Tuesday, July 1, 2014

Friday the Fourth!

It's July!  Summer's here!  It's almost time for fireworks but it's actually started already here in my neighborhood.  People have already made the trip to Vancouver for illegal stuff and are "testing" them to make sure they're loud enough or dangerous enough and figuring out if they themselves might be able to manage them after downing a number of growlers on Friday.

When I was a kid, the Fourth of July meant sparklers.  While waiting for the California sun to fade into the West, we would start begging my dad to light up "just one," sort of like asking to open one Christmas present on Christmas Eve.  We always managed to wear him down for that and we knew we'd soon have him looking for the candle and isolating himself way out on the driveway to light it.  Then the big moment arrived.  He'd light it; we'd jiggle and dance and then swoop in with screams of delight when he signaled the "okay" then he'd carefully light ours and hand them over.  More screams and swooping as we made sparkling circles and other fabulous designs in the air until all the sparklers were gone and lay dead on the cement and in the lawn with the stench of their smoke lingering for what seemed like forever.

One Fourth when I was about nine, we were invited to watch the fireworks over Lake Merritt in Oakland from the top of my mom's cousin's apartment building.  Several people we knew lived in apartments around the Bay Area but we actually rode the ELEVATOR up to the cousin's place (her name was Beans which made the excursion just that much more exciting - how could you not have fun at the apartment home of someone called Beans?!) and then went up even higher to the roof. The display scared me a little at first because the booms were so loud and the popping and bursting and wild colors seemed to be at eye level from our lofty viewpoint.  And they reflected in the water!  It was all so exciting.

When we had our own family and lived out in the country, six of the neighborhood families would gather together every Fourth of July for a gigantic barbecue and fireworks display of our own illegal purchasing. We moms would have a special meeting to plan the menu and the tables would be absolutely loaded with all the most delicious picnic food ever.  All of our kids would be excited for days ahead and ran around like wild beasts on the day of.  We all ate ourselves sick and then gathered our folding chairs for our glorious display where no one got hurt and everyone was able to make it back to the fire pit for s'mores.

This Fourth, as we have in the last several years, we'll go over to the Burton's who live on the bluff.  The party will be for adults with only one, maybe two or three little kids present.  They will shriek and run amok as all the 35 and probably more grownups will drink more than usual, eat a fabulous gourmet barbecue dinner and then retire to the backyard where we'll be able to see the fireworks displays from all over the surrounding area.  Pat and I will make the five  minute drive home and wonder how we'll get to sleep as the bombs literally bursting in the air outside our open windows rattle all the pictures on the walls.

Our house is decorated inside and out with flags and red,white and blue objects and will stay that way for a few more days as the neighborhood lets off a few more rounds of fire crackers and bottle rockets just for the heck of it.

Sunday, June 1, 2014

Friends and Family

This first week in June will be one where I get to meet with different friends every day. Monday is for "Girls! called just like that with an exclamation point.  My "Girls!" group is made up of my two friends, Andrea and JoAnn, who were my neighbors when we lived out toward Redland. I've known Andrea for over forty years ever since we were neighbors in Southeast Portland.  When she moved out to the country, she mentioned that the property next door was for sale so after a look at it, we bought it, built a house on it and lived next door to them for 30 plus more years.  That's where we met JoAnn who lived across the road from our two families.  We all spent years of good times together always celebrating the 4th of July with a huge neighborhood BBQ complete with illegal fireworks from Vancouver. Between the two of them, Andrea and JoAnn know where all my bodies are buried.

Tuesday I'll meet with my friends Kristi, Nancy and Karmin.  These are old work pals.  We lived in  the teaching trenches together.  As a matter of fact, Kristi spent her whole 30 year teaching career at Oregon City High School as did Karmin who was there even longer and actually attended high school there herself!  Impressive, huh?  Nancy is our salty witted friend who tried hard to close her classroom door and just teach.  It was always good advice.  We will eat at Babica Hen in Lake Grove.  I always love seeing these women who made my workplace a better place to be.

Wednesday is my day to meet  my Cousin Martha at Gustav's which we do every couple of months.  She is the daughter of one of my mom's sisters of which there were five along with two brothers.  We didn't grow up together but we have lots of fun comparing our lives with what we know about those of  other family members and continually deciding that we had it the best. I love her dearly and am glad to have her in my life.

Thursday I'll travel to the Glockenspiel in Mt. Angel to meet with another old friend, Sarah.  She is the daughter of my great friend, Lee, with whom I taught in the early years.  Lee and her husband Ernst were my mentor teachers.  I learned almost every thing I know about teaching from them.  Sarah is Lee's eldest daughter who went into teaching herself and eventually did her student teaching with me.  That was an a standout time in my career as Sarah and I worked hard to manage a group of tricky juniors who needed lots of specialized academic help because of their low level of literacy skills.  We found several unique ways to present reading and writing lessons so they didn't really seem like lessons but rather like fun ways to while away time in our classroom.

Friday is the day slated for Bobbie, my sister.  She has been asked to speak to an event/conference in Portland having to do with the celebration of the Wilderness Act.  I'm going along for moral support. This will definitely be an adventure.  We haven't a clue about this gathering and are sure to learn a lot.

Friday night will be a birthday celebration for Kirsten of my knitting group.  It will be an out to dinner followed by art work at a ceramic studio kind of event.  I'm not sure I can coordinate the time with my sister to attend this one but it sure would be a great way to wrap up a week full of meetings with friends and family.

How fortunate I am!!!

Thursday, May 8, 2014

Sorry, Age Sage

I bumped into the Age Sage while walking in the park.  I thought she was a male.  She isn't.  When I met her the other day, she was swathed in long sleeves and pants and sporting a beret sort of hat as well as gigantic sunglasses.  She is suffering from a slight cold so her voice is deep and raspy.  My bad.  She looked more girly in her rain gear this morning than she did in her sun gear the other day so I'm on the right gender page now.  She just laughed when I told her and remarked that, like infants, old people start to look androgynous.  So I guess I'm excused.  I'm embarrassed; that's for sure.

She had more information she wants me to pass on.  She says, "You can recommend someone to sign up for an AARP card if you hear them say the following more than once,"

  •  I don't like to drive at night.
  • WHAT?
  • I don't even know what a tweet is and I don't want to.
  • It was last Tuesday, no Wednesday.  Make that Tuesday; Tuesday's not garbage day.
  • HUH?
  • Why do they make the print on these labels so small?
  • Let's sit here so we won't be staring into the glare.
  • What are those things on my back?
  • Everyone looks so young.
  • Who IS Miley Cyrus?
  • Oh, I don't think we'll put up a tree this year.
  • This restaurant is much too noisy!
  • Our grandkids are so: 
      a.  cute      b.  smart
      c.  clever   d.  talented
      d.  all of the above plus more.

Listen for these comments.  They can help you tell who's old and who's not.                          
                                         

Thursday, May 1, 2014

Visiting Blogger - the Age Sage

(This entry comes from the guru of old people called The Age Sage. He has kindly offered to help us understand what is happening to all of us who are past the age where "young" is not even remotely applicable even if 70 is the new 50.)

Hi there!  It's the Age Sage here.  The time has come to be honest and open about getting old in a culture where the younger you are, the better.  We live in a society of people who'd really like to freeze the fitness of their bodies and minds somewhere between the ages of 20 and 30. That's only been possible for Jennifer Lopez and even her success is questionable in spite of how flashy she looks.

The topic for today is, in fact, the aging body and what you'll begin to notice about your own or that of one or both of your parents. You will know you're getting old when you have to do some weird sort of body folding to get into any car other than a smallish SUV.  You will need to do some erect back stooping which includes hopping scarily on one foot.  Don't even try to get into a large SUV or pickup without a large male body to spot for you.  And as for a sports car, forget it.  Find another way to get from point A to point B.

You will begin to walk a little slower and you may notice a slight leaning forward of the torso.  Try not to do this and encourage your older friends and relatives not to do this as well.  You really don't want your face to end up at the level of your belt.  Remember when your mother used to constantly remind you to "stand up straight"?  It still goes.  One of the best things an aging body can do for itself is to stay as erect as possible.

Here's the easiest way for you to tell if you're really on the physical skids - jump.  As in "up and down."  See?  You can't really do it like your grandson can.  It just doesn't happen.

Hint of this entry:  Keep moving.  Move some more.  Move even when you're all settled in for three hours of TV watching.  Move arms.  Move legs and feet.  Get up and walk around a little bit besides the trip you take into the kitchen for some "carrots."

Bonus hint:  Breathe deeply.  It feels strange but that's good for all of us no matter how far along the path we are.


Monday, March 31, 2014

Thanks, Deaner!

A friend - Dean Cole - left this world two days ago.  He battled cancer giving it everything he had until he ran out of time and energy.  His ending seemed to me like one of the few times in his life that he couldn't beat the odds.  If anyone would ever have been able to live forever given enough strength and courage, it might have been Dean.

This quintessential educator was the head of the counseling office for all the years I taught in the Oregon City School District. He always had a small office which remained stunningly tidy no matter what huge project he was working on.  When it was time to prepare the master schedule for the next academic year, he sometimes put butcher paper over his office window or used one down the hall that was even tinier and more restrictive than his. We all knew not to disturb him during this magical process.  There were times, though, that I would stand outside his office praying that he'd have to go to the bathroom or something so that I could "accidentally" run into him and present an, "Oh, good, Dean.  I have a quick question for you!" His rare inaccessibility sometimes just stopped me in my tracks when I was trying to problem solve something related to my job.  I have to confess, though, that once in a while Sheila, my teaching partner, and I would push the door open just a smidge and if he wasn't there we'd sneak in for a quick peek at how our class assignments were coming along.  Of course, he knew we were peeking so the information would be nil or the chart would be blank with all the news still stuck in his brain.

Dean made some runs at becoming an administrator but those goals didn't pan out for whatever reasons that are probably more complicated than any of us needs to know.  But he always seemed like an administrator to me and I held him in the same kind of high regard that I held for the top principals I worked with. He was articulate, open-minded, totally trustworthy, and guarded secrets carefully.  He knew life details about students and staff that never left his office without security clearance from his own personal sense of ethics.  I took some of my stickiest professional problems to him and he always did two things:  1.) He pointed me in a direction that would help me solve the problem myself, and, 2.) He always had a way to make me feel better.

Dean was always turned out in office suitable attire with a casual, collegiate sort of twist.  I always liked it when his hair had grown out from a fresh haircut because a new one always made him look just a little on the nerdy side. He had a busy man's hustling step and I remember that quick step carrying him down the few steps from the counseling office into the main office to check something.  Lots of times he was never "right back" because he'd get waylaid by staff or student and would take a minute to say a reassuring word or make an appointment to see this or that person later.

He and his office compatriots made up a special sort of school group that had an invisible band of confidentiality wrapped around it that simply could not be penetrated by others.  I used to wonder if Dean made new employees swear a secret oath of respect for privacy when they came to work in his department.  I also wondered if Dean received secret training in how to show sympathy and empathy for the downtrodden, needy, whining, sniveling individuals that many staff members and students turned into at stressful times during the school experience. Those times might be the start of the school year, any days that had meetings scheduled, days that involved food and extra activities, grading time, report card time, fire drill days, weeks with lots of fights, days before and after holidays, spring scheduling and the end of the school year plus any days that involved a different schedule.  You get the picture. And just imagine if YOU were the Head of the Department that counseled the complex travails of teenagers.

I will miss all the goodness of Dean Cole.

  

Saturday, March 1, 2014

Up An Inky Creek

I've run into a little snag on my latest book project.  My graphic artist is no longer free-lancing since she got herself a full time job.  Darn.  She wants to use her free time to work on her own ideas.  No one understands this better than I do.  But I am left with only being able to row myself up this literary creek with only one oar. The manuscript is well under way but the production of it is stalling. She did suggest another artist who just happens to be Pat's niece and we have a telephone appointment scheduled for Monday.  And my original artist is willing to mentor her.  This could be the beginning of an interesting relationship for this project.

I also contacted my old friend Irv in Phoenix who happens to be a very talented photographer and a master of computerizing.  I described my project and he says he is willing to think about what I have in mind for the design and layout.  I really want to dedicate the new book to his now deceased wife, Cheryl, who was a special friend of mine since 7th grade.  The whole project would take on even more meaning if he had a hand in the making of it.

So I might call him before Monday and suggest that maybe he just work on the visual for the front and back covers.  He seemed more open to that when I talked to him previously.  Then, when I have the phone appointment with the prospective artist, I might have some more information for her about what I want for the appearance of the book.

This is a hitch in the writing process that hasn't happened to me before.  I am threatened with having to abandon the project if I can't coordinate the productivity of it.  I was more disappointed than I thought I would be as I face the prospect of not being able to publish this book, but I'm resigned to the possibility. Sometimes writing ideas just can't come to fruition, I guess.  I hope this isn't the case with my latest and last published writing adventure.

Saturday, February 1, 2014

Out of the Black and Blue

I was driving along King Road on my way to my friend Mary's to return a vase. Then I planned to swing up to Trader Joe's to look for some different snacks to take with us on our annual winter trip to Seaside. A final destination, and one of real pleasure, would be a stop at the yarn store for a leisurely look-see at what's new and what might catch my eye for a new project.

Out of nowhere, I was flung backwards. I saw my mittened hands fly in front of my face and heard the sound of a blunt impact.  I saw the windshield begin to spiderweb crack in the lower left hand corner as smoke billowed up from the engine and began pouring into my car. I could barely breathe as my knees slammed into the dash.  I don't know what happened in the next few moments as I struggled to understand what happened and where I would land.  The next thing I knew, a man in a yellow sweatshirt was yanking on my door asking if I was all right.  No. I was not.  But within the next several minutes, he managed to get the car door open and I was tended to by a paramedic. Next, I was led to a bench not far from the sidewalk.  Pat came soon and we took off for the emergency room. I had bruises, bumps, and contusions.  Some of my ribs were bruised.  My right knee was extra swollen and hurt badly. By the next day, my chest would be swollen and the right side was very black and very blue as if a tattoo artist had dropped the ink and let it run off my shoulder and into my armpit.  Not a pretty sight whatsoever.  But I was okay.  Nothing was broken, bent or twisted.  The doctor said I'd recover within a couple of weeks.

I was hit by someone making a left turn into the front of my car.  She "didn't see me" because she was looking for a parking place.  She was cited for making a dangerous left turn, for being uninsured, for driving with a suspended license and for endangering the life of a minor.  No one in her car was hurt, thank goodness.

Now, almost two weeks later, I am still without a car.  I'm trying to be patient.  I'm trying to understand that my insurance will pay for her mistaken judgement because she doesn't have any.  I have forgiven her but the experience is one I'm having trouble letting go of.

You can help yourself and me by driving extra carefully from here on.  Understand that you can be hit and not even see it coming.  That was the scary part.