Nancy Rowe

January 18, 2016

Today my dad brought a letter to me written by my preschool teacher, Mrs. Tacke, in 1979.  He found it and wanted me to have it.  He wanted my children to read it.  On the outside of the envelope, in Mrs. Tacke’s classic hand, was my name:  Nancy Rowe.

Mrs. Tacke was one of a kind.  I entered her classroom with great hesitation.  My mother had just died. I didn’t like to take naps.  I’d never gone to preschool.  I was enjoying wreaking havoc on the house while Nanny and Papa attempted to rest in the afternoon. But Dad took me to meet Mrs. Tacke, praying all-the-while that I would acquiesce and settle in. I did. As she recalls, I returned the next day to say, “I’m going to come here every day.”

The letter was a great act of kindness: full of praise and love. That was Mrs. Tacke. As I read her words, I remembered the little girl she described.

It is no accident this letter resurfaced just now, after all this time.

If you pop in to my little spot in the blogosphere now and then, you have probably noticed silence of late.  I’ve not figured out how to reintroduce myself without saying things I ought not.  Today, Mrs. Tacke gave me the words.

I’m Nancy Rowe. There is joy indescribable in finding her again.  Being her again.

It’s good to be back. Every day.

January 2 Nugget

Only took me 41 years...;););)

Supper Club Plus One

December 17, 2015

Today two of my favorite worlds came together: super friends and offspring. My "Supper Club" (Hannah, Chase, Doug--see past post so titled if you have the inclination) brought my Grace into the fold. It was as if she had been part of us all along. 

In this picture are four of the best people whose air I get to breathe. My heart ballooned up.

Oh, and the food ROCKED :). (Eggs Benedict were present...need I say more?)

Wish You Were Here

December 8, 2015

It's been a bit of a week. And that might be a bit of an understatement.

If you know me (and if you read this you probably do. I mean, come on, I'm not David Sedaris or Anna Quindlen. But every gal needs a hobby. I could go back to crocheting or binge-watching "Criminal Minds," but this seems all right), you know that in my life there is a tier of my heart reserved for a unique blend of former students who become close friends. We all have a caste system of relationships: the inner circle, the good friends, the fringe peeps, the people we wished we knew better, the people who like us and we can't say the same. For me, there is another key grouping: the former students/lifetime friends.

In the last week I lost two of them.  I wrote about the horrific loss of Steven on December 3. My tears and heartache were still ripe when I heard the news that Shane was gone. 

Shane was 21. He graduated in 2013. For four years this intelligent, funny, talented guy made Parkview Speech and Debate his second home. He had a deeply understated, ironic sense of humor. He would say "Wedge" with a tinge in his voice that promised respect and asked "can you believe you have to put up with some of this *^%#*?" He was calm, and his demeanor had an effect on me for which other students and I were most grateful: as my heart rate and temper would elevate, Shane could show up, speak up, and I would decelerate. 

He wasn't needy. He didn't seem to crave my attention or the attention of anyone. His observations of life were pee-your-pants funny and he wasn't even trying. He played the ukelele and guitar and wrote songs on the spot and I've never laughed so hard. 

It's tempting to romanticize those we've lost. All of a sudden a lukewarm personality or wit becomes a force of nature who lit up the room. Or a fine fellow with a marginal intellect becomes a standout. The thing about Shane is that there is no need to embellish. He was this quiet, brilliant, wildly gifted human being who wasn't long for this world.

I sat at his funeral today on a pew with a select handful of my former students/lifelong friends, some of whom are among the most important people in my life. All of whom mean so much to me. Shane meant so much to all of us. Together we mourned him. We listened as tributes were read, scriptures quoted, hymns sung. At one point, the pastor referenced Shane's debating and speaking skills, saying how much "I wish Shane was here," acknowledging the class and command he would have brought to the podium.

A sob rose out of my gut then. I heard the pain on that pew as well, to my left, to my right.

We wish he was here, too.

It's been a bit of a week. That might be a bit of an understatement. But what can't be overstated is that the pain of the loss highlights the wonder of the living. There is irony in that. And beauty.

Shane would like that.

Steven

December 3, 2015

I could never call him Philip.

He was Steven to me. As a spirited, cynical, wildly intelligent high school freshman, he was Steven. After navigating the sharky waters of a few of his adolescent years as his speech and debate coach, I never could shake calling him as I knew him then.

I was in my infancy as an educator when Steven walked into my classroom. His talent, wit, commanding sense of style were startling and wonderful and built the foundation of a friendship that would last until the end of his complicated life.

When he wasn't sneaking off to smoke or do God knows what off campus (tales I've been told long after the fact), Steven navigated the halls of our Midwestern public high school with a tortured maturity that manifested itself in a "wink and a nod" persona. He was brown, he was gay, he was outspoken in a sea of white, heterosexual (or deadbolts-on, closeted), less outspoken folks. But in each other's company and in the world of competitive speech and debate, we found a home we both loved.

One of the highest bits of praise I have ever received was from Steven in these last months. We were remembering those competitive days at tournaments and he told me how proud he always was to walk into a tournament with me. The feeling, I assured him, was mutual. That was the thing about him: he cast praise honestly and but not haphazardly. His kindness was authentic. As was his disdain.

I loved that about him.

He is gone now. This world was ill-fitting for him. He tried with class and resolve to make a life that bore him the satisfaction he so craved. I believe he did find fulfillment and abiding joy in the relationships he cultivated with those of us blessed enough to gain his favor.

It wasn't enough.

Anger is tempting for me. When he made an unsuccessful attempt in October, I told him then how pissed off I would be were he to leave us all behind. He knew. But he also knew I loved him. And I would remember always who he was when he was truly alive. And who he wanted to be. I think he counted on it.

In these hours since learning of his final decision, I have struggled to see the sun. But there are cracks in my sorrow where the light creeps in. With every memory of every laugh, every bit of understanding, every discussion of Netflix fare or "Downton," every witty turn of phrase, he lives on. He was a gentleman's gentleman. He was my friend.

Steven, my dear, I'm sorry for all the darkness. But thank you for the light.

Oh, Christmas Tree...

December 1, 2015

Christmas was once a favorite of mine.

Then I became an adult.

As an adult, I have strung the lights, decorated the trees, bought the gifts. Wrapped the gifts. Put out the snowman cookie jar. Alone. 

No one in my household ever seemed to care, notice, mind if the trees were up or down, the lights were on, the snowman cookie jar was out. Of course, were there no presents beneath said trees there would have been weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. At least for the non-adults in my midst.

The presents kind of registered on the give-a-sh*t Richter scale. Honestly though, whether or not the necessary packages had been purchased and wrapped for the scads of relatives who we needed to make merry bothered no one. Just me: the magic (and increasingly bitter) Christmas fairy.

The thing is--and I'm sure I'm not alone--I will move heaven and earth for you and wrap it up in a lovely bow and put it under the tree that I erected and decorated single-handedly. I will even sing an effing Christmas carol while I do it. 

Just say thank you. Or act like it matters.

Looking back, nothing has made me feel more invisible or frivolous than Christmas. That's saying something. I'm certain the birth of our Lord wasn't intended to exhaust us. I'm certain I ought not get all riled up and harbor bitter feelings of misunderstanding and neglect because of lovely decorations that have (really) zippo to do with the birth of our Lord and Savior.

I will take the blame. I did it to myself. Why keep knocking myself out when the only clear result is me knocked out?

This year I put up one tree. No ornaments. Just favorite white lights and ribbons. Interestingly enough, for the first time ever, without provocation, my two kiddos (whom I fiercely love in spite of their numbness to my noble holiday plight) have told me how much they love it. It's "wow" they say. 

The years of going overboard (was it?) have melted away with this unsolicited kindness. Yay.

Merry Christmas. It may have taken me two decades of adulting to realize that adulting means choosing what knocks me out. Better late than never.

Christmas was once a favorite of mine. It might be again. We shall see.

PS--Joni Mitchell is an acquired taste.  There is something about "River" that gets to me every Christmas.  We've all wanted to skate away at some point.  Some Christmases more than others.  If you are so inclined, here you go:

https://youtu.be/GpFudDAYqxY

The Sound of It

November 25, 2015

We all have a soundtrack. Well, if you are a lover of tunes/have a soul/etc., you have a soundtrack: songs and sounds that represent moments large and small in the ongoing story that is yours and yours alone. Sometimes it's just music that triggers a memory (see Trisha Yearwood's "The Song Remembers When") or the anthem of the time (cue "Forever Young" and I'm standing in my junior high gym while couples slow dance and I adjust my linebacker-worthy shoulder pads and check my sky-high bangs to make sure they are still standing at attention). I can't hear "The Way You Look Tonight" without longing for a dance partner and a full moon; or Queen's "We are the Champions" without my heart tugging me back to a van full of debaters, the speakers at full bore.

My mind's eye is focused precisely through the ears. 

So it was last weekend when the preview of an upcoming movie featured this version of "Landslide." A favorite of mine from the Stevie Nicks version to even the spin the Dixie Chicks put on it: THIS "Landslide" took me aback.

Robyn Sherwell, "Landslide":  http://youtu.be/b_uKmKtC4Mk

It is appropriate on this Thanskgiving Eve that I put this song on repeat as I ran the neighborhood, pondering the timeliness of its message. 

No one maneuvers this life without landslides. It's what happens next that is the question to be answered.

Can the child within my heart rise above?
Can I sail through the changing ocean tides?

Can I handle the seasons of my life?

Yes. 

And for my yes, I take a deep, grateful breath. 

Happy Thanksgiving. It is the happiest thanks I've given in a very long time. YES, indeed. The tune of life might not be quite as I thought it would play, but that's okay. Melodies change.

I like the sound of that.

"Let us be grateful to the people who make us happy; they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom."

--Marcel Proust