Seasons

 August 8, 2022

I was invited to the Parkview class of 2012 reunion this past weekend. It was a little time for the teachers to roll in and see all. It was a delight.

A great part of the delight was seeing those with whom I taught. There is no finer group of educators. I know every work environment has its culture and challenges. When you teach school, it’s another ballgame. Dr. Dale Allee at (then) SMS warned me when getting my degree in education that it’s challenging in ways you don’t understand until you’re eating lunch in 20 minutes, peeing in 2, and seeing other adults only in the halls, have you strength to venture out between classes. He was correct. But the reward speeds past the difficulty.

I hugged former colleagues and students on Saturday and slowly and in solitary fashion worked my way back to my former classroom. I’ve been gone 8 years now. It was the right choice to leave when I did, but as I climbed the steps to 237, as I saw the trophies from the days of mine in those special halls, as I could hear the laughter we shared together, felt the exhaustion, listened to the great argumentation and performance, I burst into tears. 

Before the first tournament each year, I would stand on a chair before my Parkview kids. See, I followed the amazing Bob Bilyeu and Brett Miller. Tradition was my ally. I told the kids who were about to march into an arena of competitive art with others equipped with more money, more coaches, more of much, that they were from Parkview, and that when the other competitors heard it, they would wet themselves a little.

It was true. It was a legacy of excellence, and the Parkview Vikings I carted hither and yon fought adversity and remained champions. I always said I was along for the ride: they amazed me. I could never really believe I was there.

I told my wonderful Nydia today that as I drove home from the reunion, my tears dried. Life has seasons. Mine now includes much baseball, some teaching, love, the dog. 

I’m especially grateful that I was once (and always) a Viking. I am grateful for every season.

Personhood

 May 23, 2022

My father called this morning to arrange a call with him, my brother, and myself about a matter with life insurance. He didn’t want to do anything without talking with us.  (PS—high fives to BDR for knowing how to patch 3 calls together.)

This afternoon—as an alleged lady of leisure, with school out— I’ve been watching “The First Lady” on Showtime while I completed domestic tasks that (let’s be honest) are not my fave. Now, I’ve long thought myself a feminist just because I think women deserve the same rights as all. Crazy me. When I think of all my ladies who have endured much—from not being allowed to wear pants to not be allowed to have credit to not being ALLOWED to do anything—I’m grateful I was born in ‘74. Even then, it’s an uphill climb.

The bottom line, though, is that Daddio called me this morning. He has always treated me as an equal, and equal to all the dudes. I grew up doing the work that any boy would do. I was spoken to as a person with intellect and capacity. I appreciate being raised by a man who expected no less from me than I am. 

Watch “The First Lady.” There is some sketchy stuff; but every FLOTUS had balls of steel. And trust me, when I teach the difference between connotative and denotative meaning, “balls” are the example that drives the point home.

Go figure😉.

Strength

 

It might seem like a shocker, but I was raised by tough broads. My Nanny is my mom’s mom and took me over after Mom left us. Auntie Grace picked up the slack. She had no children and put up with me when Nanny could take no more of the bowl cut with the mouth. I wear a ring every day that Auntie gave me. It is blue. For years I saw it on her dainty hand, and told her every day how beautiful it was.

She has been on my mind.

She gave me that ring. With pride I have it on my markedly longer fingers. Every day of my life, I think of Auntie: she was beautiful and brilliant and talented. She lost her husband too early, she was one of the first deans of women in the US, and she and Nanny fought like cats and dogs. Guess what made me tough? Watching those two wig-wearing Baptists duke it out while I sat on the ciggie burned sofa just hoping I could catch a “Laverne and Shirley” rerun.

I couldn’t love either more.

There is stuff that makes life life. This made mine.

Jack

 April 3, 2022

Jack Tuckness was recently named the Outstanding Educator of the Planet. And he is. And I am compelled to say a few things about Jack.

Jack has been a father to many (aside from the Tuckness trio, we are all surrogates), a hero to more, and mentor to scads (including me), and has been one of the single most influential people in my life.

Who took care of me during my mother's graveside? Jack. Who played double-or-nothing with Kristen (my best friend) in the driveway with the bball hoop and then took us to Burger King for breakfast when I was a little punk? Jack. Who taught me how to love kids (and also how to pick up Chinese food)? Jack. Who put up with me when I was fearlessly competitive and difficult and still loved me? Jack. Who showed me how to love God, no matter what? Jack. Who proved that loving kiddos to success is the way and to never come unglued? Jack. Who asked my buddy Chad (after Chad had to bust a kid for meth hidden in her compact) if he could have a little pick me up? Jack. Who loves kids more than anyone? Jack.

I want to thank my friend, Kristen, for always loaning her Pops to me. And I want to thank Jack for being the person who is a good man. You taught me how to parent, how to teach, and how to be. (Extra kudos to Winnie, too.)

Congrats, my friend. All my love.

Halpert

If you know me (or follow me on the FB), you know my dog is my jam. When I was married, my then husband wouldn’t let us get a dog. 3 days after we told the kids we were divorcing  (and by we, I mean me), Gracie and I were in Target. Sis stopped still all of a sudden in the office supply aisle and said, “wait! This means we can get a dog!” (Of course, this is after Gracie looked at me after the announcement of the dissolution of marriage when she said, “what took you so long?”) But I digress. Some things aren’t meant to be.

One thing that WAS meant to be was Halpert. The kids named her before we chose her. She is named after Jim Halpert from “The Office.” We went to the Humane Society and Grace saw her and began to weep. Gracie doesn’t cry. Halpert was the chosen one.

Since then I’ve become a horrible dog owner: unable and unwilling to train her. She failed obedience class. But she loves me so fiercely that I don’t know how I existed before she became mine.

Saturday morning she got out of the yard. When I couldn’t find her I became hysterical. I wept like a child. She was trotting down the street. When she was found, I think I wept even harder. 

I thank God for Halpert. I thank God she is safe. There aren’t words to describe the comfort of a dog. Especially mine.

Miss Erma

 December 3, 2021 

I’ve been thinking about Miss Erma.

When I was in college, I went on a mission trip to Mississippi. Mildred McWhorter was a missionary and we rolled down and slept on her floor and made our attempt at doing the Lord’s work. Mildred’s mother was a small woman who sat in an upright chair with a can of AquaNet at her side. At random, she would reach down, pick up this aerosol can, and spray the front of her hair. 

This made Miss Erma happy, and it pleased my besties, Jen and Sarah, to no end. I remember watching Miss Erma and wondering what all she thought about in the day to day.

I know that there was an AquaNet stain on the interior roof of my mother’s car. This is how women groomed in the 70s, and how Miss Erma worked her coif in the mid-90s. It had to have been exhausting: kind of like not having credit cards or rights.

But I applaud Miss Erma for her commitment to the hair. She watched all sorts of business from that chair, but she always had the can in arm’s reach. 

We all do what we have to do.

Chaos Theory

 May 24, 2021

I recognize there is scientific theory grounded in chaos and the resulting patterns that emerge. I don’t pretend to understand said theory—in theory. In practice, however, to God I say: message received.

Three weeks ago, my precious daughter was in an accident. She is okay. She will be okay. But I heard her cries in pain in the aftermath that even now I cannot hush from my mind. The helplessness you feel when your child hurts is the hidden nightmare of parenting. There is no preparation for it, but there is an antidote to despair. What happened on that night and the intervening days was that the grace of the God I’ve known all my life swept in. It wasn’t until I sunk bedside to my knees later that night in grateful prayer that I wept. Then I gathered my mother-self up and rolled on.

We’ve made it through this hot mess, and Saturday my home (which I love just a wee bit less than the kids and the dog) decided to spring a leak and pour water from the kids’ bathroom to the kitchen. Fans and ripped up carpets abound. Silence is a distant memory. Chaos is the constant.

What is confirmed to me, yet again, is that when the universe swirls about with the challenge and the noise and the “what next?”, I find that a peace kicks in that is exactly the stuff I sang songs about at the Baptist Bible school. It’s real.

Thank God.

And that’s all.