Taz

There is a time for every purpose under heaven.
A couple of weeks ago, I wrote about my friend, Kathy, and cautioned you and reminded myself to seize the moment. We just never know. Our mutual friend called me earlier this week to tell me that Kathy had died the night before. And I can see her dancing in heaven now – light on her feet, smiling at her unknown audience.
And this morning I woke up to find my soccer partner dead in his home. Taz, short for Tasmanian Devil, hasn’t been with me very long, but we’ve had a lot of fun together. Just last night we played some soccer with a couple of his balls. He was so fast. He could always beat me to the ball. And he often ran so hard to get to it before me that he’d go smashing into the gate or the garage or whatever obstacle had stopped the ball.
He was stubborn as bulldogs are. When he had the ball, there was no taking it away from him. He’d look up at me with defiance in his eyes, just daring me to try to take it away. Which of course is what he wanted and of course I tried. But he’d hold on for dear life. And most of the time, I couldn’t wrestle it away from him. He was too strong and much too determined. And if he could have talked, he’d have said, “Gotcha!”
Taz was a rescue. His owner was going to put him down when he was born with a hole in his heart. It was so bad that the vet would never operate on his cherry eye. When my daughter heard this, she offered to take him for whatever time he had, and he thrived in her care. Then, for whatever reason, she decided I needed a dog and so Taz moved in with me. And I loved him.
I don’t know how long he’s been here. I think it’s been about a year now, and I never dreamed I’d miss him so much when it was his time to go. Maybe my friend, Kathy, needed a dog. I’d like to think so.
His eye was ugly and I don’t think he could see out of it very well, but it never slowed him down. He was, as I said, one helluva soccer player. But he could put on the saddest face imaginable. If he wanted a cookie or more food in his bowl or more soccer time, he’d put on his “woe is me” face. If that didn’t work, he had a happy face that would light up the room. Hell. Even my husband liked him, and Salvador doesn’t like anybody.
He was generally well behaved. Although one of my neighbors owns a couple of prissy poodles that Taz barely tolerated. He’d often bark when they went prancing by – as if to say, “Seriously. Do you call yourselves dogs?” On the other hand, when the cops were on my street a couple of times recently, they stopped to have a word with him. Somehow, he knew better than to bark at them although he wasn’t particularly friendly towards them either. Let’s say he tolerated them, too.
When he came to live with me, his ugly eye caught the attention of my neighbors one at a time, and they frowned at me, silently accusing me of not taking care of him. Thus, one by one, I explained the situation – how that a surgery would likely kill him. And that he was a rescue and so forth. After they heard the story, they would admire rather than judge me, but I was reminded of the bumper sticker: “Who rescued who?”
But I wasn’t always kind. Just last night, the boys came over and Taz was beside himself to see his three buddies all at one time. So, he ran into the house, found a couple of strange bags, and peed on them. And I went off. I yelled at him. And ran him out of the house. I don’t like when animals pee in the house. It makes me crazy. Please forgive me, Taz. I shouldn’t have gotten so angry. I know I didn’t hurt you, but I know I hurt your feelings.
Later, we had a good game of soccer, so I think I’d mended my fences, but I had no idea that last night would be our last soccer match. I don’t think he knew either. He played as hard as always and never once cut me any slack. Soccer was serious business with Taz and me.
And I had no idea that this dumb ole dog with a hole in his heart would leave such a hole in mine. I miss you already. So much.

Adjunct

Outstanding Adjunct Faculty – Who? You!
I think each and every one of you deserve the title, because you are outstanding. You do a job that offers very little in worldly rewards. It doesn’t pay well, it doesn’t provide you with benefits, and it has no job security whatsoever.
Don’t misunderstand. There are blessings. I’m the first to say that I love my job. I love my students. I love what we do together. That said, there are lots of things I could do without.
Little things even. I don’t know why my parking permit has to loudly proclaim my lame status as an adjunct. What difference does it make? We’re not given lesser parking privileges. We’re not expected to park in some adjunct faculty lot. Although neither of these possibilities are true, I wouldn’t be surprised if they were, but as they aren’t – What difference does it make?
For me, the hardest part to swallow is the lack of job security along with the idea that somehow that’s my fault. If my class retention is poor, it must be something I’m doing. Where is the logic in that? In my department, we expect our students to attend class four nights a week for 16 weeks. Ain’t any other department with those kind of expectations. I mean, seriously. Would you study Japanese four nights a week for four months? Would you do anything four nights a week for four months?
The deepest sadness of being part-time, for me, is the lack of camaraderie. Early on in my career, I had visions of sitting around a hot cup of tea discussing my trouble explaining the ToBe verb or cradling a warm mug of hot chocolate while commiserating with my colleagues about the lack of time my students have. But there is no time nor place for that.
Of course I mind the denigration as much as the next fellow. The sense, the feeling, the weight of being less than, not as good as, not up to it. The unspoken differences. The unwritten rules. The unuttered nuances. Like the elephant in the living room, they are there and we all dance around them.
Shortly after getting my MA, I read an article in the LA Times about and by a woman who’d been working as a part-time instructor for 15 years. Having just come from the business environment where working generally meant in a real full time job with adequate pay and reasonable benefits, I was clueless. I read the article and thought, what an idiot. Now as I celebrate my 20th year at Palomar, I sometimes think the same thing.

Carpe Diem

Carpe Diem
Generally translated as “Seize the moment,” it means: “the enjoyment of the pleasures of the moment without concern for the future” according to Miriam-Webster’s on-line dictionary which goes on to say it literally means, “Pluck the day.” And I rarely do. And we all need to.
I just called a friend of mine who I met thru a Sacred Dance class that I took some years ago, and I usually see her at an annual week-end retreat we often attend. The retreat is put on by the ADT – Alleluia Dance Theatre. You can like them on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/AlleluiaDanceTheater btw.
Anyway, when Kathy didn’t answer the phone, I started to leave a message. I hadn’t been able to attend the week-end and I’d wanted to see if she’d gone and how it went. She leads a dance group for young women at her church, something that I’ve wanted to do for years, and I was going to ask her if I could practice with them once in a while as my teacher no longer holds classes and I just don’t seem to have anyone to dance with.
While I was leaving my message, a phone call came in from her. You know how cell phones do that. Anyway, the woman on the end of the line explained that she was Kathy’s caregiver. And, of course, she is not at liberty to tell me what’s happened to Kathy to cause her to need a caregiver.
We last danced together almost a year ago, in October I think, at a local music festival that was held at St. Mary Star of the Sea, a small Catholic church nearby. We’d been recruited by our former teacher, Emmalyn Moreno, who is one of the most gifted people I’ve ever met. She, too, has a web site http://musicbyemmalyn.com/index.html. She sings like an angel, plays the piano flawlessly, and is a truly wonderful dance teacher always meeting her students where they are and even encouraging them to do some of their own choreography.
I can’t imagine what arrow has befallen my friend Kathy and I pray warring angels around her right now – on all four sides.
Raised by a really strict Catholic mom, I thought the idea of sacred dance was a bit far out, if not downright sacrilegious when I first heard of it. I appreciated that Emmalyn welcomed people of all faith backgrounds, but when she included African drumming, I had some serious doubts and wondered if this were something I should be involved in. But it has been a huge blessing and I was hoping to take it up again on a more regular basis, until my friend didn’t answer her phone.
There is, of course, scriptural authority for dance, as you probably know including perhaps the most well known from Ecclesiastes 3:4 “A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;” I hope and pray that Kathy still has time to dance. Or you may be from an even stricter background that disapproves of dance altogether. I understand. I just finished my MBA in 2012 at Point Loma Nazarene. And the male profs there were fond of saying, “Don’t drink, don’t dance and don’t go with girls that do.”
Not into the spiritual realm? Fine. Take the words of Steve Jobs who wasn’t either, but he said, “Don’t wait.” And went on to say, “Time is all you have.” I often tell my students this. Time is all we have. And you can either invest it or waste it. The choice is yours.
What about you? When was the last time you took the time to do something that brings you joy and didn’t fret about what you should have been doing.
Sometimes I can’t remember when or even how, but then I get nostalgic – as often happens in September. Tomorrow would have been my husband’s 69th birthday. He passed away when he was 50, but he’d lived much longer than anyone expected. He was diagnosed when he was 29 with the disease that would kill him.
The day after his birthday, the 17th, would have been our 49th anniversary. Actually, we were legally separated for many years before he finally filed for divorce, but both decisions were largely for financial reasons. And, besides, you never really stop loving your first love. He stole my heart. And, then, too, he is the father of my children. No one will ever replace him in my life. And with the softening of time, I only remember him in the fondest of ways.
We met when I was just 15. And we married the day after he turned 20 because he didn’t want to be a teen-ager when he got married ;) We had our son a few years later, but not before people began to tease us. Why folks thought our childbearing was their business I don’t know, but we both came from large families and were quite sure that we wanted some time together before the babies came. And then we only had two. We talked about three, but I had a miscarriage very shortly after my second daughter was born and that – I don’t know – kind of make me think.
I’ll leave you with another favorite of mine. A quote from William Purkey,
“You've gotta dance like there's nobody watching,
Love like you'll never be hurt,
Sing like there's nobody listening…”

You Might Miss Something

I went on a couple of errands today that turned into a bit of an adventure.
My first errand was to go get my phone fixed. I’d been told that there is a shop in Escondido that does nothing but fix phones, so I called them last week and finally made it over there today. I had already googled the directions, which I still print out because I don’t trust Siri. Anyhow, I always get turned around in Escondido and today was no exception. I drove right past the store and had to make a u turn to go back. Twice.
The owner had told me it would only take 20 minutes and suggested I go get a cup of coffee. So, I got back in my car and went in search of a place to kill some time. I passed a Starbucks as I’m not a coffee drinker and cannot understand why people pay $5.00 for a caffeine fix. Instead, I decided on Denny’s and went in and had breakfast where I paid over $2.00 for a cup of hot water basically. And after I’d brewed my tea, I ended up not drinking it because it tasted like soap. Yuk.
Meanwhile, I tried to pick up my phone about four times. Duh!
Anyway, the adventure part hadn’t started, yet. After getting turned around – again – I found my way back to the Fix It store to pick up my phone. It looks great. Works fine. But I should have asked how much this repair was going to cost before I agreed. I expected it to be about $20 or $25 dollars and it was closer to $100.00. Whoops. To me, a $100 is a lot of money. I may have chosen to have it fixed anyway, but I should have asked…
Next I went in search of a bakery. I had discovered this bakery in class last semester when I had a group of students looking for local places to buy various goodies. And one group shared about Webekings Bakery. I was impressed with the name and decided I would pay them a visit, but they closed before my class started, so I knew I’d have to make a special trip someday. As Escondido is pretty far from Oceanside, I waited until I had two things to do in town.
With a map in hand, I had spent my time eating my breakfast and making sure I knew where I was going. Nonetheless, I drove right past it. Circled around the block and finally pulled over to call them. Turns out I was right around the corner, but it was worth the trip. Their pastries were to die for. Yummy!
So, where’s the adventure? The adventure is that the bakery is located at the intersection where I had turned to go to school four nights a week for the entire semester yet I hadn’t seen it. Even after our class assignment – when the students pointed it out on a map – I drove right by. Many, many times.
And I’m wondering how often we fail to see the wonderful things that are right in our path? How often do we drive right by? How often are we so intent on getting where we are “supposed to be” that we fail to take in our surroundings?
Life is an adventure. Slow down a bit. You might miss something.

I Wish I'd

I Wish I’d

All of us have lots of “I wish I’d” - I do - things I wish I had done, things I wish I had said, things I wish I had seen. And as we get older, the list of wishes grows. When I think of all these, I am reminded of the words from the Lion King’s theme, The Circle of Life…

From the day we arrive on the planet
And blinking, step into the sun
There's more to see than can ever be seen
More to do than can ever be done

Thus we must choose wisely those things we will do, those things we will see.
On my first trip to Europe, I went with a friend from high school. June had been to Europe before and was kind of acting as my tour guide and travel agent all in one. She was the person who told me to pack only one medium sized suitcase, so we could get on and off the trains fairly easily. And she’d decided when we’d go and to a large extent where we’d go, and, thus what we’d see. Of course, there were a few givens. I wanted to hear Big Ben, I wanted to ride in a gondola, and I wanted to see the Eiffel Tower.
We first went to visit an old high school friend who had moved back to England after we graduated. Although she was born in the states, she’d grown up in and around London and she had really missed it when her parents moved back to the U.S. Besides, this was the seventies and the British music scene was happening. The Beatles were still the rage along with the Stones. And Shirley had always loved music.
After our time in London, on our way to the mainland, we stopped in Dover. I don’t remember why, but we ended up in a little place not far from the famous white cliffs having a bite to eat and I got my usual order of hot tea. And as our meal progressed, I mentioned to June what a wonderful cup of tea it was. And she looked at me as if to say, “Duh?” And while I admit it wasn’t on my list - having a cup of tea while gazing at the white cliffs of Dover is pretty cool.
We took the ferry to Calais and the train from there to Paris. And we wandered about, got a hotel, caught a glimpse of the Louvre and then took the el across town if I recall correctly. And when we emerged from the subway station, we were standing so close to the Eiffel Tower that I didn’t see it. I’d expected to see if off in the distance, not barely 50 feet away from me. Anyway, I glanced quizzically at June and said, “Well, where is it?” And she pointed upwards. And I looked up and back down and up again, and my eyes filled with tears. Perhaps, I’d thought I would never see it. Perhaps, I was just grateful to see it. I don’t know, but I was overwhelmed with emotion. If you haven’t been to Paris, and you’d like to go, may I suggest you do.
The tea in England is amazing. And there’s nothing quite like pizza in Italy or Bratwurst in Germany. If you’re shopping – French perfume, Italian leather, and, of course, German automobiles.
My first trip included Spain although I never made it to Portugal which is where my mother’s family is from. Indeed, Lisbon remains on my list of places to visit. Along with the pyramids. And the Nile.
So, I leave you with words from Patsy Cline’s song, You Belong to Me
See the pyramids along the Nile
Watch the sunrise on a tropic isle…

See the market place in Old Algiers
Send me photographs and souvenirs…

Please.

Christmas in July

Christmas in July

As a business woman, I’ve always gone along with the assumption that the idea of Christmas in July was basically a marketing ploy to boost retail sales during the traditionally flat summer season when folks are spending their money on vacations rather than gifts, but when I thought about writing this piece, I looked it up. Trust Wikipedia to set me straight. It seems the concept can be traced back to an opera of 1892. The opera is based on Goethe's book The Sorrows of Young Werther. I’m not familiar with either the book or the opera, but I do like discovering that the phrase is not just some slogan.
I’ve always wanted to commemorate the idea if not actually celebrate it because the Christmas in December is always so full of rushing about that I often don’t get to appreciate it until after the tinsel decked tree has been put out for the green folks to pick up. Toward that, I may have actually sent cards one year in July which I was thinking about doing this year. OK. Maybe it’s a crazy thought, but at my age I am allowed a few of those. Wouldn’t you agree?
I know why this has crossed my mind again. It’s because I’m feeling nostalgic and when I feel nostalgic, of course, I think of you – my friends old and new who are spread around the globe and with whom I rarely make contact anymore and when I do, often as not, it’s via the social media which are convenient for sure, but are not really very sociable. I’d rather share a meal with you or at least a cup of tea. In lieu of that, then, I may just send you a card.
Later this week, my high school friends and I will celebrate our 50th reunion which seems unimaginable to me. I never expected to live to be 50, let along live long enough to celebrate being out of high school for half a century. OMG! 1965 was a long time ago. And the world is truly a different place than it was then. It would take an entire book to muse about that, so I leave it for another time.
I’m also feeling a bit sad this week because one of my grandkids is at the fair with his pig for probably the last time. He’s a senior now and it’s unlikely that he’ll do another FFA project. Both he and his older brother have participated in the county fair for many years, but those days are coming to an end. And as crazy as fair week is, I will miss it. We’ve celebrated the 4th of July at the fair for so many years, I don’t know what we’ll do next year. Something different, surely.
I don’t like different. I like same. I like comfortable. When I had to do my first report for my MBA way back in ’04 I choose the tiny little book Who Moved My Cheese? It is a discussion of the effects of change and how most of us stay in denial about the need to change until the last possible moment. Or longer.
I’m facing a change at my work that may not sound all that big, but one that has had me in tears many a night since it was announced last January. My 4:30p class was cancelled and I was left facing unemployment. Fortunately, a position opened up, but the new class begins at 7p and runs til 9:20p and it’s in Escondido which isn’t much further for me, but the traffic is horrendous. It’s bumper to bumper for 10 miles. Those of you who know me, know how much I hate traffic. My students in the new class were great, but they weren’t the same. My classroom was great, but it wasn’t the same. My boss was great, but he wasn’t the same. I want my old class back, but it isn’t going to happen. I’ve been told by several of the powers-that-be to give it up. It isn’t going to happen. Let it be.
Those are “crystal words of wisdom” that I find difficult to accept.
I thought about playing some music this afternoon and I was going to kick it old school and choose a vinyl, but when I turned on my reproduction of an old record player, the cd light was on. Curious, I didn’t open the door, I just hit play. And Elvis started crooning the words to Blue Christmas. It’s a sign! I’m going to send cards. You’ll get one if I have your snail mail address. If you’ve recently moved – yet another change – you’ll need to give it to me. J and J, you know who you are.
I used to spend a lot of energy choosing my Christmas card, but I find them much easier to choose these days. In years past, I would have them imprinted with everyone’s name, but I stopped that in 1992. I don’t know why, perhaps because I was alone then, but I do remember the imprint. It said “Grandma-to-be” in celebration of one of the biggest changes of my life. And like most changes, I came to the knowledge of it kicking and screaming! And discovered, as many of you have, that being a grandma is the best present in the world!
So, here’s to you my friends. I can’t tell you to embrace whatever changes you are facing, but I can tell you that you will survive them and in many cases they will help you to thrive!
Merry Christmas!

Is There Anything More Precious?

Is there anything more precious
Than those first coos and goos
Those ten tiny toes
Before they can wear shoes?

Is there anything more precious
Than those tiny peals of laughter
So much like tinkling bells
I’ll remember forever after?

Is there anything more precious
Then that unspoken look of trust
So deep they see right thru you
And care for them you must?

Can anyone imagine
something silkier than
The soft downy fuzz upon that little neck
For this – a million miles
You’d trek

Or something warmer than
a baby’s breath upon my check?

Your grasp so sure and firm
The day you found your mouth
That sweet sucking sound
As you fed about the breast

Those silvery tiny lashes
The brows furrowed in wonder

Your tiny hand upon my neck
so fragile; so content
Asleep in granny’s arm
Now permanently bent

Lord, I’d no idea
What a gift you had in store
Once mine passed thru the rapids
(of the teen age years)
And landed safely ashore
And married and had babies
For me to now adore.

Some laugh and say the wonder
Is to send them home at night
But oh how much I miss them
Once they’re out of sight

Lord I’d no idea
What a precious treasure was
Take anything you want from me
Save these tiny few
Is they anything more precious
Then their face when they were new?

And now he comes bouncing in
With yet another question tonight
His preface?
Grandma, you know everything, right?

No.
But I do know that I love you - more than anything!

Today I Met the Boy I'm Going to Marry

School had just gotten out for the summer and I was glad it was over. My sophomore year had been my first year in high school, junior high was 7th – 9th grades back in the day, and the transition had been traumatic. Although my junior high was big, nothing could prepare you for a class of over 1,000 kids. I had been swallowed up, and it was good to be at the beach with a couple of close friends, just soaking up the sun.
We didn’t though. My friends and I were not into glamour that much and so we spent lots of time in the water not worrying about getting our hair wet or mussing our mascara.
I remember the black two piece swimsuit I was wearing that by today’s standards would be considered very conservative. And as this was just the beginning of the “Itsy Bitsy Yellow Polka Dot Bikini” days, it was fairly conservative even by the standards of the early sixties.
The year was 1963 and I wasn’t old enough to get a driver’s license yet, so my friends and I had taken the bus. I think it was a little less than 15 miles, but the bus didn’t go to the “cool” beaches of Orange County. Rather, it dropped us off in downtown Long Beach near the old Pike amusement park and we had quite a walk to Linden Beach. But there was sand and surf and that’s really all I cared about.
I hated to see folks carry their entire patios to the beach, so we came with sparse supplies: a beach towel, some coco butter, and a couple of dollars to get something to eat.
And we never brought bottled water, but I don’t remember ever being thirsty. Still can’t figure that out. Is it in the air?
Anyhow, I was laying on my back, eyes closed when someone said, “Hello.” I opened my eyes to see quite a good-looking boy standing next to me. I glanced about and saw a couple of his buddies taking it the exchange. My friends were probably also watching, but I didn’t look in their direction. Rather I met his eyes, which were a brilliant blue, and said, “Hello.”
Mind you, I was not the flirty type. I’d only been on a couple of dates and those were to chaperoned school dances. And though I had a mad crush on a boy who lived across the street, he only saw me as one of the kids who played hide and seek until the street lights came on. Besides, as a senior, he would never have given me a second thought. I did dream, however.
Still, I was new at this, but before long, the young man with the gorgeous blue eyes sat down beside me and we talked for a while, but it must have been close to the time we needed to leave because I don’t remember our going in the water again. And, soon, we were headed back to the bus stop.
On our way, we would pass the Pine Street Café, a typical 50s style diner, and my friends and I would usually stop in for something. So, we all went in. I ordered a piece of coconut cream pie. He didn’t order anything, and I’m pretty sure I paid my bill after sharing my pie with him. That should have told me something, I think, but I chose to ignore it. Besides, it may have given me the wrong message because, as it turns out, John was, if anything, a good provider.
We finished up and went to the bus stop. He and his friends waited for us until we got on the bus. They had driven down, and may have offered to drive us home, but we knew it wouldn’t be right to accept a ride from virtual strangers.
My friends and I lived in Lakewood while he and his friends lived in Norwalk. I googled it recently and found out that it’s only about 15 minutes by car. But, back then, without a car and without a license, it seemed like an impossibly long distance.
When I got home, I told my mother that I’d met the boy I was going to marry. And I think I sang along with Darlene Love and her song of a similar name from then on.
Although I don’t remember, I must have given John my phone number because this began the anxious waiting-for-the-phone-to-ring agony for the first time in my life. I cringe every time I watch the movie, “He’s Just Not That Into You” because I was crazy obsessive about him. Why?
To this day, I have no idea. Why do we obsess? Why did I obsess? I was 15 years old. What was I worried about?
Perhaps it doesn’t matter. We grew up a bit. Got married. Had a family. And lived, well, maybe not happily ever after, but we had a good life. And I will always remember June 20th.

Plan A

As the melody of Pomp and Circumstance comes to a close, as the last graduate walks across the platform, and after the mortars are thrown into the air, your education comes to an end and your “real” life begins. This same new beginning also happens when the echo of Here Comes the Bride quietly ends, and the bridal party leaves the church, and after your dad makes a toast. And it may also happen when your newborn’s cry welcomes you to parenthood. Graduations, weddings, births – all of these mean new beginnings and the end of what is familiar. Change can be both exciting and scary.
If you’re finishing high school, you may be going on to college. Are you starting at the local community college? Do you know where you’ll transfer? Or did you choose a four year university? Do you know what you’re going to major in? After you get a bachelor’s degree, will you go on for a master’s? In what? So many questions. So many answers. But none that haven’t been considered by every generation before yours. And none that yours won’t find answers to.
I graduated from high school 50 years ago this month. It’s so hard to believe. Our mantra was, “Never trust anyone over 30.” And here I am in my late 60s. Those were heady days of hippies and pot and the Beatles. And it was John Lennon who said, "Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans.” I was soon to discover how right he was - as perhaps you are just now discovering.
There weren’t many career opportunities for women when I finished high school. Basically, you could be a secretary or a teacher or a nurse. If you didn’t want to go to school any more, you’d probably opt to become a secretary, although you still needed some training. Most secretaries needed to be pretty good typists and many took a night course in stenography at least. Stenography was an abbreviated spelling system that allowed people to write down information that was dictated to them – before tape recorders. Anyway, as I wasn’t much good at typing, I was down to two choices. And as I couldn’t even imagine four or five more years of school, I didn’t consider teaching. So, I headed for nursing.
At the time, nurses were trained in what was a three year basically on the job program at a hospital, but a new avenue was just beginning. The community college had just started offering a degree in nursing that took only two years. In order to prepare for that one had to take a bunch of science and math courses in high school which I’d done. And then I’d applied for the new program at the local community college. I had a plan.
For my high school graduation, I’d given myself a trip to the east coast to visit my boyfriend who was in the Navy and stationed just outside of Boston. My Godparents lived on Martha’s Vineyard and would be doing the chaperoning. Things were different then, you know. After visiting with him, I’d planned on seeing my two older sisters. One lived in Chicago and the other in Fort Madison, Iowa. I was going to be gone a month.
While I was gone on my trip, the college called my home to tell me to come in for an interview. My mother called me in Massachusetts. I asked her to call the school back and reschedule my interview. I’d scraped and saved for nearly a year to pay for this trip; I wasn’t going to cut it short.
When I got home and the time came for my rescheduled interview, the woman in charge told me that the nursing program was closed for that year and though I was well qualified, I would have to wait until the following autumn when a new class would begin. It was as if someone had hit me in the stomach – hard.
At 17, being told to wait a year was like being told to wait 10. Years did not fly by then as they do now. Now I would surely realize that a year is not such a long time, but then it sounded like forever.
I’d taken biology and physiology. I’d taken enough math classes to be an engineer. I had it all planned. I’d finish my nursing courses in two years just when my boyfriend would be getting out of the service. Then we’d get married and I’d get a job at a hospital and… That was my plan and it did not include waiting around for a year to get into school.
The woman who’d given me the bad news suggested that I take some of the general education classes that I would have to take anyway, so I enrolled for a few classes. My heart was not in it though and I dropped out after a few weeks. I hadn’t realized there was a “drop” procedure when I left school. A couple of my teachers took pity on me and gave me a W, but my English teacher gave me a D. Why she didn’t just give me an F, I have no idea, but I still have that darn D on my transcript. What next?
But life doesn’t wait for you to make up your mind. And my mom and I got into it about something, so I decided to leave home. I got a roommate and an apartment. We couldn’t even get a phone because neither of us was 18 and, therefore, couldn’t sign a contract. But it was fun and scary.
In order to rent an apartment I needed a full time job, so I quit my part time retail gig and got a full time job at the bank where my roommate worked. Before becoming a teller and then working my way up to the position of GL bookkeeper, I’d started out as a switchboard operator. And while there are still tellers in banks today, the telephone operators gave way to touchtone phones. As a bookkeeper, I used a huge machine called a nine out machine to do my daily calculations. It was a kind of adding machine, these being the days before calculators. It wasn’t long before the bookkeeping jobs were taken over by computers.
My boyfriend did get out of the service in two years, but I’d settled in at the bank and never did go to nursing school. And life has thrown me many a curve ball since that summer of ’65. As it will you. In fact, you can count on it. Just about the time you get settled or comfortable, something will happen to shake up your world.
One of my favorite old sayings is Desiderata which says that the world is no doubt unfolding as it should. It also says that you are a child of the universe, no less than the trees or the stars! Be gentle with yourself.

Turtle Dumb

A few years ago my adult daughter acquired three water turtles. I don’t remember where she got them, just that they appeared as the latest addition to her menagerie which includes cows and horses and chickens besides the dogs and cats that call her house home.
Anyone who knows Sarah knows that she loves animals. Anyone who knows me knows that I don’t. I have loved pets that I’ve owned, but that’s on a one-at-a-time basis. Sarah likes all creatures all of the time. Thus it was not surprising for 3 turtles to become part of her life.
Their home was in a plastic children’s wading pool and they loved it. They’d climb up on the rocks placed there for them and lie in the sun for hours. They didn’t seem to mind if I watched them, but if I got too close they would jump into the water and hide as they do from prey in the wild. They seemed to enjoy each other’s company and they grew and thrived as they paddled about their watery home.
A couple of years ago, like the rest of the gang, they made the move back to Fallbrook with the family. And their home was quickly relocated to a spot in the year near the steps to the house that provided both sun and shade. And they seemed happy enough. Until one day.
One day, the first person outside noticed that there were only two turtles in the pool. And a frantic search ensued. I wondered if one of the cats had finally made a catch. They used to sit nearby and tease the turtles, but I’d never imagined that they’d hurt one of them. But what other answer. The dogs ignored them. And the turtles had seemed contended enough. Why would one take off?
We pondered this for a few months before a second one also decided to explore the great outdoors or became catnip. I still wonder about that. And the one who remained seemed sad to me swimming around in what was now a big area without his two buddies.
Not long after the second turtle went missing, my grandson, who’d been staying with me for a season, decided that he wanted a pet. And so he bought a tank and a tank-sized rock and a filter and set the lone turtle up in his new home in my living room in my tiny condo where he seems happy enough. He still lets me watch him, but will hit the water the minute I get to close or make a loud noise. But we understand each other. I feed him. And he tolerates me.
As it is almost always chilly in Oceanside, John rigged up a lamp and the turtle’s greatest pleasure is to lie on the rock just inches from the light bulb and bask in the warmth of it as if he were in the desert where I suspect he’d be happier. Except for the lack of water. He and I agree about that. We can’t be far from the water although I prefer the salt water of the ocean while he enjoys the fresh water from the tap.
And all has been well for many months now until the other day when Sarah’s youngest was outside playing with a water gun and aimed it at a rock looking thing only to realize it was a turtle. Now we don’t know if it is escapee number one or wanderer number two, but he’s back. And, of course, nothing else would do except to bring him to my house to reunite him with his buddy. And that seemed to be working okay until a few minutes ago when I noticed that the new arrival had apparently climbed up on the rock and when the former sole surviving turtle spied his old friend on the one and only rock, he proceeded to climb up on top of him.
I got a great picture before they heard me and plunged back into the depths of their tank. Perhaps, I need to explain the concept of a selfie to them as I’m sure they can see their reflection in the glass.

The Way We Were

I love looking at the facebook posts you send. I like to see the new pictures that keep me up on what you’re doing in your life, but I think I enjoy it even more when you repost an old picture because it gets me to thinking of how we were.

The Way We Were is one of my favorite movies, and most of you know that I often teach English Thru Film – partly because I love movies. Anyway, in this Robert Redford and Barbra Streisand romance, the two meet years after going to college together. And they reminisce about how much each of them has changed. Great movie. You should see it.
And it reminds me of you, my students, and how you make my life worth living.

Those of you at CSUSM may have noticed the posters all over asking WGYLM – What Gives Your Life Meaning? It’s an interesting question isn’t it? I’ve been pondering it all week. I’ve asked my Speaking class to consider this question as the topic for their next talk. And I’d encourage all of you to consider it – if just for a moment.

My first thought was my family. My second thought was my students. In so many ways, you give my life meaning. You have given my life meaning for the last 20 years when I left a high-powered (and high paying???) business position to begin teaching ESL.

My very first class was a crazy mix of cultures and creatures. One man was an Israel Jew who celebrated his 50th birthday with us. Shalom! Next to him sat a young Saudi Arab who wasn’t old enough to drink – even if he’d wanted to. Inshallah! Around the table sat several ladies. One young Japanese girl was engaged to an American. A Korean woman of the same age was very traditional and would not have dated an American for all the tea in China. Speaking of, one woman in her mid-twenties was from the People’s Republic and bore herself very regally. Her father was some very high official. And next to her sat a slightly older woman who had immigrated to the U.S. from Taiwan and was busy raising a family here.

By all accounts, we should have been at each other’s throats, but we weren’t. We laughed and teased and struggled together. I’d hosted many exchange students who were the first to show me that culture didn’t matter all that much. And these folks in my first class proved it. I’d long suspected that we, the human creatures, are much more alike than different and they showed me how true that is as you continue to do – every day. Sure, I know it’s fun for the Brazilians to hang out with others from Brazil, but I saw how many cried when several of their Japanese friends went home last year.

Yesterday, at the International Fair, we came together to share our differences. What a concept. What fun.

It’s true that I am a child of the 60s when our motto was “Make Love Not War.” And I suppose to some extent, I’ve held onto that, but it has been you - my students - who have taught me how very precious relationships are. How special each moment can be. And I’m writing this to thank you – publicly – for the privilege of being in your lives even for a moment. And I hope that you will always remember me and the way we were.

My Friend

Do you have to go?
I know other people have need
Of your smiling face
And sweet disposition,
But I will miss you so.

Do you have to go?
I know we will talk and text
And keep in touch somehow
Of this I’m sure, my friend,
But I will miss you so.

Do you have to go?
I know it’s not far away
And there is a train, it’s true
Or even the busy freeways
But I will miss you so.

Must you go, my friend?
Years ago you said
We’d stay in touch
And that has meant so much.
But I will miss you so.

Do you have to go?
I can’t keep from crying
When I think of times gone by
You’ve been such a dear friend
And I will miss you so.

People are often given gifts. I am often given gifts. Especially as a teacher, I frequently find myself the recipient of a gift of one kind or another. Just this semester, I’ve been given some interesting candy from Iran and some yummy ripe avocados from someone’s garden. And both of these surprised me because I took over this class in the third week of the semester after another teacher quit having accepted a full time job elsewhere. I was delighted because my own class had been canceled and I was facing unemployment and a very tight budget, but I had been a bit worried that the class would not warm to me. Nobody likes changes. The gifts made me feel as if I’d passed some unwritten exam students always give teachers, especially a teacher who replaces another.
Sometimes, the gifts we are given are a bit off in one sense or another. Last semester, for instance, I was given a great blouse. It was black and white with a nice pattern. I don’t remember if it was for my birthday or just because. The problem was it was really, really big. I felt bad that I never wore it and just hope my student, an older woman, didn’t notice. She would have felt worse, I think, if I had tried to explain that it didn’t fit especially as the language barrier might have meant that I couldn’t really explain the situation very well.
That same semester, another woman also gave me a blouse. It was from her country – a cute sleeveless summer number, white with blue embroidery. Sadly, though, this gift was in memory of her sister who had just passed away. Unfortunately, that blouse was way too small. Recently, I gave the big one to the Goodwill in a bag with other things that didn’t fit, but I kept this one. Maybe someday it will fit me.
I hung it in my closet next to a couple of other gifts – both dresses and both given to me some years ago. One is a blue and white yukata, the informal dress of Japan. The other is a bright pink kimono, the formal traditional dress for women.
They remind me of my first visit to Japan. It was during the 1980s and though I knew the Japanese were very “westernized,” I had expected to see kimonos on the street. I’d at least thought that the older women, maybe the grandmothers, would still wear traditional outfits, but I didn’t see one. Everyone was dressed in western clothes from the bustling sophisticated capital of Tokyo to the little mountain towns in northern Honshu. No one wore a kimono.
I was given many gifts during that trip to Japan and I was happy to regift several of them. It’s not something I like to do, and it wasn’t done very often back then, but how many pairs of chopsticks can one use?
I love to receive gifts, but I confess that I don’t really like to give them unless I’m sure what the person wants or needs or, at least, would be pleased with. I often give my students silly, little gifts and they always act pleased, but I wouldn’t try to give them a real gift – like for a birthday. Besides the fact that I couldn’t afford to give every student a birthday gift, I’d be afraid that it wouldn’t fit or it wouldn’t work or it wouldn’t be used for one reason or another.
Case in point. One of my students a year or so ago, gave me a very colorful serving dish set. There was a good sized bowl with a lid to keep tortillas warm and a couple of smaller bowls for salsa or guacamole. I really liked the bright warm colors and, as I’m married to a Mexican, I do often have tortillas on the table. And this set was cute. The handle of the lid was an upright jalapeno pepper, but I had been going through a season of downsizing – trying to just get rid of things I didn’t need or absolutely love. So, I just didn’t want it. How does one say that? Well, of course, you don’t. You just add it to a shelf already brimming with knick knacks and bric-a-brac. In this case, I compromised. I kept the two little bowls and donated the tortilla warmer. I’m sure someone saw it and loved it. The truth, though, is that I haven’t the smaller bowls either.
Once in a while, though, a gift is perfect.
A few years ago, I began reading The Winds of War. It’s a fictionalized account of the events leading up to WWII. I’d always had a passing interest in the great war, and I had read several accounts of the Holocaust and some about Pearl Harbor, but this book really opened up that interest and I’ve read several books since and become something of a history buff.
Anyway, when I started with this work of Herman Wouk I knew that there was a second volume called War and Remembrance. And I started it sometime after reading the first book not realizing that this book I was reading was actually the second volume of a two book set – a compliment to the author. His characters were so well developed that I jumped right in to the story which took place several years later with barely a hiccup.
I don’t remember how nor when I realized that I was reading Volume II and that there was a Volume I, but when I discovered it, I was really disappointed. Here I was essentially reading the third part of a trilogy without having read the middle. And I shared my disappointment with a fellow teacher as we talked over lunch one day.
Meanwhile, I tried to find the “missing” volume which turned out to be quite a chore. Everyone that was selling a copy was, of course, selling it along with the companion book. Duh? I tried on-line, Amazon and ebay, I dug thru stacks of musty books on many a used book store’s shelves, and I spent several Saturdays combing through garage sale finds. Eventually, I put it out of my mind.
It was easy enough to find the book to read - thanks to the public library, but I wanted a copy for my personal library. I don’t keep very many books really, and I had been culling what I had but I was sure I wanted this set, especially now that I knew it was a set. Thus, I was thrilled when my friend, Dr. C, quite casually gave me a copy that she’d found in a thrift store. It even had a matching dust jacket. I was tickled. It wasn’t my birthday. It wasn’t expected. It wasn’t even anticipated, but it was perfect. Knowing how to give that kind of gift is a gift. Thank you!

March roared in like a lion bringing record breaking temperature thru much of the state and I took advantage of the high temps to take my first swim of the year. As I’d invited a couple of the grandkids to go along, I went during visitors’ swim hours and found lots of young uns accompanying their grandparents, splashing around and having a good time. Amid the laughter, I did my 20 minutes, wrapped myself in a towel and headed to the car.
This week the temperatures are back to their normal low 70s, but as soon as the clouds passed over yesterday, I was off to the pool. And even tho I’d invited the youngest grandson to go with, he opted out, but I still found myself at the pool during visitors' swim time. Happily, though, this time I found myself alone.
I’m lucky to have two pools here, one is heated and one is not, and the unheated one doesn’t warm up until well into August in my mind, so I pretty much stick to the heated one and this was no exception. The only other folks were taking some sun near the water of the colder pool, which was separated from me by a concrete patio and a big storage box where the pool cover for “my” pool is kept. Thus, I couldn’t really see the older gent and the young woman was facing the other direction. Life, I thought to myself, really doesn’t get any better.
The water was clean. Last week, it hadn’t looked as nice and I’d fought with lots of bees for space in the deeper end. I explain to the creatures who invade us here that I don’t mind sharing space, but this is mine and that – somewhere, almost anywhere else - is theirs. But this week, the bees must have been busy elsewhere because I didn’t see a one.
One lap walking, one lap jogging, and yet another actually swimming. First the breast stroke, then the side stroke, and finally lazily the back stroke. Seriously, is there anything better that floating in warm water basking in the warm sun of a late spring morning?
As a beach person, I suppose there really is something better, but the water in the Pacific didn’t get the memo from the sun that it’s been hotter than hell on the ground, so it still feels frigid. So, for now, the heated pool. Thank you.
A few stretches at the wall, some more lazy laps – punch the arms down, swing them from side to side – get this full body thing going. And then the glorious lazy lap on my back. Wishing the pool was longer, although I think it’s regulation size, I could have floated on forever.
Not once did I think about my grueling schedule at work. Not once did I think about my impossible retirement situation. Not once did I think about my crazy ass husband and what he might be up to. I just let my mind drift along with my body and we sank ever so slightly into the womb of water.
After my 20 minutes, I admitted that I wasn’t even beginning to feel tired, so I opted for 5 minutes more. After 25 minutes, I decided to go for a half hour. And I was loving every minute. How could this be called exercise? How could this divine sensation actually be good for you?
OK! 30+ minutes, let’s get out. And I reluctantly floated over to the stairs and pulled myself out of the water, walked over to the lawn chair where I’d left my towel and wrapped it around me noticing as I did that the older fellow had moved into the shade off to my left.
A few minutes earlier, I had heard a loud splash and thought that either he or the young woman had decided to take a dip, but he looked dry and the woman was still prone face down. Putting on my glasses, I saw that we did have a guest and I said so to the older fellow. He didn’t hear me. He’s probably a bit hard of hearing. Many people are in this old folks community where I live. So, raised my voice and said again, “It looks like we have a guest.”
“Oh, you mean the duck?”
“Yes.” I replied although I wasn’t altogether sure it was a duck. We have a lot of bird species here on this bluff near the ocean and rabbits by the ton and coyotes in packs, but I’d never seen any ducks before. Hmmm.
“Well, he visited with you first, but as you ignored him, he left and went into the other pool.”
I looked again wishing I'd had my camera as he went gliding past the 8 foot marker. “Oh." I answered thinking that I hadn't even had to explain to him that this is my space.

The Luck o’ the Irish
My mother was brought up in a Catholic boarding school and most of the kids went home for the holidays, and some didn’t. My mother and her sister, Alice, were two that stayed on throughout the year.
And despite her sadness my mother had some funny stories to tell that would make the “The Trouble of Angels” seem boring in contrast. One of my favorites is the story of going to confession. Apparently one of the older priests was very hard of hearing, and thus the privacy of the confessional was broken when he’d asked: You did what? With whom? My mother said she’d wait in much longer lines to avoid going to him, but sometimes the nuns would step in and redistribute the reticent sinners.
Apparently the nuns wore their rosary beads around their waists, so you could hear them coming from quite far off. That saved my mom’s neck a time or two from being caught in what I’m sure were venial sins.
Coming of age there as she did, she knew nothing about the facts of life. She only knew that the older girls were cloistered periodically. Of course, she later realized it must have been when they were having their periods, but at the time, she thought they’d done something awfully bad. When she herself started, she thought she was dying and had somehow brought it upon herself, so she was afraid to tell anyone.
My mother’s parents were both Portuguese. My grandmother was from the Azores and my grandfather was from Cape Verde. And given Cape Verde’s history, it is highly likely that he had a Black ancestor or two. Of course, when I was growing up in the 60s that would have been a taboo admission, so my mother never ever told me. In fact, she always emphasized the fact that he had blue eyes. Nonetheless, my two older sisters looked like pickaninny dolls. I inherited my father’s coloring, however, and as a result thought I must have been adopted.
Somehow, my mother was a great cook although she didn’t know anything about Portuguese food. She cooked Italian. She learned to cook Southern for my Dad who was from Texas, and because there were a fair share of Irish priests, she learned to cook a corned beef that was to die for. My Dad was Irish and he loved her Irish meals.
After I grew up, I figured I would be able to just wander into the kitchen as she had and wander out with a meal. But being a cook isn’t hereditary, and my exploits in the kitchen were often disasters.
Not long after I got married, I tried my hand with a corned beef brisket. I cut the potatoes and peeled the carrots and shredded the cabbage. And it smelled terrific, but by the time I thought it was done, it was harder than the blarney stone. You literally could not cut it with a knife. Nor was there any simply pulling off onto your plate.
My husband thought it was funny and would regale future guests for some time with the story of my St. Patrick’s Day disaster. He even went so far as to give it to the dog who wouldn’t eat it either. Of course, he shared that part of the story, too. The dog was named Kitty, though, so one can’t pay any attention to his tastes.
My husband and I were married for over 20 years, and separated for 10 or so more before he passed away at age 50. And in the nearly 20 years since, I have never again tried my hand at a St. Patrick’s Day meal.
As I am much smarter than any dog named Kitty, I have instead made friends with several folks of Irish descent who kindly invite me to share their lovely meals. And I had the good fortune to have a smart son who married an Irish lass who can cook a St. Patrick’s Day meal to die for.
Yesterday, on 3/16, one of my dearest friends, invited me to her house for an early St. Patrick’s Day dinner. And it was wonderful. Another Irish lass brought soda bread. Oh my. I was stuffed on my way home, but I woke up this morning with a taste for Ireland lingering.
So, I got up and went to the store and bought a brisket. I came home and found a recipe for a slow cooker that seemed similar to the one Ally used. She said the special flavor came from the Guiness. And perhaps it did.
I quartered the small red potatoes, cut the carrots into fairly uniform-sized pieces, and added the 4 cups of water. Then I placed the corned beef on top of the vegetables and poured six ounces of Imported Extra Stout Guiness over it. And then sprinkled the seasonings on top of that. I put the lid on and turned the slow cooker on high as the recipe suggested. I cooked it for 8 and a half hours only opening the pot an hour before to put in the shredded cabbage.
About an hour ago, I sat down to eat. And it was wonderful. After 50 some years, Danny Boy, I finally had the courage to try it again. Faith and Begorrah! I know there are Irish eyes smiling and I hear the bagpipes calling.

Taz's Escape

A few weeks ago, Sarah, my daughter, brought me a dog to “look after” for a bit. John, my grandson, is happy as a clam to have him here with us, but I have had my doubts.
Taz is an English bull dog that was given to Sarah by the owner because he had an eye problem that the vet wouldn’t work on because Taz has a hole in his heart making the eye surgery too risky. Indeed, the doctor didn’t give Taz long to live. Sarah, always an easy mark when it comes to four legged critters, took him in. That was over two years ago. And I’m happy to report that he’s doing well. And after only a few weeks, I want to get the sticker that says “Who rescued who?” and put it on my car.
His claim to fame is that he plays a mean game of soccer. He arrived here with one toy – a beat-up partially deflated soccer ball. And he is the original ball hog. No passing from him. It’s his ball by golly and if you try to take it, well, let’s just say he’s as stubborn a bulldog as you’ve ever meet.
I love to play soccer and wish I had a big yard so we could run around. As it is, I’ve wounded myself twice as we play in and around a picnic table, an antique Z, and two bicycles. It’s a little crowded, but it’s what we have. We make do.
Until the other day. Apparently, Taz decided to explore and poked his big fat head under the fence near my neighbor’s orange tree. And he snagged one that was growing on a branch quite low to the ground. It’s so big that I thought it must be a grapefruit, but its bright orange color gave it away. My Dad would have said it’s a Texas orange since, of course, they grow everything bigger and better in Texas than we do in CA. Regardless, Taz loves having two soccer balls and actually seems to prefer the organic one as he will let me have the old dirty rubber one if it looks like I might get close to the orange one.
Shortly after his escapade, which reminded me that his name is after all a short form of Tasmanian Devil, he decided to scoot all the way under the fence and go for a visit. Problem! My neighbor doesn’t have a gate, so Taz found himself FREE once he escaped from my enclosed area. Fortunately, my neighbor had company visiting who saw the escape and alerted me. I was able to coax Taz back into my tiny yard with his soccer ball. And then I had to barricade the fence line with trash cans and a fold out cot pending a trip to Home Depot for some more permanent means of keeping him in.
I wasn’t negligent. Really! If you could see the distance between the bottom of our wooden fence and the ground and compare it to Taz’s girth, you would say – any observant person – would say there’s no way that big Telly Tubby of a dog could get under there. But by looking at him, you’d also think he wouldn’t play soccer very well either, but I’m here to tell you differently. When I kick the ball, he can get from the back door, down the driveway, to the gate in little more than a split second – leaping over any obstacles like a gazelle before bracing himself to come to a screeching halt – ball back in mouth, looking at me with a victorious grin as if he’d just made a goal in the World Cup.
Sadly, though, he realized today that the organic soccer ball was indeed edible and decided to consume it. Interesting enough, he only ate the inside, the pulp, and left the rind as a souvenir, I guess.
Gotta get me a yard!