Grown Kids Coming Home

My best friend and long time business partner, Marie, has all her kids and grandchildren visiting this holiday season. Kristie and Chris came from New Zealand with their two little boys, Julie came from Sweden where she is doing post law studies, Jimmie has been delayed by major structural damage to his house in Vashon, Washington, by the big storm ten days ago. Tom, a Floridian, has just graduated from FSU, so he's there. The New Zealanders have no idea what day or time it is so they sleep and wake at odd hours. It will take a few days.

Marie is thrilled to have them all there. She cleans up the debris from Christmas, wonders how they'll all make it in the confines of the house. She loves the interactions among her children, talking their heads off all night. She loves seeing the grandchildren she's not seen in a year. I know she'll be touching them a lot, amazed and delighted at their growth, the feel of them. The smallest grandson is ethereally beautiful, as we've seen from internet photos. But what is he really like? So much to discover, so many conversations to have.

Parents of adult children, get that wonderful feeling of anticipation when their offspring are about to come 'home'. Probably about ten minutes into the visit the parents realize that their carefully constructed routines will be smashed to smithereens. All the available surfaces will be populated with tiny vehicles and little "guys" guaranteed to cripple a grandparent who steps on them in the dark, sippy cups congregating on tables, wastebaskets full of spent diapers, and baskets full of laundry to be done. But mostly we love it!

This Christmas was a 'first' for us. We have no decorations, no Christmas tree, no wrappings to be stuffed into a dumpster. We spent Christmas morning with our daughter and her partner and their two year old. It was a lovely occasion and we had the family brunch of smoked salmon and all the works after the gifts. Quincy, the baby, was thrilled with his new toys. After all this, we drove back home in horrible weather and spent the first Christmas ever not having to do a big dinner for dozens. The power was out for several hours and we were glad to have our generator. We watched the sandhill cranes dancing to each other and we ate a modest meal from the garden. It felt right.

Our children will come in force in a couple of months. I figure there will be sixteen adults and children. We'll sleep on all available surfaces. I will be thrilled, like Marie, to see them. It will be wonfderful to have everyone under our roof, great having our far-flung children together. And we will love having them depart in a haze of love and connections.

Happy Boxing Day!

Christmas Music, bah humbug?

As I write this I am listening to Handel's "Messiah", a work I know well. I listen for that 'rest' before that last magnificent part of the Hallejulia chorus. When I was a choirster, we knew to pay close attention so that not one voice would spoil it with a wavering soprano jumping the gun.

It was the midnight service on Christmas eve, the air palpable with alcohol fumes from the communal breath of the Christmas faithful. The choir was resplendent in freshly starched collars and our scratchy red robes. We knew that our music was in place, the candles fresh, the incense ready to be swung on cue. While we were crowded into the sacristy, ready to begin the procession around that glorious Gothic church, some of us were really proud of having received the coveted Gold Cross, given out this night to the best and faithful choir members. We listened for "Doc", the organist and choirmaster to begin the intro to "Joy to the World", our cue to begin the procession around the church. As we left the sacristy behind the cross bearer, we each had our candles lit by an altar guild lady, hovering in the doorway.

All of us kids were either in the choir or carrying candles or crosses. My father was in the congregation. My mother never came to church because she said it was her time to be shed of five kids for a short time. On Christmas Eve, she was probably enjoying the peace of looking at the Christmas tree, maybe anticipating the joy of the gifts to come for her family.

I know this Christmas music. It's part of my soul and my heritage. I can live without the chipmunks or Elvis, and since I don't shop much I can avoid the commercial Christmas music in stores. But I love "Silent Night".

This Christmas, like all the Christmases since I have been an adult, does not include any nod to organized religion. As Sam Harris has written, "Helping people purely out of concern for their happiness and suffering seems rather more noble than helping them because you think the creator of the universe wants you to do it, will reward you for doing it, will punish you for not doing it." I am a non-believer in any religion. I see the terrible consequences of religious factions in our world.

Tonight, as every night, I will be outside, looking up at the magnificent starry sky in wonder. I believe that man is constantly seeking and finding out answers to our most cosmic questions. Most of the killing we have known of through history is because of religious factions. Jesus, Muhammed, Buddha, Thomas Jefferson, and others have given us guidelines for living a generous life. They were great persons in our history who have tried to provide a manual for living in this world. But we need to see all sides and see what is applicable now in our global society.

So, on Christmas Eve I will not be attending any church service, though I love the music and the traditions. I am through with being a Christian or a Jew or a Muslim. I am a person of the universe, and I deeply regret that I will not live to see what happens in a hundred years.

Don't stress out with the holidays! They are merely a very small blip in the line of life.

The Cranes are Dancing

Yesterday morning we were sitting on our sun-filled front porch reading the papers. Lola,looking like a small loaf of dark rye, was spread out next to the screen door, soaking up the morning rays. (Why do dogs do this?) We looked up, all of us hearing the subtle "whish!" of wings going over the house, reminiscent of a pack of cyclists all riding fast.

The cranes are back. They settled, six of them, in the pasture out front, and they were in full wild cry. Perhaps they were yodelling in victory at having made the long flight from their summer home near the Canadian border. They are not modest, these huge beautiful birds. There was much jostling and vocalization, some dancing with outspread wings, some of them tossing small sticks into the air. But mostly, they walked back and forth in stately beauty, looking for edible bits. At one point they all went over to the pond to drink, and, hopefully, consider it for nesting.

They all look the same after the first year. Some may be a bit lighter, but basically they are all dressed alike. We have had a pair of Sandhills who make this farm theirs. These are non-migratory birds. We call them Bob and Emily. This pair raised one chick and the three of them can often be seen together. They look exactly like the migratory birds who arrive in early winter and depart in the spring. But all of them seem to be good parents who care so diligently for their downy red offspring.

Today, the six came back on schedule and spent another day browsing. I see them now, at the end of the day, out in the pasture companionably towering over a couple of small wild pigs. Such a gift to live here.

My Vashon family weathered the storm. They were out of power for several days in a house in the process of enlargement and renovations. My son had a generator capable of running a small space heater, and they also kept warm being outside gathering up storm debris they added to a huge bonfire pile of construction left-overs. When they couldn't stand it another minute, they got into the van and drove around with the heater on full throttle. They ate tunafish and there was enough water in the pump reservoir for the basics. Little Joe, two years old, threw up in the family bed in the middle of the night. No laundry capacity, of course. But everyone got through, and the grown-ups even sounded quite cheery. They have each other and the kids are great.

Today at Lacoochee School I brought a ton of stuff for a Christmas party. There was the tacky fiber optic Christmas tree and a Christmas cloth to go under it. The kids wrapped up their ceramic angels, all beautiful with bright glazes. They used a LOT of tape but they were well satisfied with the rumpled results (To Mom from Lorenzo.)The main event was making gingerbread houses from graham crackers, frosting, candy and cookies. The sugar odor was palpable in that closed atmosphere. The kids loved it. Many of their creations looked like items in a yard sale of the homeless and they were very proud as I took their photographs holding their structures.

After lunch, we finished up their houses and read a Christmas book out loud. The kids vie to be the "back scratcher" of the adult in charge. Danielle and Christopher are scratching my back but they are drawn to the story, so gradually they ease back down to the carpet so they can see the pictures. Now, I dispense little gifts to everyone, each one different, a new experience in the public school world of perfect fairness. Some of the little girls will love the temporary tattoos, the boys might like those funny animals you put in water and they grow HUGE. Every single child, except one, seemed delighted. When that one child whined and complained I took back his gift and left another item for him to collect later. This child is so needy of everything, it fills me with despair. There is not enough stuff, food, love, to fill him up. I believe he has a parent in prison. Lorenzo came into school today wearing old shoes at least five sizes too big. The teacher found him a new pair in his size. Lorenzo is my right hand buddy. He is always there to help me unload and load my various bags and boxes. This is the kid who has had some real success with reading, not with the prescribed FCAT drek, but, with Dick and Jane. "Miss Molly, I love to read!"

I couldn't help noticing that the wonderful teacher of this motley crew spends an inordinate amount of time at her computer or checking the dreary paperwork generated by seventeen reluctant kids. She is checking attendance and the movement of kids to their various destinations. She is reporting on tiny test scores, she is CRAZY with paperwork, always threatening to overwhelm her.

If she could be free to spend more time interacting with her students, and if those students were not always being pulled out for individual attention, I just think of what this talented teacher clould do!

Time for dinner. I know a wonderful dinner is happening up at the main house.

Disaster Strikes

Here in Florida we are all somewhat prepared for the tropical storms and hurricanes we know will eventually touch us. In that terrible summer of 2004 three hurricanes came close; one of them passed over us directly and it was the first time I have ever experienced the eerily quiet 'eye' when all motion stops for a few minutes. Then the storm returns in full fury.

We had the bottled water, the canned goods, cars full of gas, buckets and all the rest. We had a propane stove, a corded phone, three dachsunds, a chainsaw, and a swimming pool of water we could dip buckets from to flush the toilets. It wasn't cold; it was close to ninety degrees by day and hotter at night with the frightened dogs in our bed. So many trees toppled or were uprooted, we could not get out. The phone, even the cells, could not work, and electricity was days away. Our family was anxious about us, we knew, but there was nothing we could do. During the hurricane we were terrified, and after it left we were ready - so ready! to get back to normal. But we had to endure a few days of being totally incommunicado and with no power. We vowed that asap we'd get a HUGE generator. And we have done that.

Ho hum, everyone has their hurricane stories, most more harrowing than ours. But now, I think of so many family members living on an island in Puget Sound, accessible only by ferry. There was a ferocious storm there last Thursday night, torrential rain and then a huge sucking wind from the Pacific. Sure, there are storms there, but nothing like this. No one is prepared.

The ground, already saturated from weeks of rain, could not hold on to the trees so many of them went down on houses and roads and power lines. Early Friday I could call my sister and she reported how awful it was. It is cold there this time of year, low temperatures hovering near freezing. Fortunately they have a fireplace, and she said they have a propane camp stove. I do not know if they are on a pump or have city water. My son, his wife, and two very small children, who live in a more remote part of the island, cannot be reached by phone, and as of today, even my sister's phone is out.

I know that all these are competent people, they were in scouting and went to camp and watched survivor shows. But I worry about whether baby Caroline is warm enough. Is little Joseph worried? (Where are they, anyway? Hunkered down with my sister and her family and the fireplace and the propane camp stove?) I know they don't think like Floridians and have a corded phone always on hand ($6.95 at Walmart), gallons of water in the back of the closet, those extra canned things that no one would actually eat. They do have extra dogs on hand, always a plus since dogs run hotter than humans.

In the odd way of social communication, I heard from a friend whose son lives on this island that his wife said, before the phones went out, she saw my son in the local grocery store on Friday. And after that all communication stopped, lines down. I cling to that fact: my son was getting supplies on Friday morning. This means..what? The store has a generator so people could come in and buy supplies they need.

As parents, we feel anxious. We want to connect and know that everyone is o.k.

I have read that four people died in this storm. I will continue to call every hour. I really believe that everyone is alive, certainly uncomfortable, but coping. Having the hurricane experiences gives perspective.

Singing to my father

Yesterday I had lunch with a couple of old best friends. We sat on a hot and sunny roof overlooking Boca Ciega Bay. The food was awful, mostly inedible fried stuff, but we revelled in the company.

My friend Ann told us a wonderful story. Her father, in his eighties, had come to town for the Thanksgiving holiday. While he was there he fell ill with dizziness and nausea so extreme that Ann took him to the emergency room at the local hospital. It took hours for anyone to see him. Finally, he was admitted, and it was unclear what was the matter. He was given some strong medicine for the nausea and this caused him to become disoriented and unable to speak. His Hands fluttered in front of his face. Ann was distraught.

She presented this story by first telling us that she had, as a young person,wanted to be a musician as was her father. We have always thought of Ann as a musician, so easily able to play the piano, accompany our school musicals. But she told us that she never persued music as a vocation because she did not want to perform in public and feared the judgement of a musical family. She said that she never sang in the presence of her dad.

There, in the hospital, sitting next to her father's bed, anxious and wanting to help, she decided to sing to her father, the first time in forty years. She began with "You are my Sunshine". Knowing Ann, I am sure she sang very quietly, as one sings a lullaby to a beloved. Her father quieted, and Ann kept on with the second verse.

And then, quietly, she began to hear another voice joining in from somewhere in the room, harmonizing with her good true voice. They sang four verses. The other voice said, "You are good. You can keep the melody with harmonizing. Let's go for "Red River Valley" And they did that, all the verses.

I think the angels were listening that night. Ann's dad is now fine, though the writing is on the wall that he may need to live in a more supportive place. Something special happened, one of those small amazing miracles that make us glad to be humans.

When I told my husband the story that night as we reported on our daily lives, both of us wept. I wish I could have been there.

Raising Good Children

As Hillary Clinton said, "It takes a village to raise a child". I read the special section in the St. Pete Times today on "Ninth or Never", the long article about four ninth graders in a local high school. As a teacher and parent of three, I was appalled and saddened with this information. All of these kids came from chaotic families, no fathers in evidence. I realize that the authors of this article, and their editors, must have left out a lot of information. These four children must face a life of being losers, though one of them might have a chance.. The thing is that these children do not have a village to raise them. Their parents do not have a peer group that spills down to the kids.

When I take my two year old grandson to the preschool library program with "Mother Goose", there are at least a dozen parents there with their toddlers. We are that village raising kids and we are on the same page, so to speak. We have the same values about reading books and this seems to be a way of connecting with the importance of reading and with each other. I also take my grandson to Great Explorations. Here, he examines the exhibits with great care, as do all the other preschoolers. I do not know the other parents (and they are a bit unwelcoming of an elderly grandma), but I perservere and eventually they understand that I am one of them- part of the village raising children.

I think that the four kids in the article never had a village in the library, the park, the museum, or in their neighborhood to help raise them. If we are to make headway in the good development of kids we need to pay attention to the "village" culture.

This weekend we had friends visiting. They have two sons, one in college, and the other, Phil, fourteen years old. The younger one was clearly missing his brother but he spent some hours with me in my studio. He was making some clay pots and I was working on my fabric art in the next room. This seemed very comfortable and from time to time I went in to encourage him or give him some tips.

At dinner we spoke about the digital world and gaming- to the consternation of his mother! Phil wants to have a Playstation 3, but his folks think that this will only take him further away from his worldly and academic tasks. I play the devil's advocate, teacher that I am. This is the village that raises the child! Phil knows that all of us are thinking about what is truly best for him. He knows that not only his parents, but the whole village is thinking about him.

The kids in the St. Pete Times article do not have a whole village of friends and family thinking about them. They needed to have teachers from the beginnng who cared about them, but didn't.

I think about a teacher I saw last week in the public school where I volunteer. In the line going back to the classroom after lunch, her class was ahead of mine. Suddenly she stopped. She then proceeded to ream out a kindergartner boy who had been talking(!) She went on and on about how bad he was, what a disappointment he was, and she didn't say it exactly, but she made it clear he was piece of shit. Our line right in back was clearly embarrassed by this. This little boy, maybe five or six years old had the look of hunted prey. Our class didn't want to make eye contact with the culprit. They were totally quiet. We looked at the "pariah", and all we could do was walk past, and after a decent interval, go back to our normal chit-chat on our way back to our class. Are these ninth graders in the article remembering such experiences as this? This elementary teacher who could so diminish and demolish a child in public should not be teaching kids!

If that child who was so singled out as 'bad' had a village of parent and child peers, the people who surround him would make an outcry! How can we make this happen? I think we should concentrate on making 'villages' happen. Peer groups of parents and kids, what we used to call 'neighborhoods, can make a difference.

Christmas Shopping, Walmart Style

Women do Christmas. We decorate the house, or nag our spouses into helping, and we make lists of the people who expect presents. Women take the lead on any holiday parties we think are necessary. And mostly, women have a load of guilt about the holidays; we think about those in-laws and relatives and friends, the work posses, the newspaper delivery guys,the cleaning lady, the neighbors. And we keep remembering what our own mothers did. We can't possib;y measure up. All of our connections need affirmation at the holidays. So an army of us go out to the the malls and stores and on line to shop. If women stopped doing holidays, our economy would expire.

This morning I ventured out to my local Walmart super center in search of some lights for the porch, toys for the grandsons, and stocking gifts for the local family. I parked a long distance away from the store because the parking lot was packed.

Patting my shopping list, I enter the store through the automatic doors and I smell the fat globules emanating from the Mc Donald's right inside the entrance. Immediately, I feel very ugly, verging on overweight (though I am slim). I seem to have become one of a mass of very fat flaccid people. Many of them are elderly (as am I!) We are all of here in a massive building, lighted with no thought of whether it's day or night. We all have our own agendas, and, judging by the sour expressions, none of us is happy to be here. The aisles are narrow and there are so many obstacles in the way- carts of merchandise, octogenarians studying the price tags- so there is much bumping of carts. Everyone is rude when this happens. I make a joke to a ferret of a woman shopping in the mens' pajama department. We have been circling in the tiny aisle, trying to avoid each other. She is rude and crude to me, no stretch to accommodate our mutual desires and no shred of a sense of humor. I select my pajamas and move on to kids' underwear.

After the underwear, I need to get some "little guys" for the first-grader on my list. There is a whole aisle of these and most of them seem so violent or horridly strange! There are several other "grandparent" couples in this section, their heads up high, looking down through their bi-focals to read the fine print on toys that mystify. But when I ask them in a friendly way if they know anything about Galactic Heroes, they regard me as if I were some kind of pervert, and quickly move on. They have no concept of "true toys",I guess, but I know they are doing their best.

By now, I am beginning to hyperventillate. I think I may be actually in Hell. I move toward the checkout, hoping I can remember where the car is parked. As I swipe my debit card, an elderly man approaches the check-out, breathing heavily and clearly panicked. He has lost his wife in Walmart. He needs to have her paged in the intercom: "Marie, come to checkout #7! Wally is waiting for you there!"

I am through with my Christmas shopping! If anyone is now not accounted for on my shopping list, they will have to make do with good wishes, pine cones from the forest,oranges from our trees and something home-made.