Your Fifteen Minutes of Fame

Collectively we have such a short memory. In the last few years we refer to this as the fifteen minutes of fame. Today in our issue of the paper we saw a photo of a man who now does fairs and flea markets, but who once was impaled on a sharp point. He is pictured with his shirt held up revealing the scar, his belly button obscured. This is his fifteen minutes of fame.

Most of us do not have anything so graphic to mark our fifteen minutes. We worked hard over many years, and indeed, may have influenced many lives and made a big impact. Veterans of wars used to call my husband because they had a story to tell about their experiences. But no one wants to hear these because the fifteen minutes are up.

As a retired person, I am getting comfortable with this. You did what you did, and you hope it was useful. You go on to other things if you have the energy, but you don't ever expect to have that fifteen minutes again. It's liberating. Occasionally, you have dreams and wishes about what you left. In some moments, you think you could do it better than those you left in charge. And even if you could, you are now gone. Whatever it is to be, your successors must manage.

I am on the board of a small non-profit I believe in. There have been problems with the successor of the retired founder, an executive director who may not be the person needed to do the job. It is so hard for the founder to step back and let it happen. No one wants her to back off, yet we know she must.

For me, as a retired founder of an institution, it took some heart rending ugliness to make me understand that my fifteen minutes were up. I thought my heart was broken. I still think I know best. But, my fifteen minutes are up. And my heart is not broken after all. I wish them well and continue to be interested. I think my spouse could say the same.

Gardening!

My passion is gardening. I am outdoors most of any day I can, tweaking my flower beds and examining my vegetables. After reading the paper in the morning, I walk out to inspect the beds of petunias, soon to be overrun with the native dune sunflowers. But for now, this bed is a riot of colors. I have sown zinnias, nasturtiums and cosmos in their midst and I see that they are soon to produce flowers. I pull off the dead flowers and cut back the blackberries that always encroach in this bed.

The two raised flower beds my husband put in a few years ago to contain roses (the deer ate every one of them!), now have a huge variety of native plants, deer and rabbit proof. This year when I now have enough time here I can monitor what grows well. A number of strange and beautiful lobed leafed plants grew up like weeds, but I thought they were so beautiful I let them grow on, wondering what they would be. My mystery plants turned out to be native blanket flowers and they are now blooming profusely with cheerful red and yellow blossoms.

I look at all the shrubs and trees and plants that were given me by friends. Here is the citrus tree and the two red crepe myrtles given to me by Marie, here is the native shrimp plant (now gone wild and everywhere) given to me by another friend. Here is the blue porter weed that miraculously survived two freezes this year, given to me by Susie. And there is the wisteria vine Maria gave me and it is now twining along the fence. There is the blousy Japanese jasmine from my sister, now ready to bloom outside our back porch shower. Everywhere I look there are the gardening tracks of friends.

When I went out to water today there was a bright green anole on the red hose. "Wrong color!" I said to him, but he paid no attention. If you're not a gardener, you won't get this entry. I am, as they say, elderly (grandma molly). When I was in my twenties I barely knew the difference between a tulip and a daffodil. And now I have the interest to know the different types of wild sage. You never know what passions will envelop you!

Down by the grape arbor and the asparagus bed there was a place where there was a gopher tortoise burrow and we couldn't touch it. So I began to plant stuff nearby, some grasses and some wildflowers I got in the mail. One day I noticed some lovely things blooming. I watered it along with the asparagus and grapes and now it is a feast for my eyes. I don't know what any of the flowers are, nothing I have ever seen before. They are ethereal, many colors and shapes. This is a true gift to me.

The water garden with its lotus and water lettuce is looking good. The water lilies are coming along. I pause to examine the mosquito fish darting around in this very small pond, and a couple of leopard frogs jump into the water. I water the iris growing nearby and I see that there are bloom stalks ready to happen. I notice that the flapjack plants which suffered so in the winter frost are now growing well. Hummingbirds buzz by my head, as happy as I am to be here.

In front of the screen porch the crepe myrtle trees are leafing out and soon they will be a cloud of ethereal white blossoms. But for now, the cardinals and wrens own the territory with their loud and burbling calls. The hummingbirds buzz into the native shrimp plants and red sage.

This is the first year I have been able to see all this unfold. I am amazed and humbled. All year we have eaten vegetables from our garden. It is an exquisite pleasure to go out each evening and pick what's there to eat. We have salad almost year round (July and August are too hot), and there is always something else. Right now we have an excess of peas and beans, so I give them away to my neighbors, and I see that cucumbers, spinach, tomatoes and eggplant are not far behind. This was the first year that I have grown everything from seed. My grandson Quincy, helped me plant the tomato seeds in the flat and he wasn't very methodical, so the varieties are still a mystery to me. I've got to get him to help me pick the worms off the cukes!

Growing a garden is a lot of work! Every day one must examine what grows, deadhead the flowers, pick the vegetables, water, dig new planting holes, fertilize, weed, mulch, look at stuff, bend over, lift, pick off worms, walk many steps, turn over the compost pile. But, all in all, it's a kind of meditation, beautiful for the soul and mind. I feel that I am caring for the earth and for my family. What could be a better gift than a basket of fresh lovely greens from the garden?

Lacoochee, again

On Tuesday I went into Lacoochee elementary school with a huge box of fired and glazed clay pieces the kids had made. I really would have liked to have the principal look at these colorful and delightful bas reliefs, maybe ooh and ah. But no.

As is usual, a number of parents and kids helped carry the bags into the classroom. We spread out the clay artworks on the tables, and I got the activities of the day ready to go. Today we were were going to make butter by shaking heavy cream. Then we would spread this on the homemade bread I had made early that morning. I also had some organic fruit spread to add to the bread. And there was the pyramid of beautiful organic apples!

After the pledge, we got down to business. First the kids had to fill in some scripted and dreary science sheets. They whipped through this, eying the apples and the mysterious containers of cream. Then, they and CareyAnne, their spectacular teacher, gathered on the rug and we began to make the butter. We put the cream into a shaker and everyone took turns shaking. CareyAnne got right into it, asking the kids to count their shakes by ones, then twos, then threes. She asked them questions about turning a liquid into a solid, where did cream come from, and many other things. She sang a ditty to make it happen. It seemed easy! The kids were totally engaged with the physicality of it. We passed out the paper plates with a slice of bread on each one, Giovanna passed out the butter and Danielle administered the jam. It was heaven!

We go to lunch and two kids hold my hands. I think of Laura, one of my all time favorite students (who is now a sophomore at Harvard) who held my hand every day for a year. When you hold the hand of a trusted adult, what you say is noted. Laura talked about her dog, Curley. These Lacoochee kids tell me about their little brother who is getting ear tubes. What's this? I try to explain. They tell me about their mom who will have surgery tomorrow. I wish our trip to the lunch room was longer because they have so many issues to discuss. Maybe Laura had some other issues beyond her dog, but it didn't matter. She knew her teacher would understand everything. And so it is with these Lacoochee kids.

The big buzz in the teacher lunchroom was that kindergartners were being tested on writing: they had a "prompt" and then were supposed to write expository writing from this. They had forty-five minutes to do this! Are we all crazy? Has no one ever read the literature on child development, maybe Piaget? (One teacher called this "suppository" writing.)

I think that this principal of this school (who tries to look like Dolly Parton with her amazing hair and nails and high heeled shoes) does not get it. For openers, why would someone in a rural school, not want to look available to the land and to kids? Get real! Wear clothes you can bend and run and stretch in, can get dirty! And then, a principal should galvanize the staff to be a real team, full of creative energy, and instead of back-biting each other, come together to make this school a model for the nation. It could happen. This staff is as good as any!

This is heresy, I know. Probably, if anyone at the school reads this I would be out of there for sure. I am reasonably certain that no one (except CareyAnne) at Lacoochee cares.

We need to energize public school teachers! They are the best!

The Saddest Week, What Can We Do?

We have heard and seen so much about the carnage at Virginia Tech this week, maybe too much. The kids there have been spectacular and articulate in the midst of such a terrible event. Everyone weeps to think of losing a part of our best and brightest. And we weep to think about the unspeakable end of life for that troubled young man, Cho.

It is understandable to want to fix the blame on this somewhere. Do we need to have more accountability from gun dealers? Could campus security have been better? And on and on.

What I wonder is where were adults when this troubled child didn't speak? Cho came to the U.S.A. when he was eight. When he was 23 he killed 32 people. I have not read or heard anywhere about his life in elementary school. Was he speaking then? According to an article in the New York Times today, at least a few relatives in South Korea were worried about him. Where were neighbors and friends and teachers in the U.S.A as this child struggled in a new place, trying to learn a new language and culture?

As a teacher for many years, I must ask those teachers who had Cho in their classes, "Didn't you notice anything? Did you wonder why this child did not speak? Did you talk to his parents? Did you engage the other children in a plan to help him? Did you get psychiatric help for an obviously troubled child? Did you try to love and understand him? Why didn't you act?" None of the media stories help me on this.

When Lorenzo came to Lacoochee School with a gun a month ago, there was some hesitation, but fairly soon the event was given the weight it deserved. Bringing a gun to school was obviously a cry for help.(Not to mention threatening!). Lorenzo was put into the hands of a counselor every morning. His cry for help was noted, even in this poor rural school.

We live in such a populous world! We must train our children to take care of each other and be aware of our fellows. (The Catholic church and the British have good reason to think that seven or eight is a good age for kids to have their first communion or begin school.) I am sometimes exasperated with those kids who 'tattle' on others. I should rejoice! These kids have got it about the way they think they and others should behave. They are positively not going to become shooters of dozens. At eight they already have the basics of knowing right from wrong. The kids I am concerned about never 'tattle'. Did anyone ever see this about Cho?

One thing I think we could do for our young people in college is to let them know during their orientation that they really are responsible for each other, and that means having to do hard things sometimes. There could be an anonymous hot line for a student to speak of his/her concerns about a fellow student. Of course this assumes that the student's concerns would be followed up.

During my sophomore year in college, I was in a triple room. One of my roommates clearly had some major issues, not homicidal, but troubling. In that easier world, we were able to get help for her. The college was helpful like kind of distant and concerned parents.

In our time now, we send our kids off and they are totally free agents. That is good in a way. Maybe our institutions of higher learning now need to take the time to help these young people wend their way in a hugely more populous world. Young people today aren't magically more mature than I was at that age. But I do know they are a part of a much more complicated world.

We need to try everything under the sun to make people of whatever age and station understand the necessity of being responsible for each other. We need to start early!

The Harris Burdick Stories

Last night we went into St. Petersburg to hear a chamber concert at our wunderful local theater only a two minute walk from our apartment. Six musicians from our orchestra were to play strings and bassoon, mostly twentieth century compositions and a new world premiere presentation by the bassoonist.

As we approached the theater we were bumping up behind several old ladies, bent over in their sensible outfits and shoes, also on their way to the concert. In that warm evening I could smell that peculiar musty odor of the aged, a combination of old clothes, mothballs, and desperation. As we milled about in the lobby waiting in the 'will call' line to get our tickets, I saw a sea of white heads, but a few young people as well.

Our seats were in the very front of the theater, almost at the center. I could anticipate looking up the pants' legs of the performers. I sat next to a very old woman who wore an enormous hat, sneakers, and a flowery dress. We chatted some, as seat mates do. She seemed quite normal to me but when the concert began she was wild! She loved it! She waved her arms and clapped excessively after every piece. Hey, this wasn't my mother, so I was not in the least bothered or embarrassed.

One of the last pieces was presented by the cellist, a composition by James Stephenson. This was a piece inspired by "The Harris Burdick Stories". My ears pricked up. This book by Chris Van Arlsburg has been my favorite for years. As the story goes, a mysterious author brings a set of drawings with captions to an editor. The author says he'll be back the next day with the stories that accompany the pictures. But he never does! So the pictures are a mystery.

Over the years when I have been a teacher of writing we have used this book of illustrations as jumping off point for some great creative writing. I would copy the illustrations on good paper and let the kids choose which one they wanted to write about. The Harris Burdick pictures produced some of the best writing I have ever seen from ten and eleven year olds. Even years later I can remember some of the stories those children wrote. For some strange reason these illustrations truly made the students stretch. I can still remember the plots devised by Laura, Alex, Cody,Katie, Naren, Arielle, and so many others. I always wanted to see what could be done with this amazing text by musicians or dancers.

James Stephenson did not disappoint me. He chose the illustration, 'Another time, another place', a picture I know by heart. He really got it- the children working a hand cart on the railroad tracks and headed toward what seemed to me to be Mt. St. Michel. I wish he could have come to our classroom to expand those young minds.

Earlier in the day I had been doing my gig as a volunteer at Lacoochee elementary, the poorest school in Pasco County. No fifth graders there were engaged in the delicious possibilities of a really juicy writing assignment. You can only write the FCAT way, in five steps.

CareyAnne, my group teacher was going to spend the day in teacher meetings, and to my dismay, she had a substitute, Ms. C, with whom I had worked before. CareyAnne told her just to let Miss Molly do her thing, but also here are a few things you should also do. Ms.C had her coffee cup on hand and it was clear she wanted to be the "disciplinarian" for the day. O.K. by me. All kids were there, as it was Tuesday. Lorenzo was more than usually odoriferous as he gave me a fierce hug.

Today, our food activity was pasta. I had put a kettle of water on to boil on the hot plate, Andy provided homemade red sauce , and cheese to grate. I had ten different kinds of pasta (including squid ink angel hair) for the kids to look at and handle. BUT FIRST, we had to do the pledge and sing a dispirited version of the national anthem (which can only be sung by mice at the top register).

Also, I had brought in the fired clay items from the week before. Today they were to glaze them. Ms. C. felt responsible to her "lesson plan" and duly trotted out a science lesson. This entire thing was a worksheet about stars. She read the introduction in the most amazingly sing-song voice I have ever heard. "Stars. Are. In. The. Sky." You get the idea. My eyes rolled back and I saw a number of kids looking at me, getting it. The worksheet gave the kids a totally wrong idea about astronomy. Very bad science. But never mind, the kids were paying no attention to it anyway. Hey, it didn't take more than ten minutes so we were on to doing the glazing and the pasta.

I wanted the kids to spend some time comparing the weight of things- pasta, beans, corn, rice, so I arranged a station with the scales. There are sixteen kids doing cooking and clay glazing and I am dancing as fast as I can. I ask Ms. C. to take on the weighing station. She says she can't do this because she doesn't know how. With sixteen kids knocking on my hip, a pot of boiling pasta, Marisol and Kelbie grating cheese, glazes needing attention, I give her a three second tutorial, and we go on from there.

The glazed pieces are wonderful, everyone LOVED the pasta. Some stuff got weighed and there was no homicide. After lunch we even had enough time to read a book. The kids were looking forward to going outside for a fifteen minute recess. These good and patient children! I am sorry to say that I think none of these kids will have the exquisite opportunity to think of the Harris Burdick stories, let alone write about them. Neither their parents nor their teachers have ever heard of Harris Burdick/ Chris Van Alsburg. And so, I keep on reading to these kids.

The "Expert"

Sometimes after I have spent my time as a volunteer in my local public school classroom, I think I have come on too strong. After thirty years of inventing and nurturing a school, constantly shaping and adjusting, trying new ideas and letting go of those that weren't working, I have some expertise. I can't help seeing that if I were a young and idealistic teacher right now, and I had the opportunity, I would leave this broken system and do exactly what I did thirty years ago; start something new! This public school system is beyond me in its ponderous drive towards the next educational panacea. Not much has changed in thirty years (though there are some notable exceptions dotted across the country.)

I go every week to volunteer because I love teaching, I love the affirmation of kids, and I feel the responsibility to make even a small difference in the lives of children. And I even fantasize that I could effect a few changes!

Yesterday I went in with notably heavy baggage- 25 pounds of red clay, the fixings for a huge fruit salad, ideas for stories and activities. After unloading my baggage to the bench in front of the office, I parked my car and returned to check in and receive my' pervert-free clearance' from the office. None of the regular bunch was out front but I did spy one of the kindergarten teachers walking by. I have never known his name because these teachers never introduce themselves (or maybe they don't care to.) I have seen this man in the teachers' lunch room and I have always thought him to be especially grumpy.

This day it is cold and spitting blessed rain. "Good morning!", I crow in my best Sally Sunshine voice. "You are looking so handsome and brawny. Would you mind helping me with these things?"

He makes a few disparaging remarks about how he knows I just said that to get him to help. But he does smile and take the clay to the classroom. When we get there I tell him that his reward is to get the first pick of the magazines I always bring. He audibly snorts. "This intellectual stuff! No way!" But he shuffles through the New Yorkers, the Science News, Audubon, Harvard and Brown magazines, and finally settles on The New York Review of Books. "This will impress people," he mutters and wanders off to his classroom. Later, I send him a Dixie cup of the fruit salad we made in our classroom. I find out that his name is Dan. I am relentless today.

My idea today is to have the kids make clay bas relief heads using no tools but their fingers and old dull pencils. After the dispirited rendition of the pledge and the national anthem, we all ignore all the announcements and pronouncements. Seventeen kids doing at least two things takes a lot of energy. Marisol and Johnny are at the food station cutting up the fruit. CareyAnne, the teacher, is overseeing the cutting up of strawberries, bananas, melons and the rest.

Dynasty, the fifth grade helper, has made a model for what we are going to do and now she is using a wire cutter to create slabs for everyone as the base for their bas relief head. She can only spend half an hour in this class. (No one is absent on Miss Molly's day.) We have done a number of clay projects throughout the year. The kids are now used to the process of making it, firing it, glazing it, and then firing it again. The hardest thing for kids is learning how to attach clay pieces to each other. It is April and now most of them know how to score each piece, add slurry, press firmly. They have had experience knowing what happens when you don't! They now know that I will not fire anything without a readable name on it.

I look at these eighteen pieces now drying in my studio and I think of what a long way we have gone this year. These artworks are amazing and lovely. I envision them hanging on the wall outside the Lacoochee office, adorning the lives of children.

After the clay pieces are finished and hands are washed I read two stories to the kids. I used to be so tender about bringing/doing everything I did at Lacoochee. But today I just asked the librarian, Michelle, "Hey, I need two or three good books to read aloud right now." Without missing a beat, she suggests and finds three books for me - and she doesn't even check them out! She knows I'll bring them back. It seems so normal and fine. She made good choices; the kids are interested. I am really good at reading out loud to kids. (Lots of experience!) I ask them to fill in the next words, and they do. "See! Reading is about the experience you have! You really know lots about how to read!" They preen. And they are eager.

CareyAnne, the teacher, is such an inclusive, intelligent and loving person. The kids know this. I know this. I think that I was incredibly lucky to have wound up in her classroom. I am not the best with younger kids but it has been a great experience for me.

This teacher is very good, the best. She has a group of hard kids., socioeconomically at the bottom rung. She sees each one with possibilities and a future. She respects her students and loves each one. I have never heard her gripe. She is open to new ideas. Her students may not do the best on the FCAT, and not because of her best efforts. She will not be nominated as teacher of the year because this little school is close to nothing in the system. These people are working hard!

The principal of Lacoochee has never made much contact with me and I do not know her at all. I kind of expected that she would have thanked me for making possible the field trip to MOSI for the whole primary group. I really would have liked her to come into our classroom and say, "Oh wow! What wonderful clay items the kids have made!" , or even, "Thanks for funding a school field trip". Oh, well, I said that I wanted to be anonymous.. and I am.

Our Adult Children

No one told us how much time we had to devote to our adult kids. We educated them, drove endless miles to piano lessons, swim meets, soccer. Then they left home for college or far away places, and we kept on paying tuition, a small price to pay for the blessedly empty nest.

The leaving of our own nest was somewhat ragged, but nothing like what so many of my friends have had to endure. One of our kids spent time in three different colleges: not that he failed out. He was a seeker of the perfect place. He never did graduate, but he had his life in balance. Our middle child started out as perfectly as a parent can want, in a highly selective college. Then he took off for a semester in the woods while we worried. He finished college and went on to graduate school. He was his way, had a mission to change the world through urban studies. And this he is doing.

Our youngest, we thought the most dicey, (and surely the most vivid!), came back to our community after college and graduate school. We had given up on thinking that any of our children would live nearby. But here she is, with her wonderful partner and their small son.
They are entrepreneurs and have started a catering business - so far quite successful. Our daughter has the energy of ten. Not only does she run the business aspect of the catering gig, she works as the reference librarian at our local university and does a lot of tutoring. And raises a wonderful kid.

A few evenings ago, we went to look at the catering kitchen. I was blown away! This is a huge commercial kitchen and when we saw it there was a stocky young man, Pinky, who was using the kitchen to produce trays and trays of highly decorated sweets. When the catering does not need the kitchen they rent it out to people who need to make chocolate fountains and other stuff. I guess it is always in action. I could not believe that this commercial kitchen did not exist until the end on November!

My daughter-in-law, the brawn of this operation, is a fantastic chef, incredibly efficient, and cuts no corners with her food creations. The pair of them, and their third person who does p.r, seem to have a real winner. I am glad to have been an investor. What a thrill to be here to see this business evolve..

You never know what life will bring you. Sometimes your kids are a terrible disappointment for a time. I have friends whose adult kids are struggling with depression and angst, drug addiction, or are in a relationship with an abusive partner, or they just are strangers to their parents. Some of my friends have adult children who have pretty much abandoned their parents. Mostly these things will pass with time. Or they won't. This is why we have a strong network of our own friends, those who can always be counted on when family fails.

I believe that we are in charge of our lives, not some god out there. It puts more responsibility on us. No praying. No one is going to do it for us. We are in charge, responsible. We should do good because it is good, not to get to heaven. Just be good and generous. Our kids will see and understand, and eventually come back to us with love and caring.

As it is now,I love my adult children and the adult children of my friends. As I say, the outcome is still ragged but I know, with time, everything will be fine. (Says Sally Sunshine)

Gifts

When Nancy and Neville pulled up in their car, they had bags and bundles and the dog. Immediately, Nancy began unwrapping the gifts she had for us: clothes she found at an upscale thrift shop for grandson Quincy, a pop-up tent for him and the dead racquet balls in a wonderful cylindrical container. She gave me a new tote bag, perfect and emblazoned with my initials, and a cooking doo-dad for Andy. She never comes empty-handed. In exchange, there was the wedging table Andy had made for her at my suggestion. I am thinking that we are very like some primitive emissaries from neighboring tribes, honoring each other with potlatch.

Later, Marie and Jim arrive. Marie has a huge impatience plant for me. She knows how much I love flowers and my yard is full of things she has given me over the years. There is now a huge orange tree, ("Marie"), that reliably produces huge quantities of fruit. There are many crepe myrtle trees she has given me, now about to leaf out. My yard is full of gifts.

We stroll down to the studio where I have the finished quilt for Marie, something I have been working on for a few weeks, a celebration of the many trips we have taken together. By the door is a large rosemary tree Marie gave me a couple of months ago.

For my daughter I have a small tee shirt I think she'll like, and she gives Nancy a shirt as well. She has a bundle of magazines for Marie. We women are constantly giving each other things. The men are talking, giving bits of their personal lives, giving opinions.

Have you ever noticed that it is mostly women who give gifts? Everyone knows that if women boycotted Christmas shopping our economy would collapse. Men are generous creatures in their own way(they give time and money, mostly) but they do not give many gifts. They know it is expected that they should give their partners gifts on birthdays and Christmas. Andy is the most generous person I know; he gives away money in such thoughtful ways, he gives his time for great causes, he shows people how to do things, which is the best gift of all. He gives the gift of cooking wonderful food for all our friends. But he agonizes about what to give me for my birthday.

Women often do not have a lot of money to give. Instead, they give of themselves whether it is the product of specialized shopping, or of their own hands. They enable others. My friend Virginia comes to us with a basket of key limes or a bowl of perfectly sectioned oranges. My friend, Nancy D. provides us with interesting jig saw puzzles, and gives me the most wonderful nightgowns. Lucy gives such amazingly funny items that we find ourselves using every day. This Lucy hand knitted dozens of fluffy scarves to give to all the women at a banquet last year. This may have been the high water mark of gift-giving! We women are always giving each other books. We never go empty handed. We save magazines and clippings for each other, we pass along gently used items to each other.

Never a week passes when I do not send someone something. I love to get those cards and those boxes from my sisters who think of me with hand-made necklaces or the kind of candles she knows I like. I love sending odd items off to my grandchildren: new spiderman underpants, a funny dress, a string of 'car' lights. This gift giving makes us feel connected! Is it something on the X chromosome?

Gift giving is such a fundamental aspect of being female. Things are not everything, however. Generosity in both the male and female models go together. We just all have to keep giving wherever and whenever we see the need to celebrate each other or help in the community.