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.

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.

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.

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.

List: Things I Probably Shouldn't Do Again (Part 1)

This is a list of things I probably shouldn't do again. You can call them mistakes, goofs, idiotic behaviors, etc... However, I call them lessons. No, they didn't happen all in one day, one month, or one year. They have been accumulating over a life-time. This is part 1. I know more will come to mind as time goes on and of course there will be lessons learned after I publish this list.

I PROBABLY SHOULDN'T:

Tell a co-worker, "Ignorance is NO EXCUSE," who confessed that she had never read a novel until college, when she was required to do so.

Tell my son that his art teacher will kill him if he misbehaves in class, because Jordan shared this information with the art teacher.

Try-on a shirt that was a size too small over my head right by the rack instead of going to the dressing room. It got stuck...on my head. My friends were laughing too hard to help me get it off my head. I thought I would suffocate, but I was laughing as well!

Wear bright yellow. Enough said.

Show a friend a dance move from "West Side Story" on a concrete surface between classes.

Send a note complaining about the co-worker mentioned earlier accidentally to the co-worker mentioned earlier!

Put Mr. Clean in a dishwasher. Lots and lots and lots of suds.

Laugh so hard I snorted during a prayer.

Wear prairie dresses that made me look like Holly Hobbie.

Cut my hair in a wedge.

Get a perm. I looked like Little Orphan Annie and my friend's son sang "Tomorrow" to me.

Stand on the seat of my bicycle while coasting into the yard and grabbing onto a tree branch. Dad cut the branches back each year.

Allow my kids to buy a gerbil. I was the only adult in the house who wasn't afraid to catch it and carry it to the cage when it escaped.

Scrub the floors with Mr. Clean and then with Tilex.

Sneak-out of a freshman girls' dorm at Ouachita, drive around for hours with my co-horts, and sleep in my car until the dorm opened the next day. Bad hair, neck ache, security officer catching us as we walked in the dorm.

Turn on the self-cleaning setting for my oven right after grease spilled from the Thanksgiving turkey. FLAMES!

Put my foot on a bent-wood rocker and tie my shoe. When I regained consciousness my nose was swollen.

Clean a lit lightbulb with a wet cloth.

Drive 75 miles an hour while listening to the Dixie Chicks singing "Sin Wagon" outside Showlow, Arizona. It's a 50 mph zone which is closely monitored by the highway patrol. Felony speeding...merciful and cute DPS officer...lowered the radar reported speed,,,recommended for driver's improvement school.

Eat mimosa beans while stringing them into "Love Beads" in my front yard with a friend. They are poisonous. Stomach pumping is the treatment for ingesting mimosa beans.

Trust my son when he says the antibiotic in the pill bottle is Cipro not Penicillin. Allergic reactitons last a while.

Wear bow-toe shoes.

Forget my earplugs when traveling with my husband.

Use spray-on instant tanning solution.

Spray PAM in a skillet over a gas stove.

Tie a balloon bouquet on a dauschound's collar so she will look cute. When we finally caught up to her and pulled her out from under the bed, CPR was an option.

Connect my first washing machine with my father-in-law without taking out the packing around the drum. Who knew this would cause the dang thing to walk around, shimmying, and shaking!

Try "Around the World" with my Duncan Yo-Yo in front of the televison set. Crash-Flames-Smoke.

More soon!

Hey! I never said I was perfect! LOL!

An Unexpected Blessing

In 1968, my family and I lived in Lubbock, Texas. We lived near my mother's and father's families and were very close to our relatives,especially the ones who lived nearby. My mother's sister, Loretta and her family lived within a mile from our home, we attended church together, and my cousins were two of my favorite playmates and friends. During the years we lived in Lubbock, I don't remember a week when we did not see their family.

One day my mother told me that my aunt Reta was going to have a baby. This was such an exciting event since there had not been a baby in our family for at least four years. I don't really remember much about her being pregnant, but I do remember seeing her at a church social wearing a reddish orange maternity dress. She looked young and lovely in my memory. She was probably due to deliver the baby sometime in late January or early February.

Early, on December 1, I awoke to seeing a light in the kitchen and hearing whispers and murmurs from my parents. Being December, it was common to wake-up before sunlight, but on this day, it seemed earlier and there was definitely a feeling that something was not right. When I got out of bed, my dad told me that my mom had gone to Reta and Buddy's house because my uncle Buddy had taken Reta to the hospital to have her baby. Mom was going to get the girls ready and bring them back to our house and take my cousin Judy and me to school. THIS WAS IT! THE BABY WAS BEING BORN! I asked my brother what the baby would be, but he wasn't forthcoming with any information. What was supposed to be such a wonderful and exciting time was quiet and full of concern. When my mother arrived with the girls, I was hustled to the car and driven to school. Mom didn't say much, but Judy and Linda seemed as normal as ever.

At school, it was not easy to keep my mind on my studies. A baby was being born and I was missing it all! I don't remember the day dragging, but I was really relieved when my mom and the girls picked me up from school that afternoon. My mother didn't look all happy and excited, but she told me that I had a new cousin, and his name was "Charles Greg". Instantly, I was in love with this unseen little baby. His name was perfect and I was beside myself as I discussed this with Judy and Linda. They had a little brother and I would be able to share this event as we shared everything else, together. My mother told us that our grandparents would be coming to our house for supper. It just kept getting better!

However, when we got to my house, things were still quiet and serious. More phone calls and this time, my mother closed the doors to the kitchen and the dining area. Judy and I talked about the secret they had to be keeping from us. There had to be something going on and in my child-mind, it had to be something even more wonderful. I crept up to the door outside the kitchen and tried to listen to what my mother was saying into the phone. I must have bumped the door or given her reason to know I was listening outside because all at once, the door flew open, smacking me right in the center of my forehead. I fell back on my bottom and my mother grabbed me by the arm and proceeded to spank me with an amazing amount of energy and obvious anger. I was no stranger to spankings, but this never occurred when my cousins were around! My mother grabbed me by the arm and steered me into my parents' bedroom where I was told to stay until my father got home. Lucky for me, he came home early.

When Dad came home, my uncle Buddy was with him. Buddy quietly took Judy and Linda to my bedroom and closed the door. My daddy took me by the hand and put me in his lap as we sat in the red rocking chair in the little den in our house. My dad told me that my aunt Reta had not just had a baby, but had actually had twins. He was so gentle and so sweet as he told me that these babies were terribly tiny because they had been born too early. He went on to tell me that one baby, "Craig" had been too small to live and that he had died. Died? A baby had died? I buried my head in my father's shoulder and cried at this horribly sad news! What about the other baby? What about Greg? My daddy told me that he was alive and weighed just over a pound. He explained that Greg was so small that his body would fit in my father's hand. I remember looking with my dad at his hand and imagining a perfect little soul resting on his hand. Dad told me there weren't even diapers small enough to fit him and he was "naked as a jay-bird". However, this new baby was going to have to live in the hospital for some time and of course, there would be a funeral for the other baby.

Finally, the mystery was over. When Buddy, Judy, and Linda came out of my room we could talk about Greg, but there was a feeling like a dark cloud in our home that evening. My grandparents, aunts and uncles came for dinner but the celebratory feelings you expect with a birth were missing. I remember clinging to my grandfather for security, because everything seemed so unsure.

I can't remember what happened for a couple of days after that. My family's lives didn't seem too different, except that my cousins were staying with us while my aunt was in the hospital. The funeral would be on Saturday, and I could go or stay home with my brother. I chose to stay home that day. On Sunday, there was a red rose in a vase on the altar at church to honor Greg's birth. It always bothered me that there was not two roses that day.

During the days and weeks following Greg's birth, my mother began spending time at my aunt's home. She would drive my aunt to the hospital and take care of Linda while my aunt would go upstairs in Methodist Hospital and feed Greg. When it was after school, the girls and I would sit quietly in the hospital lobby and my mother would go upstairs with Reta. The hospital rules were specific, "No Children Allowed". It was boring sitting in the lobby, and I often dreamed that I would one day be allowed to go upstairs and gaze at the growing baby. Unfortunately, this didn't happen. I secretly blamed Judy and Linda for this. I was sure that I would be considered older without their presence if they were not there.

Suddenly, it was Christmas Eve. Like most ten year olds, I was excited for the next morning when there would be surprises and wishes come true waiting for me under the Christmas tree. My family and I ate dinner and went for our annual drive around Texas Tech to enjoy the Christmas lights. Only, instead of heading for home, my dad drove the four of us to Methodist Hospital. My parents explained to me that my aunt, uncle, and the girls were spending the night with Buddy's mother in O'Donnell and they khad been to see Greg earlier. I thought to myself, "Great, sitting in the lobby on Christmas Eve." Only, this time, my parents told me that I could go upstairs with them to see the baby! This was so unexpected! I couldn't believe it was actually happening!

Together, the four of us climbed the stairs and walked to the nursery where Greg had been living for almost a month. I knew he spent all of his time in an isolette where he received very special care. What I didn't understand was that when I looked through the large window, over to the side was his little bed, away from all the other babies in the window. He wasn't on display like all the regular babies who were swaddled in blankets. It was like he was isolated from the group. However, I could see his little body and to my relief, he was wearing a little tiny white gown and was tightly wrapped in his own blanket. He was small, but he was so terribly precious. At that moment, I was overcome with an amazing sense of love for him. While I was looking at him, I felt my mother's hand on my shoulder. I turned and buried my face into her stomach and felt her wrap her arms around me. It was a very comforting and very loving feeling. This was truly a Christmas blessing.

When you are ten, you think about the toys you want Santa to bring. I was no different. However, the gift my parents gave me that Christmas Eve will always be a wonderful memory and a moment I want to remember forever. Some presents come unexpectedly, and they are always a blessing.

Coaching Training

Last year, four of our school district's instructional coaches encouraged me to attend an eight session training on "Coaching". Wanting to know how to be an effective coach, I wholeheartedly signed up for the training with two other district coaches. I was excited, really excited that I would learn listening strategies and ways to gear conversations with our teachers in a way that would make me a better coach. It would be held in Tucson and we would dedicate eight days to become a better coach.

Carrie, Denise, and I walked into the training site on that eventful Thursday morning. The room was small, underground, painted gray, and my first thoughts were BUNKER! There were small narrow windows inches from the ceiling and a sense of claustrophobia immediately set in. As we looked around, Carrie and I saw the dreaded "Circle of Trust" in the corner of the room. I wanted to grab my notebook and purse and sprint right out of there! The horrified look on Carrie's face summed it up! She turned and said, "If we have to hold hands and sing Kumbayah, I am SO out of her!" Nervous laughter erupted from my mouth and I looked at Denise who was giggling so hard that I think she had tears in her eyes. We cautiously set our things down on an empty table and were encouraged to take a seat in the circle.

Little by little, the other participants came into the room and happily took a seat in the circle. We were introduced to our trainers. The strange thing was was that none of them looked like TRAINERS. One wore a sleeveless black sundress covered by a crocheted, open weave sweater vest. One wore a capsleeved t-shirt, faded navy blue Dockers that were too short, royal blue socks, and blue Crocs. The third was younger and dressed contemporary, but her long hair came past her knees. I kept looking and searching for the "real trainer". Someone with a suit or at least someone wearing black pants and a conservative sweater... But this person never appeared! Then, the one with the Crocs stood up and introduced herself and she rang an oriental bell, declaring the session "open".

As with most new things and trainings, we all were encouraged to introduce ourselves and share where we worked. However, this was accompanied by drawing a "Zen" card from a deck and explaining how the quote related to ourselves. ZEN CARD! NO WAY! How hippified was this training going to be? This was definitely pushing me to the edge of my comfort zone. When the cards were handed to me, I took the pack and shuffled through every card looking for some statement that related to me. No randomness here! I looked up and about eleven horrifed pairs of eyes and two amused (my friends) were focused on my actions. Trying to look relaxed and non-threatening (to myself and the strangers) I introduced myself and read the quote about intuitiveness.

I started taking mental notes as the group began to introduce themselves. Connie, from the Cherokee nation, was working as an academic and cultural counselor for Native American students in a school district in Tucson. Mark was an engineer. Ariel was an engineer who formally worked at the University of Arizona as a professor for Women's Studies. Jayne, with a charming British accent, was a life coach consultant who occasionally worked with the trainer who wore Crocs. Ruthie Dee Javelina (interesting name) worked for the U of A in their Repsonse to Academic Intervention (aka tutoring) Department. Wanda, who desperately needed a pedicure, was a parent who was having issues raising her only child, worked for a Non-Profit. Stacy, Lisa, Danielle, and others worked for a "Non-Profit". No company name, just non-profit. As people introduced themselves, it finally dawned on me... I was in Social Service Purgatory!

From there, it was down-hill. Carrie, Denise, and I were immersed in the doctrine of listening reflectively, keeping our comments and observations to ourselves, observing body language, etc... I am sure the group and participants observed that my body language was screaming, "EIGHT FREAKING SESSIONS!!!" The time there dragged. It was endless, no matter how hard I tried to pay attention to the details of the people were surrounding me.

At trainings and workshops, the participants usually spend time working in groups, posting thoughts and/or comments on giant Post-It notes that stick to the wall. The presenter with the Crocs took a poster she made and reached above her head to adhere it to the wall. With her arms extended above her head I couldn't help but notice that she had an incredible amount of underarm hair protruding out of the cap-sleeve of her shirt! I know I did a double-take and whipped my head around to say something to Carrie and Denise. I whispered my observation to Carrie and made her look. About that time, the presenter raised her arms again, and we both saw the shocking hair that was lurking out of her shirt! Screaming, "EEEWWW!" would not be considered professional, but at that moment, I decided I could no longer try to care about what I was supposed to learn. I had been surprised, shocked, and was now trying desperately not to dissolve into hysterical laughter. The thread I was hanging by was growing very thin and one small move, one little bit of humor could send me right over the edge of no return.

I wish I could say that we took a break, I got myself undercontrol, and things improved from there, but that was not the case. Finally, it was approaching four o'clock and "Hamster-Hiding-In-Her-Arm-Pit" declared that we needed to migrate to the circle of trust. I was exhausted and this was due to trying to swallow all the laughter I had inside me. The black sundress presenter tossed a "ball of respect" my way and when I opened my mouth, a lot of nervous laughter escaped! It was like trying to hold back the creature in the movie "Alien". I pleaded being overwhelmed and tossed the ball to Denise who gave a similar comment and some laughter escaped from her as well. Carrie, pretending to be shy, said something quiet and reserved. The hair past her knees presenter took the oriental bell and chimed our encounter closed for the day. I jumped up, raced to get my notebook and my purse and hustled out of the bunker with my friends as fast as we could move. When we got to the parking lot, I said, "When we get back to Douglas, I am going to KILL the coaches who insisted we come here!" This was echoed and basically "Amened" by Carrie and Denise.

One session down and seven more to go!

I wish I could say that Day 2 was an overall improvement from Day 1 and that I had taken hold of the information that was being presented. Instead it was Day 2 of Jana needs to practice self-control. I was exhausted from the previous day's stifling the hysterical laughter, but there was still an issue with my not being able to make it through one hour without a snicker, giggling, or some type of humor overload. It didn't help that Carrie would frequently make little comments about the presenters or the participators. That usually set me off. It also didn't help that I found myself back in the circle of trust with a Zen animal card. We still worked in small groups or pairs and we were encouraged and prodded into changing partners regularly.

Connie was pretty cool to talk to when we worked together. She asked me about my heritage and if I had any Cherokee blood in me. This was a surprise as my father had told us many years ago that his great grandmother was from the Cherokee Nation. I told her that she probably had all types of "wannabe Native Americans" ask her questions about her background. We laughed and joked for a while which cemented her into my acceptance file for the day.

Near the end of Day 2, I was trying to focus on the presenter, taking notes, and maintaining self-control when out of the corner of my eye, I saw a leg move in the air. I turned to Carrie who had also seen some type of movement. Standing on one leg at the back of the room was Ruthie Dee Javelina, moving slowly into different Yoga poses. Okay, day over. Time to go.

Day 3 and Day 4 are pretty much a cosmic blur. We had a two month break from the first two days, but the memory of the horrors we experienced were still on our minds. Day 3 and Day 4 included more Zen, more trust circles, more information and practices, more Non-Profits, and more laughter. What changed was we were located to a sunny room with large windows at a different location. We could walk to a local CVS during our break and no one seemed overly concerned with us returning on time. This could be that some of our fellow participants were not overly enthused with us either. We had two of the original three trainers, but black sundress's husband was in Houston receiving chemotherapy at the Anderson Cancer Center. We would learn from the long haired trainer and the trainer who still wore Crocs. It went by at a slightly faster pace and I learned to live for the outdoor practices in a lovely courtyard. At the end of Day 3, the presenters announced gleefully that we would be moving back to the Bunker for future training. "NO," I said very loudly which caused everyone to look at me. I finally confessed that it was just way to creepy to be underground without natural sunlight for long periods of time. To my pleasure, the presenters said they would try to secure our "Garden Spot" and would let us know if we could use it for the remaining trainings.

Day 5 and Day 6 things finally took a turn. We met at the Garden Spot, in our same room as before. More of the participants were missing from the initial training, so we were a smaller group. Black sundress was back, but would be moving to Houston for several weeks due to her husband's cancer. Lisa, one of the non-profits actually requested to move away from Carrie and me stating that she wanted to work with others. None of the men ever returned, and much to my dismay, Connie didn't return either. I really liked her. Ruthie Dee, our Yoga Queen, also did not return and I found myself wondering if the non-returnees received part of their expensive registration fee. I actually participated and laughed when appropriate during both days. During Day 6, we had to give comments that we have and would receive on a job performance evaluation. The Non-Profits shouted out, "Needs Improvement, Satisfactory, In Order To Be More Productive..." I was alarmed! I didn't receive comments like this on my evaluations. I looked at Carrie and Denise in dismay and they had similar expressions on their faces. I stood up and said quite loudly, "OMG! If I received comments like that I would either cry or quit!" They turned and looked at me (of course I sat on the back row) curiously. Finally, I had done something other than laugh! They started asking us questions and probing into our evaluations and our expectations for ourselves. It was amazing! There had been a break though! When we sat in the circle of trust at the end of the day, there was a different feeling going on in our group. Or maybe it was just me.

Finally, Day 7! Cruising in a little late, which had become a bad habit, the three of us came to a screeching halt when we entered the room. There was a man there, one we had never seen before. No introductions, This had probably happened before we blew in. We started as usual...Zen card and chime and we took our usual seats together at our favorite table. Only something was definitely going on! The man was interupting and making comments during our presenter's time to shine! What the heck!!! I thought Denise was going to slap him! We all gave him the Douglas Unified Stink Eye! How rude could he be!! Who was this interloper? Every time he spoke I glared at him. During a small group session, I asked him who he was and what was he doing in our session. Much to my embarrassment, he politely informed me that he was a "Senior Presenter" and was there to monitor our group and the trainers. Oh No! He didn't just say that! Monitor our group? Needless to say, everytime he said something, we just sat in our seats, occasionally rolling our eyes. During our CVS break, I told our long haired presenter that he was undermining their hard work. She got tears in her eyes and agreed that he just didn't fit into our little group. I think she told our presenter who wears Crocs because she gave me a sad little smile like we were in on our own private little secret. The time flew by and when we were sitting in our closing circle of trust, I just couldn't look him in the eye. I felt like I was betraying our presenters.

Day 8. For some strange reason, I just didn't feel good when I left our hotel. I couldn't put my finger on it, but the atmosphere didn't seem right. We went through the motions: Circle of trust, practice, CVS break, more practice, lunch... However, there was a break through that did make me laugh. During a small group practice, our presenter who wears Crocs, informed our group that she had a hard time dressing appropriately for workshops! Denise, Carrie, the presenter, and I just burst out laughing! I politely kept it to myself that I think she had made huge steps by shaving off the hamster, as it might hurt her feelings. We noticed that the long haired trainer had a little "baby bump" and that was some cause for sincere jubilation. And before we knew it, it was time to walk up to the Nazi trainer-man, collect my certificate, and take my seat in the circle of trust for the last time. We tossed around a ball of respect and Jayne rang the oriental chime for the final closing. We all signed a lovely card for black sundress, hugged each other goodbye, exchanged professional cards, and left the Garden Spot.

I learned a lot in the eight sessions. I learned how to coach someone into a planning session, a reflection, and other hopefully useful tools for my work. But what I really learned was that given enough time, I could adapt and maybe even morph into some who accepts, not just tolerates the differences in strangers. Even someone with a hamster growing under her armpit.