My hands smell clean like fresh baby and just washed strawberry blond hair. I arrive down at the barn/studio complex and see the Christmas lights twinkling. Quincy turned them on earlier. The yard is littered with balls and bats and sandbox toys. After his bath, I have just put Quincy, now two and a half, to bed in his big boy youth crib.Quincy is spending the weekend with his grandparents, two of many who love and adore him.
He has kissed his grandpa goodnight and gathered up his things ( eight dead racquet balls, two 'loveys', a toy airplane, and a tiny bed with a very teeny girl doll in it, and a large stuffed rabbit. This guy needs his gear.) He sits cuddled on my lap in the rocking chair that once held his mother and we read "Goodnight Moon". His eyes begin to close. It is a moment of incredible sweetness and possibility. I breathe a sigh of relief. Finally, I can have some time of my own.
Quincy is the fifth of six grandchildren, the youngest boy. All of them are wonderful, blessed to be healthy and bright. They come to visit and we are thrilled. We try to visit the faraway places the other five live as often as we can. The three oldest grandchildren lived near us when they were very small, so we have some sense of them. They have come back regularly to visit and we look forward to those long summer visits.
But Quincy lives nearby and never a week goes by when we do not see him. We see all those incremental milestones of development. Quincy started out premature, a tiny thing, so skinny, and now he is huge for his age! We hear all the verbal development going on, and we note his amazing gifts for figuring out how everything works. Tonight I asked him to help me set the table for dinner. He got out a huge ugly plastic pitcher and proceeded to fill it with water from the fridge. I put a candle out, he got forks, and we were all set.
We have spent the day doing this and that-grocery shopping, checking out a local business cen ter, visiting a wonderful local playground, and calling on neighbors who have a new orphaned calf who must be bottle fed. Quincy toted his racquet balls- looking like a person struggling to carry a water heater- to all of these things, and was interested in everything.
This lovely boy, so young, is getting so many experiences, as such children do. (I carefully show him a green anole lizard and also a Florida fence lizard. We check out the differences. And who knows if he pays attention at his age?) But it is mulch for the mind! My neighbor's grandson, a four year old, was helping his granddad get ready to raise an orphan calf.
So many of those good and patient children at Lacoochee Elementary School have never had these everyday experiences that mulch their minds. Go places, talk about what you see and what you think. Read a book, stroke a tree frog, pick vegetables, feed an orphan calf, and maybe see a real city. They have no parents or mentors who could be interested.
Andy and I and Quincy, squinched up tight in the golf cart, rode back down the road from seeing the new calf. Quincy was blowing bubbles from his little bottle as we went and the breeze from the motion of the golf cart made many bubbles trail out behind us. We looked at each other, delighted in the day.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Collards and Curleques
There was hardly any room in the Lacoochee School parking lot today. A huge fancy bus emblazoned with Ronald MacDonald was idling there, surging with the impressive groans of major air conditioning. At first I thought it was the lunch coming. Nothing about the diet these kids get surprises me anymore. But, no, it was the health bus from Tampa General Hospital that comes several times a month to attend to the health and dental needs of these good and patient children. I found the last parking spot next to one of those mud bogging, giant wheeled pickups. (Whose parent has this? Or, what teacher?)
My coterie of helpers, Melissa and her family, Dynasty, the patrol girl from fifth grade and all the rest were there to help me dislodge my bags and boxes from the car. Then I go into the office to get my stick-on badge that lets everyone know I am not a felon or a pervert. I'd be dead meat if they asked about religion or politics. I am pleased to see my photographs of kids prominently displayed in the office.
In the classroom, more dank than usual considering the glorious Florida morning outside, Dynasty helps me unload and prepare. Today I have many enormous collard leaves picked this morning from the garden. We're going to have collards Brazilian style, cut in thin ribbons and stir fried with garlic. I set up the electric burner, get out the skillet and all the other fixings. Our teacher, CareyAnne, looks weary today. She is looking forward to spring break which happens in three days. "They're all yours today," she says. Of course I am delighted to have free reign with these fifteen kids. Dynasty helps me make an art station where the kids will get their supplies to paint and construct giant curleques out of paper plates and we will hang these from the ceiling in celebration of spring.
After the T.V. Pledge, there is a new patriotic song, actually our National Anthem. This is a totally unsingable thing, unless you can sing high like a mouse and then suddenly descend to a walrus-like bass. The kids don't even try and look longingly at the 'projects' awaiting them.
Lorenzo still has not bathed since the field trip. His shoes must be part of the problem. I see why he is seated in the far reaches of the classroom. He keeps darting around, pushing the boundaries.
We get down to business. The classroom is quiet and humming as we prepare the collards. None of these southern children have ever seen anything like this. (??) They think it is lettuce. But they are eager to try anything. I have brought in a few radishes for them to try. I tell them that I do not like them: too bitter. But it is a new vegetable they have never seen and a few courageous souls try them.
As the first batch of collards comes off the burner and is served up, Adrian loudly announces that it smells stinky. Since it is so calm today, I can do a small etiquette thing about how you must behave if you don't like a food; don't shove it in a drawer, don't call attention to the fact that you hate it, just quietly take it to the trash and let it die there. But, please, just taste a little bit. Maybe five kids really liked it. The rest were polite, with coaching. CareyAnne says it takes five to seven tries on a new food before kids accept it. This was try #1 on collards.
We began the painting, a big success. I love how these kids are so eager to help, and today, they are actually very cooperative with each other. They share paints and change the paint water without being asked. By now they have some competence with paints. They can follow the simple directions pretty well. There are even a few moments when no child was knocking on my hips ("Miss Molly!, Miss Molly!") CareyAnne put some classical music on to play, and I had the peaceful feeling that school was a real respite for these children who have to deal with such extreme issues in their lives. Right now, in this small snatch of time, they could think about what colors to use, what designs to make, and think about how it would all look as it twirled in the zephyrs of the classroom. They also liked having Miss Molly stand on the tables and attach their twirlygigs to the ceiling. (No one here thinks of me as an old lady!)
One by one, they finish, and many of them are eager helpers in cleaning up the tables. After lunch, when their creations are dry, we will hang them over their tables. We had time to read a story. The kids helped me select one, Margaret Brown's "The Little House", and everyone settled down on the carpet in rapt attention. I got just a little glimpse of kids just being regular kids, focused and interested. They have never seen a city, and they do not think about issues of encroaching development, nor do they have parents who do. But I look at them, so young and trusting, and I want to enable them to be the persons they can be. Lorenzo is beyond all the help the school or anyone else has to offer. Marisol will go to college and leave Lacoochee in the dust.
After lunch, CareyAnne takes them outside as she does every day. (Her personal recess; she knows those kids need to run and play.) I take the big pieces of sidewalk chalk and start to draw the outlines of kids lying down on the pavement. When we are finished there are so many wonderful chalk drawings of kids in strange crime scene positions.
It has been an easy day with lots of things the kids can remember. CareyAnne has coaxed the girls to be assertive, not be the shy and non-verbal creatures they were at the start of the year. When I ask her how she has done this she answers with one word, "Love!" When recess is over, she gathers them to her, on to the next thing, and it is clear that her relationship with these good and patient children is the best thing in their lives.
When I leave, I have many helpers to carry my bags and boxes back to my car.
My coterie of helpers, Melissa and her family, Dynasty, the patrol girl from fifth grade and all the rest were there to help me dislodge my bags and boxes from the car. Then I go into the office to get my stick-on badge that lets everyone know I am not a felon or a pervert. I'd be dead meat if they asked about religion or politics. I am pleased to see my photographs of kids prominently displayed in the office.
In the classroom, more dank than usual considering the glorious Florida morning outside, Dynasty helps me unload and prepare. Today I have many enormous collard leaves picked this morning from the garden. We're going to have collards Brazilian style, cut in thin ribbons and stir fried with garlic. I set up the electric burner, get out the skillet and all the other fixings. Our teacher, CareyAnne, looks weary today. She is looking forward to spring break which happens in three days. "They're all yours today," she says. Of course I am delighted to have free reign with these fifteen kids. Dynasty helps me make an art station where the kids will get their supplies to paint and construct giant curleques out of paper plates and we will hang these from the ceiling in celebration of spring.
After the T.V. Pledge, there is a new patriotic song, actually our National Anthem. This is a totally unsingable thing, unless you can sing high like a mouse and then suddenly descend to a walrus-like bass. The kids don't even try and look longingly at the 'projects' awaiting them.
Lorenzo still has not bathed since the field trip. His shoes must be part of the problem. I see why he is seated in the far reaches of the classroom. He keeps darting around, pushing the boundaries.
We get down to business. The classroom is quiet and humming as we prepare the collards. None of these southern children have ever seen anything like this. (??) They think it is lettuce. But they are eager to try anything. I have brought in a few radishes for them to try. I tell them that I do not like them: too bitter. But it is a new vegetable they have never seen and a few courageous souls try them.
As the first batch of collards comes off the burner and is served up, Adrian loudly announces that it smells stinky. Since it is so calm today, I can do a small etiquette thing about how you must behave if you don't like a food; don't shove it in a drawer, don't call attention to the fact that you hate it, just quietly take it to the trash and let it die there. But, please, just taste a little bit. Maybe five kids really liked it. The rest were polite, with coaching. CareyAnne says it takes five to seven tries on a new food before kids accept it. This was try #1 on collards.
We began the painting, a big success. I love how these kids are so eager to help, and today, they are actually very cooperative with each other. They share paints and change the paint water without being asked. By now they have some competence with paints. They can follow the simple directions pretty well. There are even a few moments when no child was knocking on my hips ("Miss Molly!, Miss Molly!") CareyAnne put some classical music on to play, and I had the peaceful feeling that school was a real respite for these children who have to deal with such extreme issues in their lives. Right now, in this small snatch of time, they could think about what colors to use, what designs to make, and think about how it would all look as it twirled in the zephyrs of the classroom. They also liked having Miss Molly stand on the tables and attach their twirlygigs to the ceiling. (No one here thinks of me as an old lady!)
One by one, they finish, and many of them are eager helpers in cleaning up the tables. After lunch, when their creations are dry, we will hang them over their tables. We had time to read a story. The kids helped me select one, Margaret Brown's "The Little House", and everyone settled down on the carpet in rapt attention. I got just a little glimpse of kids just being regular kids, focused and interested. They have never seen a city, and they do not think about issues of encroaching development, nor do they have parents who do. But I look at them, so young and trusting, and I want to enable them to be the persons they can be. Lorenzo is beyond all the help the school or anyone else has to offer. Marisol will go to college and leave Lacoochee in the dust.
After lunch, CareyAnne takes them outside as she does every day. (Her personal recess; she knows those kids need to run and play.) I take the big pieces of sidewalk chalk and start to draw the outlines of kids lying down on the pavement. When we are finished there are so many wonderful chalk drawings of kids in strange crime scene positions.
It has been an easy day with lots of things the kids can remember. CareyAnne has coaxed the girls to be assertive, not be the shy and non-verbal creatures they were at the start of the year. When I ask her how she has done this she answers with one word, "Love!" When recess is over, she gathers them to her, on to the next thing, and it is clear that her relationship with these good and patient children is the best thing in their lives.
When I leave, I have many helpers to carry my bags and boxes back to my car.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
The Field trip gift from Hell
We have been prosperous people, but careful and lucky. We have everything we need; decent housing, basic cars that work, three pairs of jeans each, no debt. We can help our kids financially, and we live on the most wonderful piece of space in the entire world. We try to make our footprint on this earth as small as possible, but yet it is huge. So we give away as much as possible of our time and money and products and ideas.
This year, as I began working in a primary class at Lacoochee elementary school, I started small. Each week I brought in something interesting to do, to make,to explore, to cook, and to read. This has been great, and I have come to know these kids quite well. The kids come out to greet me each Tuesday and help me trundle in with my voluminous bags of supplies.
The group teacher really wanted to take these kids OUT to see some things they had never discovered. I was open to funding a field trip to wherever. Turned out that the whole primary department had to go on whatever trip, a hundred kids! O.K., a hundred kids.. I went to the principal to propose this and immediately the school went into action, they got the busses, signed up for the Museum of Science and Industry in Tampa (an hour away). I signed the check with the proviso that this contribution must be anonymous. My group teacher really wanted me to come, and she really wanted me to be the keeper of a couple of really wild kids. O.K.
When I arrived in the classroom today many children told me they had awakened in the night thinking about the day to come. Some of them were excited to think that for this special occasion they had a lunch packed from home! Most of the others relied on the lunches packed by the school (more than 90% free lunches). No one was absent this day. They each picked up their identification badges to be worn on lanyards on their necks. They are good and patient children.
We had two busses. Our group was on a bubble gum pink bus, ready and waiting, belching fumes. The various classes moved promptly into the busses, and I worked to make sure that every child was seat belted in (clearly not a priority for these kids nor their teachers!) My seatmate was Lorenzo, the little guy who made the papers last week for bringing a gun to school. Lorenzo, tiny and adorably cute, must not have had a bath in weeks. The odors emanating from him almost made me gag.
I am thinking of the last busses I have been on; lovely soft seats, coolers of fresh cold water, seat belts arranged so that one could actually use them. But, I am here in the trenches, nothing but basic, lots of directives telling us that there is positively NO EATING OR DRINKING ON THIS BUS!! Fortunately, the trip to MOSI is less than an hour long.
Lorenzo is so small he can barely see out the window, pinned like a moth to wax by the tightened seatbelt. I get out a piece of paper from my purse and start folding an origami creation. He is entranced as this becomes a cat. Completed, I give this to him and for the rest of the trip he grips this with his fingers, making the whiskers jump.
When we arrive, we have to wait in the bus for way too long. (a hundred kids have to be processed!) The lunches are put into bins and then we go stand in more lines waiting to be processed like hogs. Then we can be free to visit the hurricane exhibit - way cool!!. Now it's time to have lunch, more lines. The kids gulp their lunches so we can go see the monsters of the deep exhibit before the IMAX show. The kids, at first, just run around the exhibit hall, yelling and pushing all the buttons. They cannot focus on anything. I see out of the corners of my eyes, regular families with kids who stop in front of the explanatory signs and discuss these with their kids. These families look alarmed as they see this swarm of Lacoochee killer bees spending seconds, wreaking havoc, moving on with absolutely no understanding. Two or three kids in my group come to me to ask what's this or that. But they don't really want to know, at least not yet.
My group teacher, CareyAnne, says, nevermind, this is their first experience. One has to begin somewhere, and this is fine. She's right.
At the IMAX presentation, I know I am in Hell. Lorenzo, stinking to high heaven from old shoes and who knows how many bath free days, sits beside me screaming in anticipation, saying he is scared, dizzy, needs a drink, has to use the restroom, and kicks the seat in front of him. On my other side sits Brittany who also wants to use the restroom and otherwise whines and tattles about this and that. This is really an interesting movie! But I am thinking about how in the world can such a movie make any sense to these kids? There is this Oh! Wow! component, the hugeness of the IMAX format.
Where do you start? On the way back, Lorenzo soon conks out and takes a nap on the seat beside me. Marisol, across the aisle, is chatty. Marisol is the brightest kid in the group. She has big dark eyes that take in everything. She starts out by telling me that she can read anything on this bus. Which of course she can: "No eating or drinking on this bus!" "Pull cord in case of emergency" and all the rest. Turns out that this child is one of the youngest in the group and had her seventh birthday in January. She is big for seven, and by now a really competent reader. I tell her that I have thought her to be older. She grins, showing me the tell-tale tooth loss of an early seven-year-old. I also notice the cavities in her mouth. Marisol has two devoted parents, many siblings, too. Her parents speak only Spanish but they have many books at home. Her dad works 'in farming', which I interpret to mean that he is a picker of produce.
Marisol has a spark, no doubt. I want to save these kids, give them a vision of what they could be. What can be done for Lorenzo?
To understand poverty in our country one has to have some of the experiences of knowing it. It's not enough to just know the numbers. I am trying to get even a little understanding of all this. Today, more than ever, I realize that the gulf is so huge between the poor and the middle class in America, I don't know how we can bridge it. What I do know is that all our kids are worthy lof the best attention we can give them.
This year, as I began working in a primary class at Lacoochee elementary school, I started small. Each week I brought in something interesting to do, to make,to explore, to cook, and to read. This has been great, and I have come to know these kids quite well. The kids come out to greet me each Tuesday and help me trundle in with my voluminous bags of supplies.
The group teacher really wanted to take these kids OUT to see some things they had never discovered. I was open to funding a field trip to wherever. Turned out that the whole primary department had to go on whatever trip, a hundred kids! O.K., a hundred kids.. I went to the principal to propose this and immediately the school went into action, they got the busses, signed up for the Museum of Science and Industry in Tampa (an hour away). I signed the check with the proviso that this contribution must be anonymous. My group teacher really wanted me to come, and she really wanted me to be the keeper of a couple of really wild kids. O.K.
When I arrived in the classroom today many children told me they had awakened in the night thinking about the day to come. Some of them were excited to think that for this special occasion they had a lunch packed from home! Most of the others relied on the lunches packed by the school (more than 90% free lunches). No one was absent this day. They each picked up their identification badges to be worn on lanyards on their necks. They are good and patient children.
We had two busses. Our group was on a bubble gum pink bus, ready and waiting, belching fumes. The various classes moved promptly into the busses, and I worked to make sure that every child was seat belted in (clearly not a priority for these kids nor their teachers!) My seatmate was Lorenzo, the little guy who made the papers last week for bringing a gun to school. Lorenzo, tiny and adorably cute, must not have had a bath in weeks. The odors emanating from him almost made me gag.
I am thinking of the last busses I have been on; lovely soft seats, coolers of fresh cold water, seat belts arranged so that one could actually use them. But, I am here in the trenches, nothing but basic, lots of directives telling us that there is positively NO EATING OR DRINKING ON THIS BUS!! Fortunately, the trip to MOSI is less than an hour long.
Lorenzo is so small he can barely see out the window, pinned like a moth to wax by the tightened seatbelt. I get out a piece of paper from my purse and start folding an origami creation. He is entranced as this becomes a cat. Completed, I give this to him and for the rest of the trip he grips this with his fingers, making the whiskers jump.
When we arrive, we have to wait in the bus for way too long. (a hundred kids have to be processed!) The lunches are put into bins and then we go stand in more lines waiting to be processed like hogs. Then we can be free to visit the hurricane exhibit - way cool!!. Now it's time to have lunch, more lines. The kids gulp their lunches so we can go see the monsters of the deep exhibit before the IMAX show. The kids, at first, just run around the exhibit hall, yelling and pushing all the buttons. They cannot focus on anything. I see out of the corners of my eyes, regular families with kids who stop in front of the explanatory signs and discuss these with their kids. These families look alarmed as they see this swarm of Lacoochee killer bees spending seconds, wreaking havoc, moving on with absolutely no understanding. Two or three kids in my group come to me to ask what's this or that. But they don't really want to know, at least not yet.
My group teacher, CareyAnne, says, nevermind, this is their first experience. One has to begin somewhere, and this is fine. She's right.
At the IMAX presentation, I know I am in Hell. Lorenzo, stinking to high heaven from old shoes and who knows how many bath free days, sits beside me screaming in anticipation, saying he is scared, dizzy, needs a drink, has to use the restroom, and kicks the seat in front of him. On my other side sits Brittany who also wants to use the restroom and otherwise whines and tattles about this and that. This is really an interesting movie! But I am thinking about how in the world can such a movie make any sense to these kids? There is this Oh! Wow! component, the hugeness of the IMAX format.
Where do you start? On the way back, Lorenzo soon conks out and takes a nap on the seat beside me. Marisol, across the aisle, is chatty. Marisol is the brightest kid in the group. She has big dark eyes that take in everything. She starts out by telling me that she can read anything on this bus. Which of course she can: "No eating or drinking on this bus!" "Pull cord in case of emergency" and all the rest. Turns out that this child is one of the youngest in the group and had her seventh birthday in January. She is big for seven, and by now a really competent reader. I tell her that I have thought her to be older. She grins, showing me the tell-tale tooth loss of an early seven-year-old. I also notice the cavities in her mouth. Marisol has two devoted parents, many siblings, too. Her parents speak only Spanish but they have many books at home. Her dad works 'in farming', which I interpret to mean that he is a picker of produce.
Marisol has a spark, no doubt. I want to save these kids, give them a vision of what they could be. What can be done for Lorenzo?
To understand poverty in our country one has to have some of the experiences of knowing it. It's not enough to just know the numbers. I am trying to get even a little understanding of all this. Today, more than ever, I realize that the gulf is so huge between the poor and the middle class in America, I don't know how we can bridge it. What I do know is that all our kids are worthy lof the best attention we can give them.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
It has been a worst and best scenario this weekend. The best is that it was spring and all the leaves are light tiny green, the sky cloudless and bright blue, the birds nesting with delighted calls. The hummingbirds are back and the garden is in full harvest mode. We had some of the BEST weekend guests and Andy made a great dinner with lots of vegetables from the garden enjoyed by all. I love my nephew, Dan, and his partner, Inia. We took a long walk with the dogs to the river. The dogs loved wallowing in the mud and came up with water weeds clinging to their faces, then shaking diamond drops into the crystal air. I love this family!
We kept very busy. Andy was in his workshop all Sunday making a piece of furniture for a friend, and I am working on the last tedious part of making a big quilt for my friend, Marie. I have loved this project, an homage to Kandinsky, but now I am trying to make the batting even with all the layers, and it stretches, so I constantly have to reposition the pins.
And all the while I am thinking those horrid thoughts. Do I have breast cancer? The biopsy was done on Thursday. I am bruised and sore, trying not to lift anything heavy. They promise they will let me know asap. But I have had to endure a long weekend of not knowing. In my mind I have many scenarios. If the biopsy is positive my life will change for the immediate future. Radiation? Chemo? Will I feel awful? Will I lose my beautiful curly hair? (The only physical feature I can count on.)
I have told only a few close people because I don't want to alarm anyone if this is a big nothing. All during the weekend I am thinking of the friends and family I know who have had the bad diagnosis - and survived. I think also of all the people I know who have had to endure such travails and continue on with their interesting and energetic lives. I think of those people with terrible diagnoses of disease who continue on. Who am I to be anxious? My husband conquered prostate cancer.
I am sixty six years old. I have always been in perfect health, energetic and fit. I do not have to dance on one leg or blow into a computer to communicate. At night, looking up at the stars, I have rejoiced in my good fortune, my good life full of children, friends, good work and happy times. At my age (though I think of myself still as the person I was at ten), I have come to realize that I have certainly had a good run for my money, and if I were to die tomorrow, it would be maybe o.k.
But now, with the scare of the possibility of something life threatening, I realize that I don't want to die soon. I am curious about what will happen in the world. I want to see how my grandchildren turn out, I want to finish my book and know who will be the next president, and how it will be to spend some retirement years with my interesting spouse. I have quilts to make and gardens to grow and community work to address. I have so much stuff to do!
In my younger years, when things were in the balance, I made deals with some sort of god. But now I am making no bargains. What will be will be and I shall deal.
IT WAS A BIG NOTHING! I am o.k. (not counting the colorful after effects of a biopsy.) So I went outdoors and put in another flower garden and watched the hummingbirds whiz by.
We kept very busy. Andy was in his workshop all Sunday making a piece of furniture for a friend, and I am working on the last tedious part of making a big quilt for my friend, Marie. I have loved this project, an homage to Kandinsky, but now I am trying to make the batting even with all the layers, and it stretches, so I constantly have to reposition the pins.
And all the while I am thinking those horrid thoughts. Do I have breast cancer? The biopsy was done on Thursday. I am bruised and sore, trying not to lift anything heavy. They promise they will let me know asap. But I have had to endure a long weekend of not knowing. In my mind I have many scenarios. If the biopsy is positive my life will change for the immediate future. Radiation? Chemo? Will I feel awful? Will I lose my beautiful curly hair? (The only physical feature I can count on.)
I have told only a few close people because I don't want to alarm anyone if this is a big nothing. All during the weekend I am thinking of the friends and family I know who have had the bad diagnosis - and survived. I think also of all the people I know who have had to endure such travails and continue on with their interesting and energetic lives. I think of those people with terrible diagnoses of disease who continue on. Who am I to be anxious? My husband conquered prostate cancer.
I am sixty six years old. I have always been in perfect health, energetic and fit. I do not have to dance on one leg or blow into a computer to communicate. At night, looking up at the stars, I have rejoiced in my good fortune, my good life full of children, friends, good work and happy times. At my age (though I think of myself still as the person I was at ten), I have come to realize that I have certainly had a good run for my money, and if I were to die tomorrow, it would be maybe o.k.
But now, with the scare of the possibility of something life threatening, I realize that I don't want to die soon. I am curious about what will happen in the world. I want to see how my grandchildren turn out, I want to finish my book and know who will be the next president, and how it will be to spend some retirement years with my interesting spouse. I have quilts to make and gardens to grow and community work to address. I have so much stuff to do!
In my younger years, when things were in the balance, I made deals with some sort of god. But now I am making no bargains. What will be will be and I shall deal.
IT WAS A BIG NOTHING! I am o.k. (not counting the colorful after effects of a biopsy.) So I went outdoors and put in another flower garden and watched the hummingbirds whiz by.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Jobs well done - and not!
It has been a very long week. On Monday the guy, Steve, from Culligan, came by to change the filters on our water system. I remembered him from last year. This was the guy who spends hours tinkering with the system which makes clear water out of iron laden pump water. And when he leaves, nothing works! It was the same this year as last. He left his van running. I asked him to turn the motor off because I didn't want the fumes, the noise, and the wasting of energy. He left, after I had paid him, and as usual, the water pressure was so low it couldn't have watered an anemic chicken. So he had to return to fix it. This, after repeated calls and many minutes on those dreadful 'holds' to surly service department people. We insisted that it be fixed today. Apparently he had installed the wrong filter. This took five days! No one ever said "Sorry, we'll fix it, we'll make it right." This company made me feel that it was our mistake.
Earlier in the week I had to undergo a biopsy (don't worry, nothing life threatening). I dreaded this procedure. When I went to have it done, I had to wait a bit, not long, but then there was this wonderful technician who scooted her chair up to me, eyeball to eyeball, and explained everything - probably more than I wanted to know-and took me in tow for the whole ordeal (which wasn't actually very hard). She rubbed my back and after it was over brought me a warm blanket. She included me, showed me the computer images, and recognized me as a real person who was anxious at the time. The next day she called to see how I was doing, and she explained the process of getting results from the pathology lab. This person hasn't forgotten that she is doing business with real people.
On the other hand, my regular doctor never called me, never returned my calls.
Wouldn't it be great if the Culligan people would call the next day and ask, "How's your water system after the servicing?"
Often, I watch how people deal with their clients. In the Dade City Post Office, the people behind the desk are wonderfully quick, efficient, and friendly. I never mind going there to mail stuff. They seem to care about their customers.
I hope I never have left people hanging out and wondering. It's so easy to give a call or make an announcement about what's either happening or not. Seems to me that it is such a mean petty bureaucratic mindset to control people by not letting them know what's up.
What do you think?
Earlier in the week I had to undergo a biopsy (don't worry, nothing life threatening). I dreaded this procedure. When I went to have it done, I had to wait a bit, not long, but then there was this wonderful technician who scooted her chair up to me, eyeball to eyeball, and explained everything - probably more than I wanted to know-and took me in tow for the whole ordeal (which wasn't actually very hard). She rubbed my back and after it was over brought me a warm blanket. She included me, showed me the computer images, and recognized me as a real person who was anxious at the time. The next day she called to see how I was doing, and she explained the process of getting results from the pathology lab. This person hasn't forgotten that she is doing business with real people.
On the other hand, my regular doctor never called me, never returned my calls.
Wouldn't it be great if the Culligan people would call the next day and ask, "How's your water system after the servicing?"
Often, I watch how people deal with their clients. In the Dade City Post Office, the people behind the desk are wonderfully quick, efficient, and friendly. I never mind going there to mail stuff. They seem to care about their customers.
I hope I never have left people hanging out and wondering. It's so easy to give a call or make an announcement about what's either happening or not. Seems to me that it is such a mean petty bureaucratic mindset to control people by not letting them know what's up.
What do you think?
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Flags
We have always flown the American flag on our flagpole at the barn next to my studio. This latest one was given to us by our representative, Bill Young. It is a good quality one and at one time, we were given to believe, it was flown over the Capitol. Whatever! I love flags and I have many of them - flowers, birds, even tractors, different holidays-riffling in the breeze on our porch. When they become faded I replace them so they are always bright and colorful.
But my favorite is Old Glory, really a magnificent flag as flags go. I love the symbolism of the stars and stripes, the evolution of it as we gained states. Whipping in the wind or hanging flaccid, it is always there as I come and go. It somehow keeps me grounded about our country, now in such turmoil.
Each day as I pass our flag I can't help thinking about the tiny American flags on the uniforms of our troops in Iraq. One day, after hearing on the radio of the latest dreadful bombing in Bagdad, I stood looking at the flag, now drooping in the light of late afternoon. I stood there with tears flowing at the thought of so many people, men, women and children, dead and maimed in the name of this flag. I think of the troops ('Support our troops') who are so different from the troops we sent to VietNam. In this Iraq war the troops are not draftees. They come from all the small towns of America, wanting somehow to get away and out of dead end lives.
In the Viet Nam war era when there was a draft, troops came from all walks of life. Ivy league or farm worker, they were all in the same pool. Our brightest and best were at risk. It made us sit up and take notice. Now, in the all volunteer forces, our leaders seem not to value the troops who come mainly from the lower class. (Does any child from the affluent or middle class that you know volunteer to fight in Iraq?) These young people, so incredibly valuable as are all our children, must shoulder the burden, even without knowing exactly what they were getting in for.
Then, as they exit this horrendous war, maimed and traumatized and needing strong support, it seems no one cares for them. Yes, we have those plastic things on our cars (Support our troops). Our president has never asked us to support our troops in any meaningful way. He has never asked for any sacrifices beyond our peace of mind. What has happened in Iraq is a beyond terrible thing, and we think we should continue going to the malls and buying stuff.
WHAT ARE WE THINKING?
But my favorite is Old Glory, really a magnificent flag as flags go. I love the symbolism of the stars and stripes, the evolution of it as we gained states. Whipping in the wind or hanging flaccid, it is always there as I come and go. It somehow keeps me grounded about our country, now in such turmoil.
Each day as I pass our flag I can't help thinking about the tiny American flags on the uniforms of our troops in Iraq. One day, after hearing on the radio of the latest dreadful bombing in Bagdad, I stood looking at the flag, now drooping in the light of late afternoon. I stood there with tears flowing at the thought of so many people, men, women and children, dead and maimed in the name of this flag. I think of the troops ('Support our troops') who are so different from the troops we sent to VietNam. In this Iraq war the troops are not draftees. They come from all the small towns of America, wanting somehow to get away and out of dead end lives.
In the Viet Nam war era when there was a draft, troops came from all walks of life. Ivy league or farm worker, they were all in the same pool. Our brightest and best were at risk. It made us sit up and take notice. Now, in the all volunteer forces, our leaders seem not to value the troops who come mainly from the lower class. (Does any child from the affluent or middle class that you know volunteer to fight in Iraq?) These young people, so incredibly valuable as are all our children, must shoulder the burden, even without knowing exactly what they were getting in for.
Then, as they exit this horrendous war, maimed and traumatized and needing strong support, it seems no one cares for them. Yes, we have those plastic things on our cars (Support our troops). Our president has never asked us to support our troops in any meaningful way. He has never asked for any sacrifices beyond our peace of mind. What has happened in Iraq is a beyond terrible thing, and we think we should continue going to the malls and buying stuff.
WHAT ARE WE THINKING?
Saturday, March 10, 2007
May- September
It has been a particularly hard week for me, lots to do and many trips back and forth between Dade City and St. Pete. I hate that commute with ever more cars on the road no matter what time of day it is. With each trip I see more developments happening, gobbling up the ranches and cypress domes. I came back home today early after a late night of seeing the opera "Madam Butterfly".
When we were in New york a few weeks ago, I had wanted to take my friend to an opera in the big city. Unfortunately all that was happening was a really inaccessible oriental one, not something to present as a first time opera. So last night it was Pucini, at his sentimental best, and here in our fair city. We loved it!
I had to get back to welcome our weekend guests. This was to be a wedding present for them- a weekend in our guest house which overlooks a lovely pond and is within shouting distance of owls, cows and other nocturnal critters. We promised them a gourmet dinner and leisurely walks. The man is almost sixty and his bride is twenty-three. I had no idea because I had not gone to their wedding. I knew she was recently arrived from Ukrania, did not speak English. I was imagining someone over forty at least. I stocked the guest house with tea and imagined doing pantomimes of things I wanted to say.
This young woman is wonderful looking with that careless lithe affect of youth in our times. I did not see a tattoo on her lower back, the trademark of young American women, but I imagine it will happen soon. She does not speak English perfectly yet, but she listens and speaks copiously. She is a firecracker, playful, curious and greedy for life. Why has she married this older person, I wonder? (I know why my older friend has married her!) She does not drive and rarely goes out of their apartment alone. She has only been in the USA for a month and waits for her green card so she can resume her studies in business. Meantime, she watches T.V. and cooks meals for her new husband. But! This is a young woman who will have a meteoric rise I know not where
We were charmed. I want to take her under my wing, and not because she is needy. Right after dinner I gave her the key to the golf cart, gave her a brief tutorial, and she was off and away, giggling with glee. She's almost young enough to be our grandchild, and I think she'd get along with them just fine!
I am here to show her that life is grand and full of interesting and attainable goals. We'll start by taking walks around the downtown, learn to drive, maybe get a part time job where she can practice her English. Where will she be in five years?
My older friend is protective of her and seems to keep her like a private and exquisite painting on the wall. Unlike paintings, people are not static. He is on edge already. At dinner he was so careful about what and how much he ate; his bride was chomping down with strong young white teeth and asking for seconds.
I sat back with a smile, loving every minute.
When we were in New york a few weeks ago, I had wanted to take my friend to an opera in the big city. Unfortunately all that was happening was a really inaccessible oriental one, not something to present as a first time opera. So last night it was Pucini, at his sentimental best, and here in our fair city. We loved it!
I had to get back to welcome our weekend guests. This was to be a wedding present for them- a weekend in our guest house which overlooks a lovely pond and is within shouting distance of owls, cows and other nocturnal critters. We promised them a gourmet dinner and leisurely walks. The man is almost sixty and his bride is twenty-three. I had no idea because I had not gone to their wedding. I knew she was recently arrived from Ukrania, did not speak English. I was imagining someone over forty at least. I stocked the guest house with tea and imagined doing pantomimes of things I wanted to say.
This young woman is wonderful looking with that careless lithe affect of youth in our times. I did not see a tattoo on her lower back, the trademark of young American women, but I imagine it will happen soon. She does not speak English perfectly yet, but she listens and speaks copiously. She is a firecracker, playful, curious and greedy for life. Why has she married this older person, I wonder? (I know why my older friend has married her!) She does not drive and rarely goes out of their apartment alone. She has only been in the USA for a month and waits for her green card so she can resume her studies in business. Meantime, she watches T.V. and cooks meals for her new husband. But! This is a young woman who will have a meteoric rise I know not where
We were charmed. I want to take her under my wing, and not because she is needy. Right after dinner I gave her the key to the golf cart, gave her a brief tutorial, and she was off and away, giggling with glee. She's almost young enough to be our grandchild, and I think she'd get along with them just fine!
I am here to show her that life is grand and full of interesting and attainable goals. We'll start by taking walks around the downtown, learn to drive, maybe get a part time job where she can practice her English. Where will she be in five years?
My older friend is protective of her and seems to keep her like a private and exquisite painting on the wall. Unlike paintings, people are not static. He is on edge already. At dinner he was so careful about what and how much he ate; his bride was chomping down with strong young white teeth and asking for seconds.
I sat back with a smile, loving every minute.
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