda strange. At first I thought it might be a senior citizen's discount movie, because it was really different seeing a tremendous amount of seriously gray headed people in the theater. However, the movie started, I was lost in the story, and the other patrons were not on my mind until the end of the movie.
It was probably 2007 when my dad called me on the sly to talk to me about my mother. (On the sly meaning that he would wait until she went to the beauty shop on Friday and we could talk about whatever he didn't want her to hear.) This conversation would be the first in a series where he told me that he thought she was behaving differently and was being unusually forgetful. Now, my mom and my dad had been living together as a retired couple for many years, spending an inordinate amount of time together. Mother had reduced much of her traveling and going off on her own because of her fears that my dad would have a heart attack or die by himself if she left him alone. I secretly thought she also was concerned that he would withdraw thousands of dollars from their bank account and spend it willy-nilly at yard sales if her back was turned. However, Mother and Dad were definitely exhibiting many signs of spending too much time together. Trying to be supportive, but not encouraging his worrying, I would reassure him that this was all part of growing old together. This did not stop his concern. After talking with Dad, I would call my brother, Gary, and get his point of view. Gary would give her his evaluation and tell me that she was good--it was all good. Mom and I discussed it all too. She ademantly disagreed and thought Dad was being a pain over nothing new. Finally, all this came to a head and Mother agreed to go see a doctor to appease my father.
Testing for memory loss is interesting... First, you have to have a physical. Then, a battery of tests begins. CAT Scans, MRIs, eye exams, hearing tests, internists, and finally someone refers you to a psychiatrist and a psychromatrist. Mom actually did well on all the tests. We learned that she had some brain scars from high blood pressure, she had a couple of "mini-strokes", her hearing was good as was her eye-sight, she had a small growth on her pituitary gland, she was very bright and very social. (If the doctor had told me that her coat was glossy and her teeth were fine it would not have suprised me!) We also learned that she did exhibit some signs of mild dementia, but the psychiatrist reassured me that she was doing well and everything was good. Typical results for an aging woman. No Alzheimers--thank you, God! My dad had also heard the same results, but every week when we would talk on the phone, he usually had concerns for her memory and her mental health.
My mother seemed just fine to me. We also talk at least once a week, and she seemed to remember things just fine. When we were together, she was lucid, sharp, and able to recall details without concern. She could piece one of her quilt masterpieces, make my favorite cookies or pie without a hitch, and she kept her checkbook to the penny. She would go to her doctors' appointments with Dad in tow, and everything seemed just fine on her end until last December.
Mom and Dad were scheduled to fly to Arizona for the holidays on the Saturday before Christmas. On Friday, she would get her results from her regular memory tests from her new doctor, a gereatric psychiatrist. That Friday evening, both of my parents called to tell me that the doctor had changed the diagnosis to Alzheimers. My heart just sunk. There had to be a mistake. Who was this new doctor? Something just wasn't right.
I wish I could say that everything was bright and beautiful--candy canes and sugar plums, the best Christmas ever... But that would be a lie. Mom DID seem the same, but one day, when she and I were frantically wrapping presents and baking goodies, she seemed to "check-out." She asked several questions over and over and I had to keep track of what she wrapped to make sure the tags didn't get switched. I was already stressed out with the approaching holiday, and now this. Dad wanted to talk about it all the time. If we went to a store, he told the sales clerks his wife had Alzheimers. When we spent a day with Bosco's family, he quietly told everyone there that Mother had Alzheimers. On Christmas day, he told all our friends that Mother had Alzheimers. Only he calls it "Aldztimers." Finally, the day after Christmas, I thought I would scream if I heard him say it again, and he did. I didn't scream, but he and I did sit down and try to talk it all out. Picture this... An eighty year old telling me that if he dies before she does that Gary and I are to sell their house and move her into an assisted living facility. And me, the fifty year old with a big case of denial arguing that there had to be a gross mistake. Not my mother. Not us.
After Christmas break was over, I contacted my mother's psychiatrist. He was a nice man, very patient, and truly experienced in explaining the situation and bad news to extremely worried children of patients. The news wasn't good and the future isn't either.
MY mother. Note that I claim her as MY OWN. Yes, I share her with Gary, but due to the age difference between Gary and myself, we each have different memories and relationships with her. Katherine Henry Hill. Organized. Dedicated Christian. Frugal. Good cook. Excellent seamstress. Family quilter. Sister. Talented. Fast driver. Crocheting goddess. Wonderful Nana. Big haired Texas Lady. Gardener. Funny. Polite. Reader. Loving friend. Democrat. Breast cancer survior. Exemplar southern woman. Strong willed. Country girl. Barefoot by choice. Worrier. MY mother. Her doctor told me that little by little she would lose pieces of herself and that one day she would not only not know me, but anyone else. How could MY mother not know me? I'm her baby. This has been selfishly the hardest thing to accept. Her doctor told me that over time we would see the woman we knew diminish, but that it is not hard on the Alzheimer's victim, but their family. I see that.
A person in my shoes told me that Alzheimer's is like swiss cheese--you know how the holes in swiss cheese don't exactly line up? That is like an Alzheimer's patient's memory. One day they can remember a lot, the next day more, then nothing, then it's back again. A rollercoaster of unexpectedness. Only, there are signs and stages the victim will go through. In the end, all the brain cells die--end of story.
Right now, MY mom still knows me and our family. She is still pretty active and enjoys doing the things she has always done. Dad does more for and with her. She likes making her own decisions and often feels like he is over protective. We talk regularly and when she doesn't seem to remember something, I don't push it. It's hard, but not compared to what is coming our way. Weird thing is, I used to pray and worry that cancer would be our main concern with Mother. I just didn't see this coming.
Oh, and the Notebook... I hate that movie.
We bought our tickets and entered the theater. The first thing I noticed were all the older people who were at the movie. It was kinda strange. At first I thought it might be a senior citizen's discount movie, because it was really different seeing a tremendous amount of seriously gray headed people in the theater. However, the movie started, I was lost in the story, and the other patrons were not on my mind until the end of the movie.
It was probably 2007 when my dad called me on the sly to talk to me about my mother. (On the sly meaning that he would wait until she went to the beauty shop on Friday and we could talk about whatever he didn't want her to hear.) This conversation would be the first in a series where he told me that he thought she was behaving differently and was being unusually forgetful. Now, my mom and my dad had been living together as a retired couple for many years, spending an inordinate amount of time together. Mother had reduced much of her traveling and going off on her own because of her fears that my dad would have a heart attack or die by himself if she left him alone. I secretly thought she also was concerned that he would withdraw thousands of dollars from their bank account and spend it willy-nilly at yard sales if her back was turned. However, Mother and Dad were definitely exhibiting many signs of spending too much time together. Trying to be supportive, but not encouraging his worrying, I would reassure him that this was all part of growing old together. This did not stop his concern. After talking with Dad, I would call my brother, Gary, and get his point of view. Gary would give her his evaluation and tell me that she was good--it was all good. Mom and I discussed it all too. She ademantly disagreed and thought Dad was being a pain over nothing new. Finally, all this came to a head and Mother agreed to go see a doctor to appease my father.
Testing for memory loss is interesting... First, you have to have a physical. Then, a battery of tests begins. CAT Scans, MRIs, eye exams, hearing tests, internists, and finally someone refers you to a psychiatrist and a psychromatrist. Mom actually did well on all the tests. We learned that she had some brain scars from high blood pressure, she had a couple of "mini-strokes", her hearing was good as was her eye-sight, she had a small growth on her pituitary gland, she was very bright and very social. (If the doctor had told me that her coat was glossy and her teeth were fine it would not have suprised me!) We also learned that she did exhibit some signs of mild dementia, but the psychiatrist reassured me that she was doing well and everything was good. Typical results for an aging woman. No Alzheimers--thank you, God! My dad had also heard the same results, but every week when we would talk on the phone, he usually had concerns for her memory and her mental health.
My mother seemed just fine to me. We also talk at least once a week, and she seemed to remember things just fine. When we were together, she was lucid, sharp, and able to recall details without concern. She could piece one of her quilt masterpieces, make my favorite cookies or pie without a hitch, and she kept her checkbook to the penny. She would go to her doctors' appointments with Dad in tow, and everything seemed just fine on her end until last December.
Mom and Dad were scheduled to fly to Arizona for the holidays on the Saturday before Christmas. On Friday, she would get her results from her regular memory tests from her new doctor, a gereatric psychiatrist. That Friday evening, both of my parents called to tell me that the doctor had changed the diagnosis to Alzheimers. My heart just sunk. There had to be a mistake. Who was this new doctor? Something just wasn't right.
I wish I could say that everything was bright and beautiful--candy canes and sugar plums, the best Christmas ever... But that would be a lie. Mom DID seem the same, but one day, when she and I were frantically wrapping presents and baking goodies, she seemed to "check-out." She asked several questions over and over and I had to keep track of what she wrapped to make sure the tags didn't get switched. I was already stressed out with the approaching holiday, and now this. Dad wanted to talk about it all the time. If we went to a store, he told the sales clerks his wife had Alzheimers. When we spent a day with Bosco's family, he quietly told everyone there that Mother had Alzheimers. On Christmas day, he told all our friends that Mother had Alzheimers. Only he calls it "Aldztimers." Finally, the day after Christmas, I thought I would scream if I heard him say it again, and he did. I didn't scream, but he and I did sit down and try to talk it all out. Picture this... An eighty year old telling me that if he dies before she does that Gary and I are to sell their house and move her into an assisted living facility. And me, the fifty year old with a big case of denial arguing that there had to be a gross mistake. Not my mother. Not us.
After Christmas break was over, I contacted my mother's psychiatrist. He was a nice man, very patient, and truly experienced in explaining the situation and bad news to extremely worried children of patients. The news wasn't good and the future isn't either.
MY mother. Note that I claim her as MY OWN. Yes, I share her with Gary, but due to the age difference between Gary and myself, we each have different memories and relationships with her. Katherine Henry Hill. Organized. Dedicated Christian. Frugal. Good cook. Excellent seamstress. Family quilter. Sister. Talented. Fast driver. Crocheting goddess. Wonderful Nana. Big haired Texas Lady. Gardener. Funny. Polite. Reader. Loving friend. Democrat. Breast cancer survior. Exemplar southern woman. Strong willed. Country girl. Barefoot by choice. Worrier. MY mother. Her doctor told me that little by little she would lose pieces of herself and that one day she would not only not know me, but anyone else. How could MY mother not know me? I'm her baby. This has been selfishly the hardest thing to accept. Her doctor told me that over time we would see the woman we knew diminish, but that it is not hard on the Alzheimer's victim, but their family. I see that.
A person in my shoes told me that Alzheimer's is like swiss cheese--you know how the holes in swiss cheese don't exactly line up? That is like an Alzheimer's patient's memory. One day they can remember a lot, the next day more, then nothing, then it's back again. A rollercoaster of unexpectedness. Only, there are signs and stages the victim will go through. In the end, all the brain cells die--end of story.
Right now, MY mom still knows me and our family. She is still pretty active and enjoys doing the things she has always done. Dad does more for and with her. She likes making her own decisions and often feels like he is over protective. We talk regularly and when she doesn't seem to remember something, I don't push it. It's hard, but not compared to what is coming our way. Weird thing is, I used to pray and worry that cancer would be our main concern with Mother. I just didn't see this coming.
Oh, and the Notebook... I hate that movie.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Losing a Student
I have been a teacher for 29 years. I have taught middle school reading, sixth grade and eighth grade English, eighth grade journalism, middle school library skills/research, elementary and middle school summer school, and now I work with new teachers in my school district. I spent 4 1/2 years in college working on my BA and 2 years in grad school working on my MSE, 6 and 1/2 years learning methods to teach and counsel children. I have spent thousands of hours in workshops and training learning more ways to hone my skills. Yet, no training, no class, and no teacher prepared me how to deal with the death of a student.
Having taught so many kids, I really don't know how many I have lost. I have never kept count. I do know that learning the news of a student's death is always such a blow to my heart.
Like most teachers, I felt my job was to prepare my students for the world outside of the classroom. I knew some would do well in the world and others would struggle. Some of my former students are all over the United States and are living their lives as I had imagined and some have certainly surprised me. They have grown-up to be mothers and fathers, doctors, garbage men, teachers, administrators, scientists, police, prison guards, secretaries, real estate agents, lawyers, prisoners, hair dressers, counselors, priests and ministers, homeless people, students, coaches, pilots, infantry men and women, sailors, athletes, and much more. And some never had the chance to grow up.
I lost the most wonderfully bright and delightful student to a tragedy two years ago. One day, she was sitting in my research class and the next day she was killed in a car accident. It stunned me to know that the last thought I had of her was her giggling with a friend over their computer research. She was an honor student, a class officer, a good example to her peers, and a sweetheart to have in class. It literally took my breath away when I received the call that she was gone. Even two years later, when I drove past the area where she died, I found myself breathless over the loss. However, the loss I feel when a student dies is no less if that student has struggled.
A few years after I had been teaching, I learned of the death of a student whose choices in life were not always the best. He had dropped out of school following eighth grade. He was a drug user and had been frequently arrested. He was difficult to teach as he was troubled both in and out of school. Much of my time with him was spent in frustration. But the loss was no less when I learned that he took his life. It was the "punch to the stomach," the breathless feeling I first experienced when I heard the terribly sad news.
Today, I heard that another former student had died. She was a young mother with two children, one I taught for two years. However, I don't see her face as the mother, but as the face of a mischievious seventh grader in the halls at Douglas Junior High. In my mind, she is laughing with Clarissa, wearing her "Hammer-Pants" and being nothing but a twelve year old girl moving along to her next class. Her long straight blonde hair sweeps over her blue eyes and she throws back her head and laughs at something one of her friends just said. But she is gone, joining the roster of the others I have lost.
I would never say that as a teacher we grieve more than families and friends who lose a loved one. As a teacher, my grief is different though, because no matter how long they have been away from me, they are always the child who sat in my class. For a little while, we shared something others might not understand. Everyday, I planned and gave them something that I hoped would help them learn, something they could take from my class and use for the rest of their lives. Their long lives, because in my plans and hopes for them, the time they would have would not end suddenly or shortly as it has been for some. For as I explained earlier, they are forever my students. Forever.
Having taught so many kids, I really don't know how many I have lost. I have never kept count. I do know that learning the news of a student's death is always such a blow to my heart.
Like most teachers, I felt my job was to prepare my students for the world outside of the classroom. I knew some would do well in the world and others would struggle. Some of my former students are all over the United States and are living their lives as I had imagined and some have certainly surprised me. They have grown-up to be mothers and fathers, doctors, garbage men, teachers, administrators, scientists, police, prison guards, secretaries, real estate agents, lawyers, prisoners, hair dressers, counselors, priests and ministers, homeless people, students, coaches, pilots, infantry men and women, sailors, athletes, and much more. And some never had the chance to grow up.
I lost the most wonderfully bright and delightful student to a tragedy two years ago. One day, she was sitting in my research class and the next day she was killed in a car accident. It stunned me to know that the last thought I had of her was her giggling with a friend over their computer research. She was an honor student, a class officer, a good example to her peers, and a sweetheart to have in class. It literally took my breath away when I received the call that she was gone. Even two years later, when I drove past the area where she died, I found myself breathless over the loss. However, the loss I feel when a student dies is no less if that student has struggled.
A few years after I had been teaching, I learned of the death of a student whose choices in life were not always the best. He had dropped out of school following eighth grade. He was a drug user and had been frequently arrested. He was difficult to teach as he was troubled both in and out of school. Much of my time with him was spent in frustration. But the loss was no less when I learned that he took his life. It was the "punch to the stomach," the breathless feeling I first experienced when I heard the terribly sad news.
Today, I heard that another former student had died. She was a young mother with two children, one I taught for two years. However, I don't see her face as the mother, but as the face of a mischievious seventh grader in the halls at Douglas Junior High. In my mind, she is laughing with Clarissa, wearing her "Hammer-Pants" and being nothing but a twelve year old girl moving along to her next class. Her long straight blonde hair sweeps over her blue eyes and she throws back her head and laughs at something one of her friends just said. But she is gone, joining the roster of the others I have lost.
I would never say that as a teacher we grieve more than families and friends who lose a loved one. As a teacher, my grief is different though, because no matter how long they have been away from me, they are always the child who sat in my class. For a little while, we shared something others might not understand. Everyday, I planned and gave them something that I hoped would help them learn, something they could take from my class and use for the rest of their lives. Their long lives, because in my plans and hopes for them, the time they would have would not end suddenly or shortly as it has been for some. For as I explained earlier, they are forever my students. Forever.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Letting Go of Miley
On December 23, 2009, my daughter, Meghan, told me that our youngest dog wasn't feeling well. Miley, our two year old black Labrador Retriever, had spent most of the afternoon lying in the grass by her water bucket and just wasn't acting like herself. Now, she was lying like a sphinx in front of the small heater in our family room. The expression of her face made her look like she was preturbed, but she did not appear to be in pain. Lying quietly was not Miley. Lying in front of the heater was not Miley. The silly faces she made were not unusual, but she just didn't look comfortable. When I called her to me, she didn't try to sit on my lap or lean in for a hug, which would be normal for Miley. We all watched her and I had Bosco check her out--feel her throat and stomach. She was a young Lab and it's pretty normal for them to eat what is edible or not. When Bosco and Jordan palpitated her stomach, they didn't feel anything unusual nor did they see anything caught in her throat or her mouth. Suddenly, she threw up on the carpet. This began a series of chaotic events involving clean-up, but she did seem to feel better. However, when Bosco and I went to bed, we both were concerned that this was not just something temporary. We both felt like something was wrong with our Miley.
The next morning, she seemed better. Meghan and Bosco both commented on how she was feeling. She was wagging her tail and she got up for some petting and hugs, but still, she was not acting like our puppy. Our puppy would have burst through the door when it was opened and done a little "Good Morning, Happy Dance," but she did seem better. Our family, which included my parents, were getting ready to drive to Tucson to spend Christmas Eve with the Selchow clan. Showers were being taken, clothes were being ironed, breakfast dishes were being loaded in the dishwasher, presents were being loaded in the car, everyone had something to do to get ready. Before we left, I mentioned that I was really concerned for Miley, but it was Christmas Eve and I couldn't think of any vet, including our own, who would be working today. Against my feelings, I got in the car and off we drove to be with the Selchows.
We had a good trip and a wonderful day. Gifts were exchanged, we ate favorite foods, we laughed, we celebrated, everyone had a good day! The ride home was quiet and easy, we listened to Christmas Carols and even stopped for hot chocolate in Benson. Jordan rode home with his best friend, Tanner, and like most twenty year olds, they passed us on Davis Road in their hurry to get home. At the time, I was worried about them speeding and getting a ticket, like mothers do.
It was a little past ten o'clock when we arrived at the house. The neighborhood was quiet and dark, but I noticed the front door was open and Tanner and Jordan were standing in the yard. I opened my door and started to collect my purse and my hot chocolate cup when I heard Jordan say softly, "Dad, Miley's dead." It was so clear and so matter of fact. "...Miley's dead." I couldn't move. Bosco, Meghan, and my dad got out of the car. I leaned forward and put my face in my hands. Over and over I heard myself say, "My dog, my dog, my dog." I felt my mother slip her arm around my shoulders and move my head to her shoulders as I cried. Tears became sobs and I just couldn't seem to stop. My dad came to my door and told me to stay in the car. He said, "Jan, it's bad. I've never seen anything like this."
I stayed crying in the car a little longer and then together, my mom and my dad walked with me into our home. The smell hit me when I walked into our dining room. I can only describe it as a "dead smell". It was awful. I looked in the family room and there stood Tanner. He looked helpless and put his arms around me. I felt so sorry for him. He was with Jordy when Miley was found.
When you live in a small town like ours, when an animal dies, you call the police department and they dispatch the human officer to pick up the animal's body. I called the dispatcher and cried on the phone while the young woman assured me that she would send someone for Miley. When I think back to that conversation, I am surprised she could understand me because I know I was close to being hysterical.
Bosco, Meghan, and Jordan came out of the garage into the house. Bosco told me that it was really bad in the garage. I looked into his eyes and I saw the pain we both felt. He was worried that our sweet pet had suffered. Our earlier concerns had turned into a terrible nightmare.
Peter, the humane officer came to pick her up shortly after that. Bosco and Jordan had wrapped her body in a bag and helped Pete move her to the truck. This wasn't easy as she probably weighed close to one hundred pounds, but Peter is a gentle and kind man and he eased her onto the tailgate of his truck and slowly drove her to the crematorium. The garage had to be cleaned-up and her rug was thrown away. Bosco and Jordan took care of these tasks before coming inside for the night.
By then, it was almost midnight. Christmas. No carols. No opening presents. No warm feelings of the morning to come. Mom and Dad went off to bed and the four of us just sat quietly in the family room. Jordan took our older dog to his room to sleep and Meghan went off to her room to go to bed. Before long, Bosco and I went to our room and went through the motions of going to bed. It would be a long time before either of us would go to sleep. The events of the night played over and over in our minds.
When we awoke, it was almost nine. We opened presents, ooohed and awed over our lovely gifts. However, there was a sad tone to everything we did. It was not unusual to see someone wipe tears from their eyes throughout the day. Family and friends called, and we struggled to explain what had happened the night before.
It's been more than a week since this happened. It's true that life goes on. Our older dog doesn't seem to notice or really care that Miley is not here anymore. However, she does howl more than usual and I like to think she is at least sad for Bosco and me. I bought Gracie new dog toys and our cat some new catnip toys as well. Gracie has a new bed, a new rug, and is sleeping outside again.
A close friend told me that losing her young dog was much worse than losing her older dogs. I think this is true. When our older dogs became too old to comfortably live anymore, I sat with them as our vet "put them to sleep." I held them and whispered love words into their ears as they eased out of their lives. It was kind, humane, and loving. They had given me nothing but love and it was only right to be with them at the end. Only, I couldn't do this for Miley.
We will all be okay and eventually, we will probably get another dog, but not anytime soon. I have to let go of Miley. It's going to take time.
The next morning, she seemed better. Meghan and Bosco both commented on how she was feeling. She was wagging her tail and she got up for some petting and hugs, but still, she was not acting like our puppy. Our puppy would have burst through the door when it was opened and done a little "Good Morning, Happy Dance," but she did seem better. Our family, which included my parents, were getting ready to drive to Tucson to spend Christmas Eve with the Selchow clan. Showers were being taken, clothes were being ironed, breakfast dishes were being loaded in the dishwasher, presents were being loaded in the car, everyone had something to do to get ready. Before we left, I mentioned that I was really concerned for Miley, but it was Christmas Eve and I couldn't think of any vet, including our own, who would be working today. Against my feelings, I got in the car and off we drove to be with the Selchows.
We had a good trip and a wonderful day. Gifts were exchanged, we ate favorite foods, we laughed, we celebrated, everyone had a good day! The ride home was quiet and easy, we listened to Christmas Carols and even stopped for hot chocolate in Benson. Jordan rode home with his best friend, Tanner, and like most twenty year olds, they passed us on Davis Road in their hurry to get home. At the time, I was worried about them speeding and getting a ticket, like mothers do.
It was a little past ten o'clock when we arrived at the house. The neighborhood was quiet and dark, but I noticed the front door was open and Tanner and Jordan were standing in the yard. I opened my door and started to collect my purse and my hot chocolate cup when I heard Jordan say softly, "Dad, Miley's dead." It was so clear and so matter of fact. "...Miley's dead." I couldn't move. Bosco, Meghan, and my dad got out of the car. I leaned forward and put my face in my hands. Over and over I heard myself say, "My dog, my dog, my dog." I felt my mother slip her arm around my shoulders and move my head to her shoulders as I cried. Tears became sobs and I just couldn't seem to stop. My dad came to my door and told me to stay in the car. He said, "Jan, it's bad. I've never seen anything like this."
I stayed crying in the car a little longer and then together, my mom and my dad walked with me into our home. The smell hit me when I walked into our dining room. I can only describe it as a "dead smell". It was awful. I looked in the family room and there stood Tanner. He looked helpless and put his arms around me. I felt so sorry for him. He was with Jordy when Miley was found.
When you live in a small town like ours, when an animal dies, you call the police department and they dispatch the human officer to pick up the animal's body. I called the dispatcher and cried on the phone while the young woman assured me that she would send someone for Miley. When I think back to that conversation, I am surprised she could understand me because I know I was close to being hysterical.
Bosco, Meghan, and Jordan came out of the garage into the house. Bosco told me that it was really bad in the garage. I looked into his eyes and I saw the pain we both felt. He was worried that our sweet pet had suffered. Our earlier concerns had turned into a terrible nightmare.
Peter, the humane officer came to pick her up shortly after that. Bosco and Jordan had wrapped her body in a bag and helped Pete move her to the truck. This wasn't easy as she probably weighed close to one hundred pounds, but Peter is a gentle and kind man and he eased her onto the tailgate of his truck and slowly drove her to the crematorium. The garage had to be cleaned-up and her rug was thrown away. Bosco and Jordan took care of these tasks before coming inside for the night.
By then, it was almost midnight. Christmas. No carols. No opening presents. No warm feelings of the morning to come. Mom and Dad went off to bed and the four of us just sat quietly in the family room. Jordan took our older dog to his room to sleep and Meghan went off to her room to go to bed. Before long, Bosco and I went to our room and went through the motions of going to bed. It would be a long time before either of us would go to sleep. The events of the night played over and over in our minds.
When we awoke, it was almost nine. We opened presents, ooohed and awed over our lovely gifts. However, there was a sad tone to everything we did. It was not unusual to see someone wipe tears from their eyes throughout the day. Family and friends called, and we struggled to explain what had happened the night before.
It's been more than a week since this happened. It's true that life goes on. Our older dog doesn't seem to notice or really care that Miley is not here anymore. However, she does howl more than usual and I like to think she is at least sad for Bosco and me. I bought Gracie new dog toys and our cat some new catnip toys as well. Gracie has a new bed, a new rug, and is sleeping outside again.
A close friend told me that losing her young dog was much worse than losing her older dogs. I think this is true. When our older dogs became too old to comfortably live anymore, I sat with them as our vet "put them to sleep." I held them and whispered love words into their ears as they eased out of their lives. It was kind, humane, and loving. They had given me nothing but love and it was only right to be with them at the end. Only, I couldn't do this for Miley.
We will all be okay and eventually, we will probably get another dog, but not anytime soon. I have to let go of Miley. It's going to take time.
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