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.
Wednesday, June 3, 2015
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.
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.
Friday, April 10, 2015
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.
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.
Thursday, April 9, 2015
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.
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.
Saturday, March 28, 2015
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!
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!
Sunday, March 22, 2015
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 17, 2015
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.
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.
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