As we watched the Texas game on TV earlier this fall, I suddenly sat up straight and yelled, "Honey! It's Woody!" There beaming out at us from our television screen was the indomitable Woody Hayes--or so I thought for a fleeting second.
Woody Hayes went on to football heaven back in 1987 where I'm sure he's coaching a team again beneath a grove of buckeye trees. He was a complex man, dedicated to his football team and, believe it or not, education. I remember his passion as he spoke to encourage our future teachers group to strive for better education--to be a part of the solution--and yes, I'm sure he said something about winning the game.
Mr. Roger Thomas, a soybean and corn broker from Tipp City, has found himself in the uncanny position of being a look-alike Woody Hayes. And he's having all kinds of fun with it! Thanks to a Cleveland Plain Dealer story, the mystery behind the look-alike has been solved. I thought maybe some well-meaning booster had hired him to evoke the spirit of Woody football but it turns out Mr. Thomas is doing it all himself. A big "Thank You!" to him for resurrecting some wonderful memories to spur us on to victory.
Three yards and a cloud of dust! Here we come! Go Bucks!!
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
That School Up North
This is the big week! The big game! The one all Buckeyes look forward to for the whole season no matter what the standings.
We went to school in the days of Woody Hayes. He never called it M-m-m. . . (gosh, just can't say it). He always refered to that other university as "that school up north."
I watched last week as Indiana played "TSUN". It was in Indiana's stadium. Our game with Northwestern was played in their stadium. Both were televised at 3:30 and we switched between the channels to watch the scores almost copy each other. What amazed me though was that the Northwestern stadium had a tremendous amount of scarlet mixed in with their purple. While Indiana's crowd had little blue and maize that we could see. As a matter of fact, at one point the shot of the crowd showed a lot of empty seats. Hmmm. Could the Buckeyes be better fans?
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Sentimental Effusions of the Heart
How many times have you heard a man end the conversation on a phone with the words, "Me too"? You know what's happened. The woman on the other end has just said, "I love you," and he's not willing to say those words and be overheard.
While reading Founding Mothers by Cokie Roberts, I had to chuckle at Abigail Adams. She was having the same problem with John albeit by correspondence not by cell phone. They were separated while John was off to Congress in Philadelphia. She missed him terribly and longed for him to write those words all wives want to hear from their men. Things were not simply written back then but her point was clear when she wrote, "I want some sentimental effusions of the heart. I am sure you are not destitute of them or are they all abosorbed in the great public."
I don't know if John answered properly but the story goes on that shortly thereafter, his correspondence to his wife was embarrassingly intercepted by the British. Not only was he more careful not to expose patriots in his correspondence, but I'm sure his "effusions of the heart" were veiled as well.
While reading Founding Mothers by Cokie Roberts, I had to chuckle at Abigail Adams. She was having the same problem with John albeit by correspondence not by cell phone. They were separated while John was off to Congress in Philadelphia. She missed him terribly and longed for him to write those words all wives want to hear from their men. Things were not simply written back then but her point was clear when she wrote, "I want some sentimental effusions of the heart. I am sure you are not destitute of them or are they all abosorbed in the great public."
I don't know if John answered properly but the story goes on that shortly thereafter, his correspondence to his wife was embarrassingly intercepted by the British. Not only was he more careful not to expose patriots in his correspondence, but I'm sure his "effusions of the heart" were veiled as well.
Monday, November 06, 2006
Founding Mothers
For our book discussion group this month, we are reading Founding Mothers by Cokie Roberts (Harper Collins). It's a little slow reading because of all the quoting Roberts does from the correspondence of the women who "mothered" our founding fathers--sometimes even though they were the wives.
At the very start, my attention was captured by the story of Eliza Lucas Pinckney. At age 16, she was left in charge of all of her father's plantations, an ailing mother and toddler sister while her father went of to Antigua to fight in the war and her brothers were off in England being educated. This amazing young woman managed multiple plantations, researched her best business opportunities for exports, and studied and researched how to grow indigo to become an important importer of indigo to Europe. (Indigo was used to make blue dye--especially for military uniforms). Eventually, after much trial and error--and ridicule, she succeeded in growing the indigo and extracting a dye from it. She passed along the seeds to some of the farmers around her in an effort to make South Carolina a source of important exports to England.
Needless to say, Eliza didn't have much time for the frivolities of life although her uncle did try to encourage her to lighten up. At age 22, she finally married Charles Pinckney, who was 45.
I understand that it was a different era, but for a woman--a teen-aged woman--to have been that successful and determined is truly remarkable for any period in history. I can't help but wonder if she didn't learn more than those brothers who were sent off to England for their education.
I read on. . .
At the very start, my attention was captured by the story of Eliza Lucas Pinckney. At age 16, she was left in charge of all of her father's plantations, an ailing mother and toddler sister while her father went of to Antigua to fight in the war and her brothers were off in England being educated. This amazing young woman managed multiple plantations, researched her best business opportunities for exports, and studied and researched how to grow indigo to become an important importer of indigo to Europe. (Indigo was used to make blue dye--especially for military uniforms). Eventually, after much trial and error--and ridicule, she succeeded in growing the indigo and extracting a dye from it. She passed along the seeds to some of the farmers around her in an effort to make South Carolina a source of important exports to England.
Needless to say, Eliza didn't have much time for the frivolities of life although her uncle did try to encourage her to lighten up. At age 22, she finally married Charles Pinckney, who was 45.
I understand that it was a different era, but for a woman--a teen-aged woman--to have been that successful and determined is truly remarkable for any period in history. I can't help but wonder if she didn't learn more than those brothers who were sent off to England for their education.
I read on. . .
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Courage--Michael J. Fox
Caught in a maelstrom of criticism and controversy, Michael J. Fox has exhibited the courage it takes to face some of life's most difficult challenges--first, his disease; second, public opinion. Issues aside, he has had to deal with a disease that will probably continue to gnaw at his quality of life and in the end, his very life. It's not a pretty disease. Putting yourself in the public eye when you can't control your body's physical movement takes an extraordinary amount of courage. No one wants to be that kind of poster child and yet, because of the public awareness he has brought, there will be greater understanding of the ravages of Parkinson's.
Public opinion always has two sides. One is supportive and the other tears down and can become ugly. No matter what side of the issue you stand on, you have to admire his determination to pursue his belief that this type of stem cell research is the answer. I wonder how many of us would have the fortitude to put ourselves in such a position given the same circumstances?
Agree or disagree, he deserves a round of applause for his courage.
Public opinion always has two sides. One is supportive and the other tears down and can become ugly. No matter what side of the issue you stand on, you have to admire his determination to pursue his belief that this type of stem cell research is the answer. I wonder how many of us would have the fortitude to put ourselves in such a position given the same circumstances?
Agree or disagree, he deserves a round of applause for his courage.
Friday, October 27, 2006
Segway to the future?
Last week we were privileged to go on another cruise. (DH can't pass up a good bargain.) In Cozumel, we had the opportunity to try out the newer mode of transportation on foot: the segway. It was a real hoot!
We learned how to start it up and step on without wiggling back and forth. Then our instructor had us practice on an obstacle course of cones to get the hang of turning. Your natural inclination is to turn the handle bars but the turning mechanism is actually in the left handle bar. You rotate the handle left or right--slowly.
After about a half hour of practice we were ready to head out on an excursion. He took us down to a blue hole and then on to a beach where we had the option to snorkel. The sensation of moving along by simply leaning forward a bit and stopping by leaning back was exciting. After a while, we were actually able to stand in one place by balancing our weight--sort of like on a bike.
Unfortunately I would have to pass on a segway as my mode of transportation. It didn't exercise your legs much and I don't do well standing still for long periods of time. My toes started to fall asleep. So much for segwaying my way into the future.
Friday, October 20, 2006
The Difference a Word Makes
We toured the Kennedy Space Center today. It made me feel old. . .very old. The tour guide told the kids and their parents about how people back in those days watched on TV as Neil Armstrong stepped on the moon. Yup. That was me. We watched with our neighbors from the upstairs apartment.
Apparently there was a lot of consideration given to what he would say when he placed that first foot in the moon dust. NASA officials had actually written the words, “That’s one small step for a man. One giant leap for mankind.” Armstrong however, decided that he didn’t want to focus any attention on his accomplishment alone. It wasn’t just a man who was landing on the moon, it was representative of thousands of men and women working years to get to that point. When he stepped off the ladder, he omitted the little “a” before man and made it “That’s one small step for man. One giant leap for mankind.” In doing so, he included all those who had worked on the space project as well as those of us with him in spirit as we watched on TV.
What a difference that one little word made.
Apparently there was a lot of consideration given to what he would say when he placed that first foot in the moon dust. NASA officials had actually written the words, “That’s one small step for a man. One giant leap for mankind.” Armstrong however, decided that he didn’t want to focus any attention on his accomplishment alone. It wasn’t just a man who was landing on the moon, it was representative of thousands of men and women working years to get to that point. When he stepped off the ladder, he omitted the little “a” before man and made it “That’s one small step for man. One giant leap for mankind.” In doing so, he included all those who had worked on the space project as well as those of us with him in spirit as we watched on TV.
What a difference that one little word made.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Word of the Day--oeuvre
Are you like me? Do you read along in books or articles and come across a word that makes you stumble? Depending on the level I'm reading, I often have to sit with a dictionary at my side.
Well, this morning, I was enjoying a second cup of coffee and perusing (I looked that up--impressed?) my new copy of Writers Digest. There was a great story about a new book, fiction, that gives an account of the mysterious death of Edgar Allan Poe. It uses the author's extensive research to propose a theory of why he died. I was intently reading, or perusing, when I suddenly fell flat on my face as my eyes hit the word, oeuvre.
At first I thought it had something to do with hors d'oeuvres. After all, it has the word oeuvres in it. But no, they weren't talking about food. I tried to fit it into the sentence to figure it out and failed. Webster was all the way in the den and even though I called out to him, he didn't answer.
I shrugged it off, finished the article and went on to read another. Bam! there it was again-twice in the same magazine! Well, that was too much. I hauled Webster out of the den and flipped him open. Sure enough, there was such a word without the appetizing reference to food. According to Webster, oeuvre means a substantial body of work constituting the lifework of a writer, an artist, or a composer.
Hmmm. Makes sense. I was reading about writers. But it's close relationship to hors d'oeuvres has me craving chips and salsa. Go figure. Guess I'll peruse the pantry next.
Well, this morning, I was enjoying a second cup of coffee and perusing (I looked that up--impressed?) my new copy of Writers Digest. There was a great story about a new book, fiction, that gives an account of the mysterious death of Edgar Allan Poe. It uses the author's extensive research to propose a theory of why he died. I was intently reading, or perusing, when I suddenly fell flat on my face as my eyes hit the word, oeuvre.
At first I thought it had something to do with hors d'oeuvres. After all, it has the word oeuvres in it. But no, they weren't talking about food. I tried to fit it into the sentence to figure it out and failed. Webster was all the way in the den and even though I called out to him, he didn't answer.
I shrugged it off, finished the article and went on to read another. Bam! there it was again-twice in the same magazine! Well, that was too much. I hauled Webster out of the den and flipped him open. Sure enough, there was such a word without the appetizing reference to food. According to Webster, oeuvre means a substantial body of work constituting the lifework of a writer, an artist, or a composer.
Hmmm. Makes sense. I was reading about writers. But it's close relationship to hors d'oeuvres has me craving chips and salsa. Go figure. Guess I'll peruse the pantry next.
Monday, October 09, 2006
Dreaming
It's election time. Are you tired of the ads yet? I am.
They are beginning to get down and dirty now. The other guy is never any good--doesn't matter how many other elections he won or what he may have accomplished on the way to the election, he's just no good. It amazes me the amount of money that is spent to tell me how bad the opposition is. Did it ever occur to the campaigners and their managers that I might want to know what makes them so good that I should vote for them?
We have one ad in our area that says some people just aren't right for the job and shows an obese man sitting in a chair, eating a donut and leading an aerobics class. Another says that the opponent had the audacity to defend child sex offenders. Huh? I thought everyone had right to an attorney. Isn't that what the public defenders' office is for?
Wouldn't it be interesting if for some reason--a law say--candidates were required to state only what their plan is should they be elected? They would not be allowed to say anything derogatory about their opponent only what they themselves have done to prepare for the job. The voters would actually have to make a decision based on whose plan of action, whose experience might be best suited for the job.
Wow. Now that's really dreaming.
They are beginning to get down and dirty now. The other guy is never any good--doesn't matter how many other elections he won or what he may have accomplished on the way to the election, he's just no good. It amazes me the amount of money that is spent to tell me how bad the opposition is. Did it ever occur to the campaigners and their managers that I might want to know what makes them so good that I should vote for them?
We have one ad in our area that says some people just aren't right for the job and shows an obese man sitting in a chair, eating a donut and leading an aerobics class. Another says that the opponent had the audacity to defend child sex offenders. Huh? I thought everyone had right to an attorney. Isn't that what the public defenders' office is for?
Wouldn't it be interesting if for some reason--a law say--candidates were required to state only what their plan is should they be elected? They would not be allowed to say anything derogatory about their opponent only what they themselves have done to prepare for the job. The voters would actually have to make a decision based on whose plan of action, whose experience might be best suited for the job.
Wow. Now that's really dreaming.
Friday, October 06, 2006
Holy Hypocrites--Not These People
This morning I was reading about how the Pharisees were up in arms over Jesus healing a man on the Sabbath--a no-no. It broke the laws that said no one was to do any work on the Sabbath. As I read on I saw in his response the true hypocrisy in their claims. Whenever it came time to circumcise their sons, they did it right to the day--even if it was on the Sabbath.
Examples of hypocrisy are what often kept my parents from church. Once such incident was when a neighbor's son was scratched by another neighbor's dog. The dog was a companion to a thirteen year old boy, severely crippled by cerebral palsy. The neighbors who were faithful church-goers, threatened to sue. In addition to wanting the dog taken care of, they were trying to get money from a family that had little to spare.
When it was discovered that my grandfather had witness the incident and saw the boy teasing the dog with his jacket, the issue faded. But it had spawned a nasty phrase in our house, "Go to church on Sunday and punch your neighbor in the nose on Monday." Needless to say, it did not draw my family to church.
There was an incident this week, one in a terrible series. A gunman shot and killed five young Amish girls in Pennsylvania. I have been amazed and encouraged by these loving people who have lost so much--one family lost two daughters. In their grief and pain they have told a world of onlookers that God is good. They have reached out to the gunman's family and recognized their pain as well. They are living out their faith from Sunday to Sunday.
It makes me want to examine what I'm doing on Monday. Holy hypocrite? I hope not.
Examples of hypocrisy are what often kept my parents from church. Once such incident was when a neighbor's son was scratched by another neighbor's dog. The dog was a companion to a thirteen year old boy, severely crippled by cerebral palsy. The neighbors who were faithful church-goers, threatened to sue. In addition to wanting the dog taken care of, they were trying to get money from a family that had little to spare.
When it was discovered that my grandfather had witness the incident and saw the boy teasing the dog with his jacket, the issue faded. But it had spawned a nasty phrase in our house, "Go to church on Sunday and punch your neighbor in the nose on Monday." Needless to say, it did not draw my family to church.
There was an incident this week, one in a terrible series. A gunman shot and killed five young Amish girls in Pennsylvania. I have been amazed and encouraged by these loving people who have lost so much--one family lost two daughters. In their grief and pain they have told a world of onlookers that God is good. They have reached out to the gunman's family and recognized their pain as well. They are living out their faith from Sunday to Sunday.
It makes me want to examine what I'm doing on Monday. Holy hypocrite? I hope not.
Monday, October 02, 2006
Word Surgery
I have been terrible about posting to my blogs lately. Part of the reason is that I am embroiled in word surgery. I need to cut close to 30,000 words from a novel I wrote and is being considered by a few houses for publication. One house said it was too many words (they prefer 60,000) and if I cut it down, they would reconsider. I'm always up for a challenge, I thought, and I've never had a problem cutting back on word content.
Well, it's been quite a journey in the "operating room" so far. I am having fun. I actually laughed out loud the other day at something I forgot I wrote. The trouble with word surgery is trying to decide what to cut out and what to leave in. I certainly don't want to kill the patient by cutting out a vital part and I don't want want to leave something in that is best cut out like a cancer. I have to truly ask a lot of questions before the "scalpel" selects and deletes. Maybe I should consider liposuction instead--just remove the fat.
Well, it's been quite a journey in the "operating room" so far. I am having fun. I actually laughed out loud the other day at something I forgot I wrote. The trouble with word surgery is trying to decide what to cut out and what to leave in. I certainly don't want to kill the patient by cutting out a vital part and I don't want want to leave something in that is best cut out like a cancer. I have to truly ask a lot of questions before the "scalpel" selects and deletes. Maybe I should consider liposuction instead--just remove the fat.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
LPs and Vinyl Records
Whoa! Just when I was about to pitch my old LPs and 45s, CNN reports that vinyl records are becoming popular again. I didn't know there was anyone who owned record players anymore. We gave up long ago trying to find needles to replace the one turntable we had left in the attic.
Part of the story said that dance music was better on vinyl. Hmmm. Is that because they can scratch it back and forth as they rap to it? Or, that could explain why our ballroom dancing isn't as polished as it once was.
The vinyl craze seems to be spinning out of Great Britain. That makes sense. Afterall, they gave us the Beatles too. What's next though? An 8-track tape revival? Unfortunately that trend lasted about as long as Beta tape players did.
If you've wandered on to this blog and haven't a clue as to what I'm talking about, ask your parents. . .some of you may have to ask your grandparents. But I guarantee it'll be a great conversation starter and they won't lack for stories of the past vinyl/8-track/Beta era.
Part of the story said that dance music was better on vinyl. Hmmm. Is that because they can scratch it back and forth as they rap to it? Or, that could explain why our ballroom dancing isn't as polished as it once was.
The vinyl craze seems to be spinning out of Great Britain. That makes sense. Afterall, they gave us the Beatles too. What's next though? An 8-track tape revival? Unfortunately that trend lasted about as long as Beta tape players did.
If you've wandered on to this blog and haven't a clue as to what I'm talking about, ask your parents. . .some of you may have to ask your grandparents. But I guarantee it'll be a great conversation starter and they won't lack for stories of the past vinyl/8-track/Beta era.
Monday, September 18, 2006
Prayer Power and Acceptance Letters
Last week was rainy and gray. The sun hid until Friday and even then I had to go south about 120 miles to find it. It also started out with a memorial to 9/11. Watching all those who had lost loved ones was a bit depressing. Then came the news that my daughter-in-law's grandfather had suffered a major stroke and wasn't expected to pull through.
I didn't know her grandfather--had only met him once or twice--but his stroke and her family's vigil renewed memories of my mother's death. Even though it was 22 years ago, it brought back tears. (The anniversary of her death was last week also.)
"I'm feeling as gray as the weather," I e-mailed my online writing buddies. "Having a hard time deciding what I want to write--what direction to take this week. I wish I could get just one acceptance letter for encouragement."
All were quick to cheer me on and pray but one in particular, Trish, wrote the most beautiful acceptance letter for me. It was written from God's point of view and how He accepted what I was doing for Him. My eyes filled as I read it.
I was also feeling apprehensive about major changes that are about to take place at our church. I'm getting to the age where change is a little more difficult to deal with sometimes. I talked with my writing buddies again about their churches and was encouraged by what Leslie and Cathy told me.
Toward the end of the week my spirit lifted. I made the trip to stay with my grandchildren while their mom and dad went to the funeral on Friday. They were so well-behaved and entertaining the whole day that by the time I left, I was feeling happier. Still, it was hard to see the pain of grief in my daughter-in-law's eyes.
By Sunday, I was excited about our Sunday school lesson, the antics of our pastor and Sunday school director in trying to allay the fears of change, and I was smiling comfortably as I exited the worship service. One of the members of the adult class I teach stopped me on the way out. He haltingly explained that he had been praying for me that week. He didn't know why the Lord had directed him that way but he thought I should know.
"That explains it!" I exclaimed. "It was a tough week but my attitude had surely changed by the end of it. Thanks so much."
His kindess in telling me that he had obeyed the call to pray for me was a welcome affirmation of God's love--sort of another acceptance letter.
I didn't know her grandfather--had only met him once or twice--but his stroke and her family's vigil renewed memories of my mother's death. Even though it was 22 years ago, it brought back tears. (The anniversary of her death was last week also.)
"I'm feeling as gray as the weather," I e-mailed my online writing buddies. "Having a hard time deciding what I want to write--what direction to take this week. I wish I could get just one acceptance letter for encouragement."
All were quick to cheer me on and pray but one in particular, Trish, wrote the most beautiful acceptance letter for me. It was written from God's point of view and how He accepted what I was doing for Him. My eyes filled as I read it.
I was also feeling apprehensive about major changes that are about to take place at our church. I'm getting to the age where change is a little more difficult to deal with sometimes. I talked with my writing buddies again about their churches and was encouraged by what Leslie and Cathy told me.
Toward the end of the week my spirit lifted. I made the trip to stay with my grandchildren while their mom and dad went to the funeral on Friday. They were so well-behaved and entertaining the whole day that by the time I left, I was feeling happier. Still, it was hard to see the pain of grief in my daughter-in-law's eyes.
By Sunday, I was excited about our Sunday school lesson, the antics of our pastor and Sunday school director in trying to allay the fears of change, and I was smiling comfortably as I exited the worship service. One of the members of the adult class I teach stopped me on the way out. He haltingly explained that he had been praying for me that week. He didn't know why the Lord had directed him that way but he thought I should know.
"That explains it!" I exclaimed. "It was a tough week but my attitude had surely changed by the end of it. Thanks so much."
His kindess in telling me that he had obeyed the call to pray for me was a welcome affirmation of God's love--sort of another acceptance letter.
Monday, September 11, 2006
9/11--Forever etched in my mind
I was seventeen. My mother had picked me up from school and we stopped at the donut shop so I could run in to get a dozen donuts to take home. The radio in the store blared the breaking news: President Kennedy had been shot. Mom said I looked as white as a sheet when I came out of the store. JFK had been an idol of sorts. The first president I learned to care about. I will never forget that weekend.
It was the morning of April 19, 1995. I was doing laundry. Two of my kids were at college. One was married and the youngest two were at school. I sat down in front of the TV to fold clothes when the breaking news of the bombing of the Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City interrupted the morning programming. I watched in horror as people, bloodied and in shock, walked trance-like in the street until someone came to their aid. Then, the heartbreaking news: there was a daycare center in the building. How? Why? Who?
September 11, 2001. The last child would be leaving home soon. We were to spend the morning buying furniture for his apartment. Before I left, I sat in my sewing room (my daughter's old room) with a small television tuned to Good Morning America and worked on my quilting project. The phone rang. It was the church secretary with a question for me. I don't remember the question because as I turned to answer the phone, Diane Sawyer and Charles Gibson announced the breaking news: a plane had hit one of the towers of the World Trade Center. I remembered pictures from a old newsreel I'd seen on the History Channel of the plane crashing into the Empire State Building. How odd I thought, history repeating itself.
Then the second plane hit. This was no accident. Anyone could deduce that. Why? Who? We would soon know.
I left the house, glad to have something else to do. I remembered how watching the Oklahoma City tragedy had affected me and I didn't want to experience the depths of that emotion again. . .little did I know. . .
Don and I shopped for his furniture and household supplies. Every where we went the stores were disturbingly quiet and most employees were glued to TVs or standing in the middle of aisles listening to the speakers that were filling hearts with the enormity of the tragedy.
We stopped for lunch at a pizza restaurant and I positioned myself where I could see the television. Suddenly the picture showed a tower collapsing, then the second one. When they replayed the scene I realized what I had missed in my morning's busyness. Don ate most of the pizza. In his limited mental capacity he didn't understand the implications of what was happening.
I dropped him off at home and hurried off to a funeral at church. On the way, I heard the news that the pentagon had also been attacked. I didn't realize then that overhead Flight 93 had turned away from Cleveland and headed for DC. Now a gnawing emptiness began to fill me. What did all this mean? Who? Why?
Those days immediately following were eerie. The noise of airplanes in the sky to which we had grown accustomed, suddenly was gone--the quiet was deafening. What would we do? Did this mean invasion? Did it mean, at the very least,war? Who? Why?
The whos of JFK's assassination and the Oklahoma bombing have mostly been answered as have the whos of 9/11. But the whys. . .will they ever have acceptable answers? What is it about the quest for power that drives men to kill, that drives one group of people to try to destroy another? I believe it all has to do with power--the need to control. The destruction, the death, will not stop until the need for power, for control over others is harnessed by spirits that seek peace and respect and love for each other.
Until then, I take comfort in knowing we are all in God's hands. I pray there will be no more dates like these etched in my memory.
It was the morning of April 19, 1995. I was doing laundry. Two of my kids were at college. One was married and the youngest two were at school. I sat down in front of the TV to fold clothes when the breaking news of the bombing of the Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City interrupted the morning programming. I watched in horror as people, bloodied and in shock, walked trance-like in the street until someone came to their aid. Then, the heartbreaking news: there was a daycare center in the building. How? Why? Who?
September 11, 2001. The last child would be leaving home soon. We were to spend the morning buying furniture for his apartment. Before I left, I sat in my sewing room (my daughter's old room) with a small television tuned to Good Morning America and worked on my quilting project. The phone rang. It was the church secretary with a question for me. I don't remember the question because as I turned to answer the phone, Diane Sawyer and Charles Gibson announced the breaking news: a plane had hit one of the towers of the World Trade Center. I remembered pictures from a old newsreel I'd seen on the History Channel of the plane crashing into the Empire State Building. How odd I thought, history repeating itself.
Then the second plane hit. This was no accident. Anyone could deduce that. Why? Who? We would soon know.
I left the house, glad to have something else to do. I remembered how watching the Oklahoma City tragedy had affected me and I didn't want to experience the depths of that emotion again. . .little did I know. . .
Don and I shopped for his furniture and household supplies. Every where we went the stores were disturbingly quiet and most employees were glued to TVs or standing in the middle of aisles listening to the speakers that were filling hearts with the enormity of the tragedy.
We stopped for lunch at a pizza restaurant and I positioned myself where I could see the television. Suddenly the picture showed a tower collapsing, then the second one. When they replayed the scene I realized what I had missed in my morning's busyness. Don ate most of the pizza. In his limited mental capacity he didn't understand the implications of what was happening.
I dropped him off at home and hurried off to a funeral at church. On the way, I heard the news that the pentagon had also been attacked. I didn't realize then that overhead Flight 93 had turned away from Cleveland and headed for DC. Now a gnawing emptiness began to fill me. What did all this mean? Who? Why?
Those days immediately following were eerie. The noise of airplanes in the sky to which we had grown accustomed, suddenly was gone--the quiet was deafening. What would we do? Did this mean invasion? Did it mean, at the very least,war? Who? Why?
The whos of JFK's assassination and the Oklahoma bombing have mostly been answered as have the whos of 9/11. But the whys. . .will they ever have acceptable answers? What is it about the quest for power that drives men to kill, that drives one group of people to try to destroy another? I believe it all has to do with power--the need to control. The destruction, the death, will not stop until the need for power, for control over others is harnessed by spirits that seek peace and respect and love for each other.
Until then, I take comfort in knowing we are all in God's hands. I pray there will be no more dates like these etched in my memory.
Saturday, September 09, 2006
An Apple for the Teacher--Conclusion
Torn paper swung from the bulletin boards. The chalkboard was spattered with tempra paint. Broken jars of color spewed their contents onto the tiled floor. Desks were overturned and schoolbooks lay open where they had landed from their flight.
Jill's desk was still upright but books, papers, pencils, tissues, everything that had been on top of it was now heaped on the floor. In the corner behind the desk stood Cassie, her back turned to Jill.
"Cassie!" Jill felt her fury rise. As the child turned, the red ceramic apple, Jill's prized possession, slipped from her hands and shattered against the floor.
"What have you done!" Jill cried out as she surveyed the broken pieces of her dream strewn at Cassie's feet. Her face flushed and her cheeks burned.
Cassie stared at Jill and backed into the corner. She slid down the wall until she was curled into a ball, knees tight under her chin. Fear lit her eyes.
Jill started forward, frustration and anger raged. But before she reached Cassie something--the memory of another frightened little girl, made her stop. A tidal wave of tears cascaded down Jill's face. She dropped to her knees sobbing. Slowly she began picking up the broken ceramic pieces.
Cassie peered over her knees at Jill. Cautiously she rose, picked up the tissue box, and made her way to Jill. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm not a very nice person. People keep giving me away because I'm bad. My new mommy prob'ly will too." She handed Jill a tissue.
Jill looked up. She realized what had kept her from reaching out to Cassie. It had been her own fear of rejection and failure. She had been afraid to get too close to this child who reminded her too much of herself. The pain that she tried to shield herself from was mirrored in those large sad eyes looking at her now. Gently she took Cassie into her arms. "I can always get another ceramic apple. It wasn't nearly as special as you are."
For the first time, Cassie smiled.
An Apple for the Teacher--7
Jill spied Cassie sitting in her chair, head between her knees, shaking her head wildly about.
"Cassie," Jill said softly. She didn't respond. "Cassie!" Several students jumped as she shouted. Jill crossed the room, took Cassie by the hair and righted her in her seat.
Cassie stared at Jill defiantly at first, then hung her head as though repentant. Jill was shaking. She had never handled a child so roughly before. What was she to do? She couldn't get Cassie to finish her work. Her attention span was next to nothing and she was like a jack-in-the-box jumping out of her seat every five minutes.
"Cassie, this paper is not finished. You must do the whole picture and be neat. Learning to color in the lines is as important as getting the answers right."
Jill's anger grew. doesn't this child appreciate what she has? Doesn't she want to impress her new mother? The pangs of jealousy hit hard. Jill wished she had a mother with whom she could share the excitement of her teaching award. A mother who would be proud of her and encourage her.
After lunch, Mr. Bridges introduced the visiting committee from the state PTA organization, his comments made Jill feel guilty about her reaction to Cassie. "Mrs. Passep is an outstanding teacher. Her students leave this classroom each year working well above average. She takes time to get to know each student individually."
All but Cassie, Jill thought. How could she be jealous of a little six year old? It was ridiculous--ridiculous but true. Resolving to make a concentrated effort to reach Cassie in spite of her feelings and Cassie's difficult behavior, she arranged to have some time with Cassie after school to help her catch up with her work.
"Please finish up that paper, Cassie. Your mother will be here soon to pick you up. I'm going to the office for a moment. I'll be right back."
Jill let out a hissing sigh as she walked down the hall. This was a waste of time. Cassie had spent a half hour on a paper that should have taken ten minutes and she still wasn't done.
An envelope poked out of Jill's mailbox in the office. She grabbed it and tore it open. The letter explained that Jill was one of ten educators being honored at the state PTA convention. One of the ten would be the state's nominee for the national award. Jill's heart pumped faster. As she walked back to her classroom she read the questionnaire that was enclosed.
Jill was so distracted she failed to notice the paper on the floor until she stepped on it. When she reached down to pick it up, her eyes caught a glimpse of the rest of the room. She gasped.
(Continued. . .)
"Cassie," Jill said softly. She didn't respond. "Cassie!" Several students jumped as she shouted. Jill crossed the room, took Cassie by the hair and righted her in her seat.
Cassie stared at Jill defiantly at first, then hung her head as though repentant. Jill was shaking. She had never handled a child so roughly before. What was she to do? She couldn't get Cassie to finish her work. Her attention span was next to nothing and she was like a jack-in-the-box jumping out of her seat every five minutes.
"Cassie, this paper is not finished. You must do the whole picture and be neat. Learning to color in the lines is as important as getting the answers right."
Jill's anger grew. doesn't this child appreciate what she has? Doesn't she want to impress her new mother? The pangs of jealousy hit hard. Jill wished she had a mother with whom she could share the excitement of her teaching award. A mother who would be proud of her and encourage her.
After lunch, Mr. Bridges introduced the visiting committee from the state PTA organization, his comments made Jill feel guilty about her reaction to Cassie. "Mrs. Passep is an outstanding teacher. Her students leave this classroom each year working well above average. She takes time to get to know each student individually."
All but Cassie, Jill thought. How could she be jealous of a little six year old? It was ridiculous--ridiculous but true. Resolving to make a concentrated effort to reach Cassie in spite of her feelings and Cassie's difficult behavior, she arranged to have some time with Cassie after school to help her catch up with her work.
"Please finish up that paper, Cassie. Your mother will be here soon to pick you up. I'm going to the office for a moment. I'll be right back."
Jill let out a hissing sigh as she walked down the hall. This was a waste of time. Cassie had spent a half hour on a paper that should have taken ten minutes and she still wasn't done.
An envelope poked out of Jill's mailbox in the office. She grabbed it and tore it open. The letter explained that Jill was one of ten educators being honored at the state PTA convention. One of the ten would be the state's nominee for the national award. Jill's heart pumped faster. As she walked back to her classroom she read the questionnaire that was enclosed.
Jill was so distracted she failed to notice the paper on the floor until she stepped on it. When she reached down to pick it up, her eyes caught a glimpse of the rest of the room. She gasped.
(Continued. . .)
Friday, September 08, 2006
An Apple for the Teacher-6
"Tom, I'm sorry. I had a difficult day with a new student and I took it out on you." The newspaper rattled as Tom turned the page.
"Well it seems to me you should be able to separate work from home. After all," he added, "isn't that what you expect me to do?"
"I guess I deserved that remark." Jill paused. "It's just that I feel everyone at school epects me to be able to handle any situation that comes along. But this student is so demanding of my time and attention. . .I can't let the other kids down to pamper one child." Jill ignored what really bothered her most about Cassie. She had a mother who had chosen to love her. It was a relationship Jill would never know.
Tom peeked over the newpaper as Jill's eyes began to well with tears. He put the paper down and reached for her hand. "Look, what was all that hoopla about the other night? That big red apple you earned? Doesn't that tell you something? You are a very capable teacher. You will find a way to reach out to that child. I know you can do it." He stood and hugged her. "Now, let's go enjoy that great dinner I smell."
She appreciated his confidence but on Monday morning, her doubts began to overwhelm her once more.
(Continued. . .)
Thursday, September 07, 2006
An Apple for the Teacher-5
Tom was so preoccupied with his expected promotion, Jill felt neglected and left out. She was sure their marriage was headed for trouble.
"Hi, Hon. How was your day?" Tom stalked through the kitchen and pecked at Jill's cheek as he passed by. He doesn't want to know how my day was, Jill thought. That was just an announcement of his arrival.
Their relationship was too predictable. Had she grown dull? Maybe that was why Tom drew deeper into his work.
Tom returned to the kitchen and investigated dinner. "Heard a good one today." He popped a piece of carrot into his mouth. "Seems Steve and Julie have decided to call it quits. Steve says the spark is gone. Julie said she wouldn't fight it. Really makes you wonder, doesn't it?"
"No, not really," Jill replied tartly.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Jill could almost see the chip on his shoulder. Well, she was just the one to knock it off. "I'll tell you what that means. Men do not want to work at marriage. The minute it takes effort to keep the spark going, they get lazy and decide to bail out."
"Is that the way you feel about me too?"
"If the shoe fits. . ."
Tom grabbed the newspaper and stormed out of the room.
Jill sank into the nearest chair. Why had she deliberately provoked him? All she wanted was a little reassurance that their relationship was alive and healthy. She couldln't bear it if Tom left. Tom was the only one who had ever loved her. She had to find some way to east the tension she created just now.
Jill rose slowly, took a deep breath and headed for the family room.
(Continued. . .)
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
An Apple for the Teacher-4
It began to rain as Jill's meeting with Mrs. Marquette ended. Jill gathered papers to grade and turned out the lights. Gray clouds filled the sky. She shivered in the light misty cold while she fumbled with her car door. That day had been gray and rainy too, Jill remembered, as she pumped the gas pedal to get the old yellow Volkswagon started.
She had fought hard to hold back the tears as she struggled up the steps of the children's home, rejected and alone again. A "forever family" was what the case worker had said. Well, forever didn't last long. It was all right though, she told herself. She was eleven years old. She could take care of herself. She didn't need a mother and father. They would only boss her around and tell her what to do . She'd make it on her own.
And she had. Jill let the VW rest for a moment. It was probably flooded again. She glanced in the mirror. What did Cassie have that she didn't at that age? Jill remembered her school pictures. She wasn't beautiful but she was cute. Cassie on the other hand was homely and her personality wasn't the least bit pleasing. How had Cassie attracted an adoptive family and Jill failed?
Well, Jill thought, as the VW roared to life, I have Tom--that is as long as he still wants me.
(Continued. . .)
She had fought hard to hold back the tears as she struggled up the steps of the children's home, rejected and alone again. A "forever family" was what the case worker had said. Well, forever didn't last long. It was all right though, she told herself. She was eleven years old. She could take care of herself. She didn't need a mother and father. They would only boss her around and tell her what to do . She'd make it on her own.
And she had. Jill let the VW rest for a moment. It was probably flooded again. She glanced in the mirror. What did Cassie have that she didn't at that age? Jill remembered her school pictures. She wasn't beautiful but she was cute. Cassie on the other hand was homely and her personality wasn't the least bit pleasing. How had Cassie attracted an adoptive family and Jill failed?
Well, Jill thought, as the VW roared to life, I have Tom--that is as long as he still wants me.
(Continued. . .)
Friday, September 01, 2006
An Apple for the Teacher--3
As Jill greeted Mrs. Marquette, she recalled the pictures she had poured over as a child. Each one had reflected the image of an ideal mother; the kind any child would be happy to have. Mrs. Marquette could have posed for all of them.
"We are so excited," Mrs. Marquett said, "now that Cassie has been placed with us for adoption."
For a moment, Jill blocked out what this picture book mother was saying. The word "adoption" had cut through Jill, hitting an old wound. She sat stiffly in her chair as she listened to Mrs. Marquette describe Cassie's numerous foster home experiences and the original neglect Cassie experienced in the birth home. Mrs. Marquette was concerned about the strange behavior that had resulted.
"Mr. Bridges recommended you highly. I am confident Cassie will adjust to your classroom and we will see a lot of growth and development in her this year," Mrs. Marquette said as she stood to leave.
As she shook Mrs. Marquette's hand, Jill felt her shoulders grow heavy as if the load Cassie's mom carried was shifted onto her now. Could she carry it?
(Continued. . .)
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