Calling All Teachers, Retired or Otherwise

Just want to let everyone know that Borders Bookstore is giving 25% off purchases for retired, current, full-time, part-time, even only-kind-of educators from March 21-27.

Not all merchandise qualifies, but most does. I do only volunteer work in the schools, and they give me the discount. So now's the time to stock up on those books you're wanting to read but know you can't finish in the time the library lends them to you!

There's Much to Learn from "Romeo & Juliet"

Max is reading "Romeo & Juliet" in his freshman English class. He's pretty tired of the story, since this is something like the fifty-sixth time he's had to read it for school. But he came home with an assignment I thought was interesting. He had to list traits he would look for in a partner (lover just sounds too creepy for ninth grade). Without looking at what he wrote, I had to do the same. Then I had to make a list of traits I would want his partner to have.

Max isn't too demanding: he wants someone who is "smart" and "funny." "Other than that," he wrote, "it doesn't really matter." I included those two traits in the list I made of what I believed was important for him to find in someone as well.

His list for what he anticipated I would choose as important included "being poor." "What does that mean?" I asked. "Well you always say that money can't buy happiness, so I figured you'd want me to find someone poor!" he explained. I thought about that for a minute and chuckled.

He's right; I do always say that. Speaking as someone who once had to sell a sizeable portion of her beloved CD collection in order to give her young boys a few presents for Christmas, I know what it's like to be poor, though certainly not destitute. I know what it's like to worry about how I'd pay the bills. I remember having to choose between feeding my kids and paying an ever-growing credit card bill on time. I've never been comfortable asking for help, so reaching out for assistance during those lean times wasn't something I'd considered.

My life today is different. Though not monetarily wealthy by any stretch, I have built a business which allows me to be comfortable. I can pay school sports fees, buy my kids necessities and even a few extras here and there. I live in a home for which I am able to pay monthly utility bills. I am satisfied with what I have and don't feel as if I'm missing out on anything, even though I can't spend money freely or without thought. I still have to budget.

But Max sees things differently. He can't understand why I'm happy being middle class. He says I shouldn't "settle" when the possibility of having more is within my reach. I get frustrated with this discussion, but recently I realized he has this point of view quite possibly because he doesn't have anything against which to measure his lifestyle. He was too young to realize I sold beloved collections of various things to assure his survival and security. Max has never known true fear. He can't imagine not living in a decent home that always welcomes him. He's never gone hungry, and he can't fathom going without so that someone he loves won't have to.

I constantly hear how every other kid he knows doesn't have to help out around the house, never loses privileges, and gets handed money whenever he needs it. I don't (can't) buy each of my kids an MP3 player (Max bought one with his own money, which he received as gifts for his birthday), and wouldn't even if I could. They don't live in a home with luxuries, but I've been hard-pressed enough to recognize that having money to pay my bills and buy enough groceries is a luxury, especially in these days of economic struggle. So while Max considers me less than successful, I am completely content with where my life has brought me. Do I ever want for something I can't have? You bet. But there is much to be said for having something to wish for. And maybe because I've known struggling to get by, I'm happy with what I have.

This is one area my teenage son and I might never agree on; certainly we won't until he's had to hoe his own row. I did suggest that if he thinks his life at home is so unfair, he ought to emancipate himself. That comment was met with an incredulous, horrified expression. "I don't WANT to emancipate myself! I just don't want to have to spend time with the family. I don't want to have to eat dinner with all of you. I want to do what I want, when I want. I've even tried to act really nasty so that you don't want me around, but then all you do is ground me!"

Again, I chuckled. "I know. It stinks to have a mom who actually cares about you and wants to know what's going on in your life, doesn't it?" I replied. "Yeah, it does," he grumbled.

And then I chuckled again. When Max handed me his assignment, he did so with the comment that he didn't know why his teacher always tries to make everything they do in class relevant to real life. " 'Romeo and Juliet' has nothing to do with my life," he insisted. And yet...consider the discussion that resulted from this homework.

We may have both ended up frustrated, but I think there's value in any discussion a parent can actually have with his/her son or daughter. If they're talking to us at all, we're doing something right.

Even if it's to hear how miserably disappointing we are.

Coulter's True Colors Shine Through, and WooHoo! Are They Ugly

Ann Coulter, the conservative mouthpiece and all-around darling, called John Edwards a faggot last week. In public. In front of lots of people. Even her fellow conservatives cringed. What will it take for them to realize the old gray mare, she ain't what she used to be?

Put me in a room with that foul woman, and I can't think of any issue on earth we couldn't disagree on. She is the epitome of all that I do not stand for. And yet, in the past, I was able to admire her ability to stand up for her beliefs and rally for those commitments she embraced.

My admiration has turned to disgust. Coulter has morphed from an intelligent, loud-mouthed conservative to a vengeful, trashy media whore. That woman will say anything--hurt anyone--solely for shock value. And it's getting old.

I suppose we were warned when she labeled Joe McCarthy a hero.

That comment merely reflected her own bias and narrow thinking. Her homophobic remark has a more serious far-reaching effect, though. Yeah, she made herself look small, ignorant, nasty. But given that she has been the conservative party's sharp-witted mouthpiece for years, her slur makes the whole gang look bad. Shallow. Hateful. That stereotype was already alive and kicking, but Coulter gave it a whole new lifespan.

I remember a college semantics course I attended, and one point I never forgot: The word is not the thing. Spin doctors, media, political speechwriters...they all depend on us common folk to subconciously label and categorize. We give meaning to symbols which otherwise would have none. That's why, for instance, some people are so hinky about flag burning. To me, the act of flag burning is nothing more than the burning of the flag, because no one can destroy what the flag means to me.

But these days, the word IS the thing. Words carry power beyond belief because we have imbued them with such. So for anyone to hurl such hate-filled, despicable slurs at another--especially in a public forum--is undeniably repulsive.

I'm glad Coulter isn't on my side...thing is, she isn't on anyone else's side, either. She's just a woman who fancies herself a political pundit, and she's overstayed her welcome.

I said They Were Awesome

Back in the summer of 2006, I wrote in "The Family Room," which was featured in the Windsor Trib, an editorial about Windsor Auto. I praised them for their amazing and beyond-the-norm customer service.

And boy, did I catch hell for it.

From Tom Fasano at the Trib, because some reader (who turned out to be a friend of the owner or something like that of Pike's Auto) complained that what I wrote was an "advertorial." What a joke. My column is an op-ed piece...I'm allowed to say what I think. I wrote that column to share with readers in town the fact that there is a place to go for capable and trustworthy car repair. And Fasano ran that piece without changing a word of it.

But he apparently couldn't take the heat, and that's when he demanded that I consult with him before writing my columns so that he could approve whatever topic I chose. Another joke.

Windsor Chamber of Commerce just awarded Windsor Auto the annual Outstanding Customer Service Award.

Need I say more?

Well, yeah, I need. I had my van in to Windsor Auto recently and they gave me one of those free loaner cars while the work was being done. I accidentally left my digital camera in the front seat of the car but didn't realize it until the shop was closed on a Wednesday night. That Wednesday just happened to be Tuck's birthday, and when I went to pull out the camera to photograph the event, I realized what I had done.

I called Windsor Auto and left a message that my camera was probably in car number 3 and asked them to please check before loaning it out to someone else. After hanging up, I got worried that they might not listen to the messages first thing in the morning, so I had the audacity to call Scott Crowe, one of the shop's owners, at home. I wasn't looking for anything other than to ask him to please check the car in the morning (I figured he went in early).

Instead of letting me sit at home and worry all night, Scott insisted he meet me at the shop in five minutes so that we could look for my camera together. As much as I hated imposing upon him, I took him up on his offer; I was really worried that I'd lost the camera. And equally worried that if I did leave it in the car, someone might take it.

Sure enough, the camera was in the front seat. My mind was put at ease, and I was able to take my annual birthday photo with Tucker. But I ask: How many business owners would go so far out of their way for a customer? Especially at night, especially when he's already in his pajamas? The answer is not many, and if that sort of treatment doesn't bring them business, I don't know what would.

And I'm thankful I can share this sort of thing with you and not have to answer to a pander-to-my-advertisers editor. Life is good!

Did ya hear the one about the man...

While enjoying a Bloomin' Onion with Wes and the girls at the Outback Steakhouse last weekend, six-year-old Bella made an announcement. "I know a man who has a LOT of testicles coming out of his head." Nearly choking on my onion, I turned to her with what must have been a confused--or perhaps, horrified--expression. Since her birth, Bella has seen that exact expression on my face at least 436 times. And without exception, she has been the root cause of its genesis.

She didn't miss a beat. "Davy Jones," she explained. Two things you must know about this child. One, she has a loud voice. It's, well, it's just loud. So I'm sure those dining in our vicinity also had the good fortune to vividly imagine a visual of a grown male sprouting testicles from his skull. And two, she likes to play tricks on anyone gullible enough to fall for them. I'm usually that fall guy. "From 'Pirates of the Caribbean'," she further explained.

"Oh," I heaved a sigh of relief. "You mean 'tentacles'." Davy Jones is a character in the hit movie, and he is portrayed as a sort of degenerate octopus. "Tentacles, Bell. Like the arms of an octopus." She smiled sheepishly. "Oh. Yeah."

Bella's faux paux reminded me of my own very similar confusion when I was just a bit older than she. My friend Carla Pivotto had a dog who tried to clear a barbed wire fence. He didn't do so well, as I relayed the tragedy to my family at the dinner table. "His tentacles got caught on the fence. And they tore off. And he had to get an operation right away," I breathlessly and dramatically recounted the story. I was sure I had them all spellbound, because all four of them--Mom, Dad, and both my older siblings--were staring at me, forks poised midway to mouth.

Of course, it was Mom who first lost control and started laughing hysterically. "Becky honey," she managed to bleat out in between belly chortles, "you mean 'testicles'. Tentacles are what you find on an octopus." Of, for the love of god, I wanted the earth to just open up and swallow me whole, right there. Here I thought I had something very newsworthy to contribute to our dinner table conversation, and I messed it up. Testicles. Of course! How could I be so naive?

So when Bella made the same mistake only backwards, I vowed not to have that same hysterical reaction (though I've long forgiven Mom, because hey, we should all take our laughs where we can find 'em). Rather than give in to the rollicking laughter that threatened to take over my body and send it into seizure-like convulsions, I conjured up in my mind images of traffic accidents and missing appendages so as to remain as serious as humanly possible. And I was successful, for the most part. I even shared with Bella my own testicle/tentacle anecdote so she wouldn't feel alone in her confusion. It was no biggie to her; Bella suffers from no self-esteem issues.

But the experience gave me pause to remember that even the seemingly insignificant events of our lives--a dinnertime conversation, a bedtime confession, an off-the-cuff remark--can have lasting effects. When we're old and consider our lives in retrospect, will we remember it as a series of major events, with filler in between? Or will we reminisce about the journey--the dailyness of it, the traditions and rituals--and view the major events as highlights?

A dear friend whom I've had the pleasure of knowing and loving for over three decades recently remarked on how I've never had a plan as to how my life should go. So everything that has happened, good and bad, has just been the next step. I've given her observation a lot of thought, and she's absolutely right. Never having concrete plans, I never had to experience life-crippling disappointment or surprises so profound they threw me off course. Because I never had a course. So I imagine for me, at least, I will look back as an old woman and ponder my life not by its milestones, but by its many unexpected moments when epiphany crept up and bludgeoned me on the head.

In the meantime, I will continue to fight the good fight, being the best parent I know how to be. And testicles/tentacles be damned, I will find glory in the small and subtle blessings.

Teens talk: Are adults listening?

A community-wide meeting was held earlier this week at the high school to discuss the teen drug/alcohol issue that has many of us concerned. The turnout was better than I expected, though less than it should have been in a town where the high school population exceeds 900 students, the middle school, 700. I don't know how many folks attended; my guess is between 60 and 75. Could've been more.

At any rate, the meeting was productive in that it gave people a chance to voice their concerns and ask questions. A high school student council rep was on hand to speak, and she cited two reasons for the higher-than-average number of kids in this town who drink and drug. One, there's nothing else to do. And two, no one's stopping them. The first reason, I think, is as old as the hills. Don't most kids feel there isn't much to do in their hometown? That doesn't give them an excuse to turn to drink and drugs. So I'm just ignoring that one for brevity's sake. I always tell my kids if they're bored, it's their own fault.

But the second reason is of grave concern to me. "No one's stopping us," they say. In a perfect world, we could expect these kids not to indulge because the long term effects are debilitating. We could reason with them, appeal to their sense of logic. But these are hormonal teens we're talking about, and logic plays no part. It would also be an assumption to say that all parents are on the same page, that we all are trying to keep our children from drinking and drugging. And that assumption would be wrong.

Windsor has its fair share of parents who buy alcohol for their kids' parties, who have no problem serving minors. Then there are those who may not condone underage drinking, but they conveniently look the other way so they can say they didn't know what was going on. Since I'm not publishing this in anyone's newspaper, I'm going to say exactly what I think: that is pure bullshit. I'm sorry if that offends you; I'm offended by adults who willingly take part in corrupting kids, and I'm oh so tired of pussyfooting around serious issues. Everyone is afraid to seem judgemental; well, if we aren't judging those who play a part in hurting our kids, what good is our ability to reason, decide, and choose? Whether we admit it or not, every single one of us uses judgement everyday. It's a useful tool, and in the case of Windsor's teenage alcohol and drug abuse, one I think we would all do well to utilize.

It's cliche but true: It takes a village to raise a child. If my kids do something they shouldn't, I want to know about it. If they're ever disrespectful to their teachers, I want to know about it. As parents, we can't be everywhere our kids are; we need to be able to rely on one another to be our eyes and ears. Ultimately, we are responsible for our own children, but that doesn't mean we have to go it alone. And if one of us is party to the corruption of minors, we are all responsible if we've let it happen. I think adult peer pressure is in order. If you know of a parent or other adult who is contributing to this issue by supplying kids with alcohol and drugs or ignoring them when they're using, call him on it. Tell these folks what they're full of (and it isn't sugar and spice). Let them know you won't stand for laissez faire parenting since the result is hurting all of our kids. What they're doing may not be illegal, but that doesn't mean we can't make it unpleasant for them.

One other issue that came up at the meeting was the fact that Windsor's student drug/alcohol policy is more strict than those of neighboring school districts. Yet we have a higher incidence of use. Why is this? What is happening, or not happening, with the policy? Is it not being enforced uniformly, across the board, at all levels? I can't think of any other reason for the higher-than-average statistics despite a strict policy. No one wants to point fingers, but at some point, there must be the acceptance of responsibility. Who is dropping the ball? There are those who will say it isn't important to determine who is responsible. But it IS important, because until that person or those people are no longer in the position to negatively impact our kids, nothing much will change. If the solution requires personnel change, then let the changes begin. We can bust our butts trying to give our young people places to hang out, activities to participate in, and alternative choices, but until we start cracking down on those who come to school drunk or high, who use during lunch, and who sell the stuff both on and off campus, we're fighting a losing battle. And we can't crack down if we don't have people in positions of authority who stand up to those lazy parents who don't care if their kids use because to demand anything else would require consistency, involvement, and a willingness to be the bad guy. Huh. Welcome to parenting.

This week's meeting was a great place to start bringing out into the open an issue that is not always easy to discuss. Emotions will run high, as they should. Our young people deserve at least that much, and until this point, they haven't been getting it.

Wake up, Windsor. We're failing our kids. They know it. And now there's no excuse for of any of us not to know it as well.

Sex: Good or Bad, It's Not Just for Marriage Anymore

According to a Greeley nurse (I'm not naming names and that doesn't mean I'm relying on gossip; it just means I know when to keep my mouth shut to protect people), Shelly Donahue recently gave a presentation to a Greeley church in hopes of bringing her program to the youth group. Donahue is a national trainer for WAIT (Why Am I Tempted) Training, that disturbing abstinence-only-until-marriage program that tried to take over our schools' healthy sexuality curriculum not long ago. If ever there was a program with an agenda, it's WAIT. Its curriculum would be laughable if its developers weren't serious. But seeing as how they are, the contents pass beyond laughable to dangerous. Beyond dangerous to deadly.

Anyway, Donahue reportedly told the congregation that the new HPV vaccine for girls will leave them sterile. The vaccine, Gardisal, helps protect females from four forms of HPV, a sexually transmitted disease that can lead to sterility (maybe Donahue was just confused between the vaccine and the disease?). In the eyes of WAIT, such a vaccine puts young people on the fast track to being sexually active, if not permiscuous. It encourages them to shed their morals for physical gratification. It is evil.

This is just one example of why I was and will remain a vocal opponent of WAIT Training in its entirety. In my opinion and those of others who would be forced to teach it or whose children would be assaulted with it, WAIT is a program based on fear and rife with medical and scientific inaccuracies. It does not educate, it preaches. It does not inform, it moralizes and demoralizes. In the very students it excludes from its audience, it discriminates. My conclusion, after reading the program's training manual word for word, is that it is not a curriculum that would be of service to Windsor students.

I believe a healthy sexuality curriculum would be just one facet of a much larger, comprehensive health and wellness program that would also encompass nutrition, exercise/fitness, healthy lifestyle choices of all kinds, and body image. Peel away all the categories and labels, wade through the semantics, and I believe the basis can be simplified into one skill: the ability to say No.

No to drugs and alcohol, to sex, to overeating and indulging unhealthy habits. No to the media, who consistently get in the faces of our teens--indeed, our elementary-aged kids--and tell them they must look a certain way to be happy, successful, envied, normal. No to doing anything they do not want to do, for whatever reason, or for no reason at all.

By teaching our kids to refuse that which doesn't feel right or which threatens them in any way, we are also teaching them to say Yes to those opportunities that present positive experiences. No, yes. They go hand-in-hand.

And we would be seriously remiss if we don't at least begin to touch on mental health. Today's troubled teens don't need someone's barely disguised edict of salvation in the form of abstinence until marriage. Sex is just one component of what might be troubling these young people who drink to forget, smoke or shoot up to numb themselves, cut themselves in ways that leave more than just physical scars. They're tuning out, and we can't possibly believe that the solution lies in telling them that the best sex takes place between married couples (recent secular surveys indicate married couples have MORE sex, but who knows if it's better? If waiting for marriage to have sex is where it's at, then how would anyone know if it's better than sex between singles? Check out this 2006 survey [esp. the last bullet]: http://www.webmd.com/content/article/129/117331.htm) and that they'll be forever sterile if they take a preventive vaccine.

I filled out an application to serve on Windsor's volunteer health curriculum advisory board. Knowing full well I'm not the school board's darling by any stretch of the imagination and so might be wasting my time, I figured it was worth the few minutes it took to fill in the blanks. I want to have input into what these kids will be told. So many of them are not being engaged in dialogue at home that needs to take place; yet they so desperately need to hear what isn't being said.

Windsor is not above or beyond the reality of the twenty-first century. We can't stick our heads in the sand any longer. Do I think abstinence during the teen years is best? Absolutely. But I'm enough of a realist to acknowledge that not everyone will make that choice, no matter what they're told. The decision to have sex is not a moral one, and we can't effectively talk about it as long as we view it as such. School is for education; morality must begin in the home.

And hopefully, they'll meet somewhere in the middle.

Unreasonable women may yet save the world.

~ Molly Ivins

Molly Ivins was a woman I admired. A liberal columnist who wielded the written word as mightily as a warrior brandishes his sword, Ivins was the epitome of the unreasonable woman. And when a teacher here in Windsor called me the same after I stirred up a ruckus with my column, I knew he meant it as the highest compliment. I was honored.

Molly died yesterday after a long battle with cancer. Seldom does the death of someone I've never met leave me in tears, but hers did. If you're a fan, you already understand why. If you're not, Google her name and read some of her syndicated columns. Then you'll get it.

She was the best thing to come out of Texas (though she was a transplant). And she referred to her fellow Texan, our president, as Shrub. If for no other reason than that, the woman earned a special place in my heart.

May she continue to give 'em hell, wherever she may be.

This is Bella on the morning of her sixth birthday earlier in January. She's just opened a set of Avon body paints. But I don't think that's why she's so happy.

This is just how Bella is almost all the time. Utter joy. And if she can't find it, she makes it.

When I imagine Bella, this is how she looks.

Memories...light the corners of my mind

I was fortunate to grow up with two very different sets of grandparents, unfortunate enough not to live nearby and see them often. Distance not withstanding, they all held--and still hold--very distinct places in my heart.

My mom's parents were not formally educated beyond the middle grades. Pap worked in the brick refractory (a job that eventually killed him) and Gram raised a large family while keeping the farm going. She was a no-nonsense type of gal, but never skimped on giving out hugs to us grandchildren. Neither was she shy about disciplining us when the need arose. To me, Gram is homecooked food, warm hugs, and warnings to be careful. Spending summers at Gram and Pap's house meant days spent on the big tree swing or catching crayfish in the creek (where we spread Mom's ashes in 2004), teasing the bulls and then running for our lives and, at all times, keeping an eye out for rattlesnakes and copperheads.

Summer evenings meant chasing fireflies and fighting, at bedtime, over who's turn it was to sleep in the always-coveted "squeaky bed." As an adult, it would drive me mad to sleep in that bed that made noise with every toss and turn. But as a child, it was the all-around favorite, and with 6 of us (3 cousins, my brother, sister, and I), it was a never-ending point of consternation. I like to believe we resolved the conflict by taking turns, but that probably didn't happen. Sis and Chrissy (my older sister and same-age cousin) were rather brutal when it came to getting what they wanted, and their take-no-prisoners attitude usually got them what they desired. I know I for one lived in fear of being the focus of their attention and did whatever was required of me to stay under their radar.

My pap died when I was just six years old, so my memories of him are few, yet vivid. I never heard Pap raise his voice, but he had total control over us kids. How'd he do that? A look? A gesture? I've no idea, but I never would have dreamed of disobeying Pap. My memories of him are all good...sitting on his lap in the pantry rocking chair and trading a kiss for a generous portion of rock candy, which he'd break up with a little silver mallet. The tin which stored that candy--and some magical memories--now sits on my own kitchen shelf. And if my house ever caught fire, it would be one of the first things I'd try to save.

I remember the last summer I had with Pap. He took my hand and said "Let's go for one last swing ride, Squirrel Cheeks," and up the hill we climbed. He pushed me higher than he'd ever dared that day, and I felt like I was flying. Underneath me ran a little side creek, and above me was nothin' but tree branches and bright blue sky, the kind that just begs you to try to touch it. I closed my eyes and leaned back on that old wood swing, legs stretched straight as possible, never fearful of falling because I knew Pap would catch me. I do believe he was the first (and last) adult I ever completely trusted not to hurt me. Did he know that would be our last swing ride together, or did his "last time" comment refer only to that summer? I'll never know, but when he got tired of pushing, he told me to "let the old cat die," which meant he wanted me not to pump my legs and keep the ride going. I did what I was told, but oh, how I did not want to let that swing ride end. With my butt firmly planted on that wide wood plank and my little dimpled fists closed tightly around the ropes, my world was perfect. Nothing could get to me on that swing, with Pap nearby. Life was always good there.

But the swing ride did end, as did Pap's life that following spring. Mom and Dad packed us into the station wagon and we set out to battle the forces of nature as we tried to make the long drive from Wisconsin to Pennsylvania to see him one last time before he died. I distinctly remember sometime during that trip Mom choking back her tears to tell Dad not to hurry any more, we were too late. And she was right. By the time we crossed the metal bridge that made a singsong sound, thereby earning from us the nickname "singing bridge," and which signalled we were entering our grandparent's tiny town, Pap had already drawn his last breath. I never saw him again, but his brief presence in my life captured a piece of my heart that will never belong to another.

My dad's parents were more cultured, refined. Distant somehow. His accountant father was rather cold, not one to show affection in any form I understood as a child. He spent most of his time in his corner bedroom, listening to the radio and reading. Always with a cigarette in his hand. Even his fingertips were stained yellow from the tobacco. I liked lying on his cool bed in that damp room, listening to the bugs outside his window. Mostly I liked interrupting his solitude because it was really the only time he paid attention to me. I'd ask questions I really didn't care to know the answers to, just to make him acknowledge me. Sometimes, when he was feeling particularly energetic, he'd toss the Frisbee with me. But that was the extent of our relationship. I wasn't sad when he died; I barely knew him. I don't know if anyone really knew that man.

His wife, a music teacher, was also rather reserved. I didn't come to appreciate the kind of woman she was until I was grown. To my child's mind, this gram was strict. Her home was more like a place grownups would want to hang out. I really couldn't relate to her much as a kid. I remember finding a bottle of witch hazel in our linen closet once and asked Mom what it was. When she told me, I replied with "Oh, Gram Shafer must use that." It was the word "witch" that made me connect it to her, though she wasn't mean in any sense of the word. She was just serious.

As I matured, I realized just how valuable my relationship with Gram was. She was directly responsible for developing my love of books and reading, as it was she who paid for subscription to a book club. Miraculously, hardcover books would appear in our mailbox each month, and at 42, I can still remember some of them. I believe it was Gram who bought the piano I've been playing for 38 years, and which sits in my living room, much worse for the wear. Gram was the one who informed me I was born with a gift, that perfect pitch and the ability to sing was not something one could acquire through practice. Time spent at her house nurtured in me an appreciation of symphonies and world travel...National Geographic and the nightly news. Tom Brokaw was as much a part of my childhood summers as back porch rockers, and I got something from my time at that house that I still value with my entire being: a love of solitude. Thanks to Gram and her home, I grew up loving time spent by myself, and to this day, I'm not afraid to be alone with nothing but my thoughts. In fact, I crave solitude, something I consider a luxury in a family of six.

And so I realize I had the best of both worlds when it came to grandparents. One set gave me the gift of hands-on love, hugs, nighttime baths and the joy of unsupervised adventures with cousins. The other encouraged my natural affinity for music and reading, and nurtured a love of learning for no other purpose than simply to know and be aware. I would not be who I am without all these people, and I am forever grateful.

Three of those four people are gone from me now; one lives in a hospice. Some days, she doesn't know her own daughter, who visits her daily and brings her two bite-sized York Peppermint Patties each time. "Oh, I haven't had one of these in years," Gram says, though she had two just yesterday. Gram sees her other daughter, my mom, waiting for her "across the river." I imagine they'll see one another again soon, though women in my family tend to live a long time, so perhaps not. Gram is 98; my other gram's sister is 101. Apparently, they've still got stuff they need to tend to.

Old people amaze me; I hope to be one someday. Then I can eat York Peppermint Patties everyday, too.

T-t-t-talkin' 'bout Their Generation; Where Was Everybody?

Windsor parents were invited to attend an informational meeting this past Monday at the high school to learn about the drug program that is going to be implemented at the high school this April.

Windsor, the town whose parents are supposedly so supportive of and concerned about their kids...14 people including myself showed up to hear the presentation. One of us was a newspaper reporter. Another was the minutes-taker. What an impressive showing that was.

I understand that even if you have just one student in the school district, it can be difficult to attend all the meetings every month. With trying to juggle a non-traditional work schedule, Wes' weekly 4-hour class, and multiple activities of my own four kids, I rarely get to attend meetings, even those I want to. But given that Windsor High was recently singled out for its higher-than-average drug and alcohol abuse problem, I naively believed more parents would show up at this meeting that took all of one hour of my time. The turnout was disappointing, to say the least.

I don't think this program (called "Every 15 Minutes") will solve the town's teenage substance abuse problems, but I do believe it's a fantastic starting point that's going to have a strong impact on all students, not just those who perhaps need it the most. If you're interested, check it out at http://every15minutes.com/photos/index.html (copy and paste the URL into your browser). We've been asked, though, not to share details with students, as their knowledge of what will happen beforehand would definitely lessen the impact of the program.

I applaud the high school and the district for moving forward with this bold program. But I can't help feeling nagged by the staggeringly low interest shown on behalf of parents as indicated by the poor attendance at the meeting. Are there really parents out there who tell themselves that their child would never drink or drug, so they don't need to concern themselves with this issue? I struggle with the idea that anyone might be that naivé in this day and age. I pray every day that my kids steer clear of the path that will lead them in that direction, but I don't kid myself: I know not one of them is immune to curiosity. And having been a teen myself decades ago, I know that curiosity, innocent as it may be, can be the first step on the path to self-destruction. I'm fortunate to have taken the road less travelled, but I had friends and family who didn't. It can happen to anyone.

I do so hope parents of all kids will take an active role in this community's efforts to stem the tide of alcohol and drug abuse among our youth. Everyone can do something, even if it's as small as sitting down and talking with our children. Please forward this column to anyone you believe needs to read it.

I don't understand the concept of doing nothing, especially where our children are involved.

Trying to Figure It All Out

I have wanted to sit down at this computer and write a column for over a week now. Yet every attempt failed. My brain simply feels overloaded, my sensory perception on cruise control. Whereas usually life feels like a road trip, with stops and adventures along the way, lately it feels like abstract art, with fragments of events and even thoughts thrown together randomly, often overlapping and eclipsing each other.

I turned 42 this past Monday. I love birthdays, even though (because?) they mean I'm older. I just don't care much about age. I woke up feeling good, checked for new wrinkles and found only the same old familiar ones. Still have all my real teeth, and my hair hasn't begun to fall out, though underneath, I've got a nice little nest of gray which I have no intention of hiding. So really, all was right with the world.

But by the end of the day, I was in tears, which is not like me. I was hit by the revelation (and yes, I should have realized this already) that as I age, so too are my kids. And one in particular is pulling away from me. And it hurts, even though I know it's necessary. Here and there since the summer, I've encountered those small but intense moments of clarity to acknowledge that Max no longer prefers his family to his friends. He practically lives in the basement and believes that a day spent down there is still a day spent with family, though he speaks to no one.

And while I know this is what is supposed to happen in a healthy family, it still sucks. I use that juvenile word because sometimes, I find myself reverting to juvenile reactions to his growth. I get mad. I pout. I feel like making him suffer. Thankfully, I haven't lived for 15,288-plus days for nothing, and my actual reaction and response are more mature. Most of the time.

I suppose the most difficult facet of this step toward independence is that Max and I have always been particularly close. And I don't really have a standard against which to measure what is usual behavior. My brother was the eldest of the three siblings, and a wild child. He hit my mom, punched holes in the walls, rebelled against parental authority in every way imaginable. And had a mouth on him that was more lethal than any weapon. That has been my experience with teen boys and their mothers. So I read a lot...books that help you understand kids at all stages of development. I talk to other moms who have grown sons and listen to their stories. And I pray each night for strength and wisdom to figure out how to be the mom my kids need me to be. But holy cow, these days of grunts-for-answers and rolling eyeballs seem endless.

On top of that, it often feels to me that I'm raising kids in a world that has lost its way. We have a serious drug problem at the high school, and that's where one of my children spends the bulk of his weekdays. That doesn't sit well with me. In one of Max's classes, an activity revealed that about half the students in class are allowed to drink alcohol. Their parents have no problem with it. They allow it. Condone it. Does it not matter to anyone that these kids are underage, that the earlier one starts drinking, the more likely s/he is to develop a drinking problem? We ask ourselves "How can we reach these kids?" But it's not the kids who need educating, it's the parents. And they simply don't care. And here I am, holding on to the hope and expectation that my kid won't lose his common sense and join the party.

But even smaller issues play a major role in influencing our kids. Max has a good friend (who, for the record, I like) who is incredibly disrespectful in the way he talks to his mom. I've even told this kid that the way he speaks to her is not only unkind, but ugly. She and I have talked about it. Her take on it? Well, if that's the worst thing he does, I consider myself lucky. I thought about this, and while I understand what she's saying, I can't say I agree. I don't believe a parent must accept a lesser evil in the hopes of warding off a greater one. If Max talked to me like this kid does on a consistent basis, there would surely be consequences. I get that shooting off one's mouth is a normal part of adolescence, and I make room for that, but it could never become a usual means of communication between my kids and me. And I hold them to that expectation at school and everywhere else as well.

So on top of being pushed aside in Max's quest for independence, I feel the daily struggle of trying to instill values in my children that seem to be losing ground in this society. Respect. Decency. Honesty. A sense of right and wrong. I sometimes recall that when I decided to become a parent, my picture of what a parent is and does was vastly different from the reality of parenting. Call it naiveté, ignorance, whatever. All I know is that when I thought about my own mom and what she filled her days with, I was sure I could do the same, no problem. Of course, that was from the perspective of a daughter, which limited my insight and understanding.

But truly, I think being a parent today is much harder than it was even three decades ago. I suppose every generation thinks that. But if Max's classroom activity is indicative of society in general, we now live in a world where a significant portion of parents have given up their right to hold their kids to higher standards. Teachers are now held accountable for students' behavior and lack of, well, anything.

As I read what I've written here, I realize that even my writing feels disjointed. My thoughts jump from one thing to another, and while I can see how everything is related, I don't know if I can explain it coherently. What I know is this: I miss my kid and he lives right here in the house with me. I hate that he spends so much time in a place that is really just a microcosm of the world at large, from which I cannot protect him but against which I hope I've given him the tools to make good decisions. And when he doesn't, I hope I've instilled in him a sense of self-worth that allows him to pick himself up and move on, bruised but not beaten.

But I don't know if I've done this. And if I survive my first child's adolescence, I've got three more to navigate down the road. And absolutely no idea what to expect, because two of those adolescents will be girls.

And one of them will be Bella.

Christmas = Hare Krishnas; or, How I Spent December 24th Many Years Ago

Snow! Glorious snow! Christmas of 2006 will definitely be white one for those of us who got hit with the blizzard. I just finished reading a news article about how thousands of airline passengers are stuck at the airport in Denver. My own dad and his wife have extended their stay in Mexico because they can't get a flight into Denver. Stuck in Mexico...could be worse fates, I think.

But thinking of all those people longing to get home to their loved ones by Monday reminds me of a Christmas Eve many years ago when I was stranded in an airport due to inclement weather. I was young...was I even 20? I've traveled a lot...years blur and in the end, don't matter anyway. What I remember most is feeling depressed at the prospect of spending the holiday without my family or boyfriend, who was in the Marines (and still is, actually) and had gotten leave so we could spend a few precious days together. Sigh. He was waiting for me on the other end of my itinerary, flowers in hand. He ended up giving them to an old lady and making her day.

I, on the other hand, tried to get comfortable on the floor since it was quite clear I would be spending the night. I must have dozed off, because when I awoke, I was looking up into a sea of orange. Now, of all people I might have found myself in the company of that cold and snowy December 24th, the last I expected were Hare Krishnas. But there they were, looking at me with as much interest as I'm sure I was looking back at them with. The first thought that popped into my head was "I wish Sis was with me." My sister and I would have laughed hysterically at the absurdity of the situation. And that mere thought of her sharing my experience made me start laughing out loud. I'm sure that did wonders in terms of what these bald, orange-robed men thought of me. Yeah, this was going to be quite a Christmas Eve.

I smiled awkwardly up at them and arose to choose a seat near the giant window so that I could watch the snow. I've always been mesmerized by falling snow. As a child in Wisconsin, I saw my fair share of blizzards. And I remember Dad making fun of me because I always wanted to camp out in the living room on the night of a snowfall so that I'd be closer to the snow. You and I know that idea is silly, but to my child's brain, I was that many steps closer to my snowsuit, hat, mittens, scarf, and parka in the morning. I would leave my brother and sister in the dust.

As I sat watching those fat flakes float to the ground, I managed to forget where I was. And I began to sing. I do that a lot, too. Bored? I sing. Happy? Sing. Sad? Sing. I remember events in my life by songs that were popular at the time, or ones I just really liked. So there I sat, one young lonely girl amidst a rather large group of Hare Krishnas. The only thing we had in common was that we wanted to be somewhere else.

I don't remember what Christmas carol I was singing when I realized my voice had been joined by several others. In harmony! I thought all Hare Krishnas did was chant, but boy, was I wrong. Those guys could sing, and they weren't bashful about it. Pretty soon, other stranded travelers joined us in song, and it was truly like a scene from a movie. None of us wanted to be where we were, yet the spirit of the season would not let us down. We joined together that evening and let the music be our bond.

I can't tell you how long our singing went on, but there are a lot of Christmas carols, and between us, we knew them all. And I distinctly remember the feeling of loss and disappointment leave me. For a while, I was actually happy to be where I was: in a cold airport with bald dudes draped in orange robes and hundreds of other people I'd never see again.

Not a Christmas goes by that I don't remember that experience. However long it lasted, its feeling of fellowship and human kindness has stayed with me for decades, and I can't help but smile whenever I recall the memory. It warms my heart and reminds me that we choose our paths for reasons both obvious and unknown, but what we choose to make of our situation is up to us.

I've sung on television. I've sung in front of live audiences on stages across the country. I've sung to my children, and I sang to my mom as I scattered her ashes two years ago. But never have I been so thankful for my voice as I was that Christmas Eve so long ago.

May this holiday season bring you your own special memories.

Honoring Tina
For reasons unbeknownst to me, I've been thinking a lot about a little girl I once knew back in my early childhood in Wisconsin. Tina was the youngest of four daughters, the eldest of whom had died before I ever knew them. I was friends with Sandy, the sister who was a year or two older than me. And I knew Suzy, who was already grown (at least in my eyes, she was; could be she was only in high school, but I think she was older than that). At any rate, though Sandy was technically my friend, it is little Tina who fills my memories.

Tina was several years younger than I. Mostly I played with her because she was Sandy's little sister, and our moms made us play with her. I remember feeling most days rather ambivalent toward Tina. I found her annoying (much as Tavi finds Bella, Tucker finds Tavi, and Max finds Tuck). She cried a lot. She tattled on the littlest things and didn't even have the decency to try to hide the delight our punishments provided. She tagged along when we did not want to have that third wheel. Often, she played with us when Sandy wasn't even around, and I was playing with my good pal Bridget. Tina was still there.

And yet, even during those tender elementary school years, I felt an enormous amount of compassion for Tina. As mad as I would get at her, the feeling was never as intense as my pity. Looking back with the wisdom, however slight, I've gained over the past 3 decades, I realize now that a primary reason I resented playing with Tina is that hours spent with her were sorrowful. Being with Tina made me sad, and there was enough sadness inside my own home to deal with. I didn't want more. Yet more is what I got.

Tina was dying since the day I met her.

She never made it out of childhood, but died shortly after Christmas and before her tenth birthday. Or could it be her ninth? Some of the years of my childhood are incredibly blurry; I lose track of dates and times. Doesn't matter. Tina went into the hospital on Christmas day that year, and she was buried in a red and green plaid taffeta dress her mother had bought her as a gift and let her open on Christmas Eve. I didn't go to the funeral; Mom wouldn't let me. I wish she had. How I felt about it then, I don't remember. I do remember feeling horrendously guilty for all the things I could have done to make Tina's life a bit happier but didn't. I could have been kinder even when I didn't feel like it. I could have been more willing to share my Barbie dolls and their clothes. I could have done more. Always, there is more.

But I did sing to her, and we would sometimes spend hours playing LPs and 45s on my plastic record player. She loved music and had no one to share that passion with. I loved it too, and was always happy to turn her on to new musicians. A few years before Tina's kidney disease claimed her life, I took her up into my pink bedroom to play her a song I had fallen in love with, the Carpenter's hit release "Top of the World." It's a catchy, upbeat tune. Tina immediately fell in love with it too. Whenever we played together from that point on, she asked me to sing it to her. And that much, I did.

One day we were playing, and after singing her that much-requested song, she put her warm little hand (TIna was always, always warm) on my arm, paused her play, and said, "Make sure they play that at my funeral." All those years ago, and the memory of this moment still makes me cry. Perhaps she knew hers would not be a long life. I like to think she didn't, but really, she probably did.

I gave Tina that 45 record that day. She knew I loved it; I knew she loved it more. I told her to put it in a safe place so that when the time came, I would know where to find it. And after she died, I talked with her mom. I didn't really like the woman. She yelled a lot, seemed indifferent to Tina and her fate. I remember once that she and her husband ate lobster for dinner but gave Tina and Sandy bologna sandwiches. All the years I knew them, and that is what I remember most clearly. It made me so sad. It still does.

I realize now that Tina's mom was probably doing the best she could. She had already buried one daughter and knew that the early death of her baby was imminent. She didn't really live, I don't think. She coped. And since anger is the easiest emotion to resort to, that's what she lived with, what they all lived with.

Anyway, I told Tina's mom that Tina wanted "Top of the World" to be played at her funeral. "Sing it to me," she said. So I did:

Such a feelin's comin' over me
There is wonder in most everything I see
Not a cloud in the sky, got the sun in my eyes
And I won't be surprised if it's a dream

Everything I want the world to be
Is now comin' true, especially for me
And the reason is clear, it's because you are near
You're the nearest thing to heaven that I've seen

I'm on the top of the world
lookin' down on creation
and the only explanation I can find
Is the love that I've found
ever since you've been around
Your love's put me at the top of the world

Tina's mom cried. I did too. Tina got her wish. They played that song, along with "Seasons In the Sun," at her service. It was the perfect ending to a less-than-perfect life.

When I look back on Tina and my reluctant friendship with her, I see now that we served a purpose for one another. Though loving her brought sadness, our friendship was a gift to me because it gave me someone to take care of, to think of and take my mind off my own tribulations, of which there were plenty. And by showing her love, even if I did so grudgingly at times, I gave Tina a place of security and happiness that she could not find in her own family, who suffered alongside her day after day.

So it is nearly Christmas, and Tina lives on in my heart. Writing this helped me remember, honor her. My tears, well, they'll always be there. But as an adult, thoughts of Tina conjure up the final verse to her favorite song:

There is only one wish on my mind
When this day is through I hope that I will find
That tomorrow will be just the same for you and me
All I need will be mine if you are near

Spend some time remembering...the Front Porch will return the first week of January. Thanks so much for sticking with me through a year of change and evolution.

Keeping It Real

As I sit here at the kitchen table, steaming mug of coffee to my left, glorious Christmas tree to my right, I hear a rattling sound. I turn in the direction from which it's coming, and all I can figure is that my Deep Rock water supply is thawing and making wierd noises. Sometimes the cooler "talks" and startles me. It always happens at night, when the kids are in bed and all is quiet. From the dark recesses of the kitchen, buzzing.

But that's not what I'm hearing right now. It's as if someone is knocking on the walls of my house. And then I realize--someone is! I had poured birdseed into a wall-mounted feeder earlier this week, and if I turn my head and glance out to the back patio, I see birds everywhere. They've found my treat for them. Some are fluttering their wings madly, attempting to get every last morsel from the feeder.

There's nothing unusual about birds feeding in people's backyards. Nothing at all. But at this particular moment, hearing and seeing them is a gift, a reminder. Just last night, I sat in my big purple chair, feeling overwhelmed. Amidst the hustle and bustle of buying gifts, wrapping boxes to mail, writing and mailing holiday cards, caring for sick kids, listening (grudgingly) to their complaints about whatever, planning and fixing dinner, talking with Max for the umpteenth time about why settling for less when doing more with minimal effort is not an admirable quality, and trying to find enough hours in the day to work at my job so that I can feed my family, a sort of gentle melancholy overcame me. A few moments of solace, just me and my art supply catalog (when I die, someone is going to inherit an amazing collection of art supplies and pens), and I was able to get up and face the world again, which at that time, translated into giving Bella a bath.

But when I awoke this morning, I still felt somehow less than. Than what, I can't say. I got the kids ready for school, and here I sit. And then came the birds. And I realized what I was missing were those moments that present themselves on any given day, those where I notice the world around me. I like getting glimpses into lives that don't include me, but which surround me. Like when I notice the light of a winter's day. I love light on snow, the way it makes me feel, as if all is right with the world. It's a different light than the one in summer, and one I infinitely prefer for its softness, its glow. Or when I get to witness one of those rare moments when Bella is still, as she is when she's drawing a masterpiece to put into my Christmas stocking. Her face is one of intense concentration, and when her task is completed, the sparkle in her eyes is brighter than the Hope Diamond. Or when I'm in the car, listening to NPR, and a song is playing that I don't know but absolutely must hear through to the end. Unless I'm on a schedule, I'll pull over somewhere just to listen.

Those quiet moments are what I treasure, and lately, life's just been moving so fast that those moments are passing me by, unnoticed. Until the birds. In the short time it's taken me to write this, they've emptied the feeder and moved on. But I'll fill it up again, make some suet as my little holiday gift to them. And tonight as I sit in the darkened family room, enjoying our beautiful Christmas tree, I'm going to squint my eyes as I admire the lights. I did that as a little girl, and the way the lights became extra-twinkly is one of my favorite memories. Crossing my eyes also distorts the little lights, but I don't like to do that because even though I know better, I still hear Mom warning, "They'll stay like that!" So I just squint.

I hope you find some of your own squinty moments during this busy holiday season.

Discipline Policy Too Strict? Seems Not

Last July, I wrote a column that hit a nerve with our illustrious school board and certain members of our community whose teenage boys vandalized the high school but then managed to dodge the punishment of expulsion. That punishment was in keeping with school district policy and was supported by the high school principal as well as the interim superintendent and others. In that column, I voiced my opinion of what went down in that situation: The parent of one of those boys is an influential and wealthy developer here in Windsor, and he used his clout and power to see to it that his son did not have to (fairly) pay for his crime. And of course, he generously used that same clout to give the other boys the same treatment because otherwise, what would that look like? It was ugly. It was unjust. It was corrupt. And I still maintain that this is what happened.

School board member Cathy Norris wrote a letter to the Windsor Beacon in response to my column (glad to know she's reading!), singing the praises of our present school board, upon which sits no member I can remember actually being elected. After my column was published, my editor called, telling me he was "really taking some heat" for my column, which he read and edited before publishing. He made it clear that he did not agree with my stance (big shocker), that I had to understand that the district discipline policies were written post-9/11, and so were considered too strict and reactionary by some. I heard this argument from one other person, someone near and dear to the situation. I didn't buy it then, and I don't buy it now. And a recent Beacon article seems to reinforce my doubts.

The 11/25 article, titled "Severity of Discipline Policy Questioned" and written by Megs Burd, indicated that a task force met with community members, educators, and parents, and "found many positive things in the district's policies as well as some that needed some strengthening." What "strengthening" means, I can't say. Burd didn't elaborate. Superintendent Karen Trusler was quoted as saying, "They do affirm our present policies. We have policies in place that are good for our kids."

Burd's article goes on to state that the task force felt "certain policies or disciplinary measures could be firmed up." Again, who knows what "firmed up" means. Members also support the superintendent's discretion in dealing with individual cases. Our interim superintendent did just that with the vandalism case, and she supported the original sentence of expulsion. Odd then, don't you think, that those boys are back in school? What's the point of case-by-case consideration if the superintendent doesn't have the final say?

What I noticed completely lacking in the article is any reference to our discipline policies being too strict or reactionary. Since the last board meeting, three expulsion cases have occurred. Did any of those kids' parents manage (or even try?) to get their students' punishment revoked? Or did they comprehend that when their kid breaks a rule for which there is a clear and formally stated consequence, said consequence is meted out, regardless of who they are? I like to think that in this age of permissiveness, lazy parenting, and privileged kids who have an overblown sense of entitlement that comes directly from their own folks, there are still adults in positions of authority who believe that rules are rules and should be followed. Period. No excuses, no exceptions.

Alas, I don't see any of those adults on this school board. Members are concerned, rather, about insuring those expelled students get some form of education. For crying out loud, where the hell does this end? Isn't there already a school in Greeley for expelled students to attend? Why is our district spending time and money on researching alternatives? This is like sending a child to her room but going to great pains to be sure that rooms has cable TV, a stocked fridge, and all the toys she could want. Perhaps knowledgeable professionals could be on hand to act as educational consultants, but give the responsibility of the legwork to the parents of these students who gave up their right to attend our schools when they made bad choices.

But since our district can't seem to manage enforcing the policies as they are clearly stated in the handbook, I guess it's too much to expect them to take a hardline approach to anything else. Discipline among students at the middle and high school levels is a serious problem in Windsor. But what do teachers and educators have to rely on when they can't even have the security of knowing their administration backs them up? How can they discipline rowdy, disrespectful, rule-breaking, foul-mouthed, apathetic, violent students when their superiors don't have their backs? That kind of support should be a given, yet such is not the case in Windsor RE-4. And until we get some people sitting on that board who aren't afraid to incur the wrath of certain parents or community members in the name of justice and fair play, it ain't ever gonna be how things work around here.

I don't think the problem lies in the severity of our discipline policies, and given that the task force affirms them, I'd say I'm not alone in my assessment. The problem lies in having a school board that refuses to consistently enforce those policies for everyone, but chooses instead to let someone outside the realm of school authority dictate what will happen. The problem lies in not realizing the limits of an entity's responsibility. Expel a kid and then give him his own special classroom? Come on.

This district needs some real leadership, the kind that lays down the law and then abides by it. What are policies for if not enforcement? The Beacon hails the school board for scrutinizing its discipline policies; I'd join in the accolades if I believed any real change would come of such an effort. But I think we're going to see more of the same. And down the road, lame excuses will be made, policies won't be followed, and we'll still hear unending (and justified) complaints of discipline issues from our teachers.

I called it right back in July.

Table talk

This family is not fun to be with.

The pilgrims didn't have many chairs, and if there was one, the dad sat in it because he was the head of the house.

We're an abnormal family because you are so involved in your kids' lives.

The pilgrims signed a peace treaty with the Native Americans. That means their team wouldn't fight with the other team.

There are too many people in our family.

The pilgrims were cold and hungry. Half of them died. Half of them didn't.

Can I just live in the basement?

Thus went dinner conversation around the Valentine/Godfrey table for the past couple nights. In less time than it took to prepare the meals, eat them, and clean up afterwards, my kids have pushed me to the brink of insanity with all this talk of pilgrims and teen angst. I can't take any more.

Bella came out of her kindergarten class with a gaggle of other girls, all of them resembling the Flying Nun (remember her?). It took her pathetically slow mother a moment to realize she wasn't wearing one of those nun hats, but a female pilgrim's bonnet. Why didn't I know that? She and Tavi both have obviously been learning about the first Thanksgiving (no turkey served), and they remember every detail of the lesson. Every. single. freakin'. detail. I tuned out when Bella explained that the pilgrims brought over only a little food, some horsetooth (what the????), and some other completely made-up concoction. She lost me at that juncture, and from then on, I heard only bits and pieces. But that was okay, because she REPEATED EVERYTHING at tonight's dinner, for my listening pleasure.

Max cannot stand being around us anymore these days. I figured the day was coming, and I have basically been relegated to the role of cook (his loss), chauffeur, and maid. I don't like this one bit. According to him, I ruined his life by giving him siblings whose sole purpose is to mess with his serenity. What was I thinking? And do I really expect him to take time away from listening to his iPod, playing guitar, and sending text messages to actually talk with me? Didn't he do that long enough...14 years, to be exact? Sigh.

I want to slap him, or at least push him into the wall. I don't do either. And I know as a mom, I'm not supposed to even admit I have thoughts like that. But I do. Fleeting visualizations of minor violence purported against my children don't negate the overwhelming love I have for them. It's just a coping mechanism, and one I've come to rely on when times are, well, challenging.

But for all the frustration I've had lately as a parent, as Thanksgiving approaches and I give serious thought to all that I am thankful for, my kids top the list. They always have; I imagine they always will. In the past almost-11 months, I've made some major strides in my life. I managed to get to a place of comfort and peace regarding the death of my mom and my son. It came when I least expected it, and my life was forever changed. I wrote a 3-volume reference set on American history. It was a major assignment, and one that I was pleased to get, proud to finish. It will be published next month...a major milestone for me. I've written several books, but this was the first with my name on it. I can't wait to hold those books in my hands.

And there were several smaller ah-ha moments for me in 2006. It's been a good year. But when the day is done and I'm lying in bed, reflecting on what the past 24 hours have put in my path, I always return to my family. My kids. They are my motivation, my pride. Sometimes my shame and sadness. They amuse me, confuse me, bring me to my knees in wonder. They are the reason I yell, laugh, cry, worry, celebrate, breathe. They are what makes this life bountiful and breathtaking.

So when Wes and I sit at that chaotic dinner table and wish we were in Mexico, lying on the beach, just the two of us, I feel a glimmer of guilt because I really don't want the kids there in my fantasy. I want an umbrella drink that is so cold it burns my chest when I swallow. Something with an exotic name, that smells like suntan lotion and makes me smile even as the glass freezes itself to the palm of my hand.

But that fantasy is as much a blessing as anything else; it has great value. Maybe one day we'll get back to our beloved Isla Mujeres. In the meantime, we take deep breaths, eat as fast as possible, and try to escape the pilgrims and the angst.

Happy Thanksgiving to you. May you find yourself many ways in which to feel thankful.

What Do You Believe?

I love the public library. Not just the one in Windsor, but every public library I've ever walked into. Some are admittedly nicer than others. But it isn't the building or the layout I enjoy; it's the smell, the atmosphere, the hordes of books and CDs and audio books and movies and magazines that surround me. When the world ends, I want to be in a public library.

I usually go to the library armed with a list of books I want to read. My "Books to Read Before I Die" list is a pipe dream, really. I know I'll never have the time to read every book on my list, or the ones that will one day appear there. Still, I like my list. It's long. It's comforting. And I can add and delete book titles for any reason I like, or no reason at all. My book list is my little effort at rebellion.

On my way to the checkout line at a library recently, I spotted a book I'd never heard of. "This I Believe" was published this year in association with National Public Radio (NPR). The subtitle is "The Personal Philosophies of Remarkable Men and Women." The intriguing title, along with NPR's endorsement, led me to do what I tell my kids not to do: check out the book without even opening the cover to see if I'll like it. I knew I'd like it.

I don't like this book. I cannot get through it because every brief essay gives me reason to pause and think. No, that's not the right word. I ruminate. Perhaps contemplate. Evaluate. Brood. Cogitate. Mull over. Ponder. Reflect. Consider. Examine. But most of all, I appreciate. This book I keep reading and yet don't seem to progress through is an amazing compendium of thoughts belonging to people both famous and non. It speaks to me in a quiet way that demands my attention. And long after I've read one of the short entries, I find myself thinking about it. No, I don't like this book. I love it.

What I most enjoy about this book is that its subjects range from important topics such as God, compassion, and attitude to the seemingly more insignificant subjects, including happiness, Barbie dolls, and indecisiveness. People--most of them not writers--were given the prompt "This I Believe," and they had as much freedom of expression as could fit into a few hundred words. What they've done with those words astonishes me.

In my recent years as a weekly columnist, I have been both criticized and praised for writing about everything and nothing. What one person considers inconsequential and not worth writing about, another deems life-altering. What a reader might disregard as too personal to put into print, another finds permission, allowance to feel for herself, and there is a resulting communion. Writing is an intensely personal pursuit, regardless of subject. And that's what I find invaluable in this book. These people had something to say, and they said it, condemnation be damned.

I may have my own opinions and personal philosophies, and you know I've never hesitated to share them. But they're not all etched in stone; they are, as am I, constantly shifting and evolving, and my philosophies reflect that growth. "This I Believe" is written by "remarkable" people, according to the title. We tend to think of that adjective as one meaning "outstanding" or "unusual." But really, it just means "worth remarking upon." One need not be larger than life, exceptional, or amazing to be remarkable. Despite the resolute title, not all the essayists know what they believe. They reserve the right to be "wobbly," as one man puts it. And while I'm not a middle-of-the-road type of gal (you get hit by traffic from both directions if you stand there too long), I can understand not always having a firm belief in something one way or the other.

At any rate, this book is a keeper. I think the personal value of any literature can be directly linked to the time in which it is written as well as to the circumstances under which it is read. In these days of endless war, political gaffes up the wazoo, economic hardships and a general lack of (what I believe is) intelligent leadership on multiple levels, I find the simplicity and direct honesty of the messages that lie between the two covers of this book to be uplifting and inspirational. They feed my soul as surely as food nourishes my body, and I hope you'll pick up a copy and give it a try. Prepare to have your own beliefs challenged as well as echoed, and perhaps allow yourself to be nudged outside your comfort zone if the opportunity presents itself.

We are, after all, each of us remarkable, if imperfect, in our own way. And if nothing else, we each have something to offer, even (especially?) to those who may not realize it.

How Can Anyone Not Vote?

This is my least favorite time of year, for several reasons. I'm no fan of Halloween, but not for reasons that stem from religious beliefs or anything like that. Halloween conjurs up childhood memories of the holiday, and they almost always ended in tears as my brother and his evil henchmen friends took joy in smashing my jack-o-lanterns. Sounds silly now, I know. But I never understood why he found delight in destruction, especially of something I made. I feign enthusiasm each year, though, because my kids love this holiday and the creepiness of it. We decorate, dress up, gorge. In the end, it's all good.

This is also the beginning of the season of loss for me, and I'd know it was upon me even without the convenience of a calendar. I lost my son and my mother in the month of November and well, there's really nothing more to say about it. Words are powerful, sometimes as much for what they cannot say as for what they express.

And ads. Politically oriented ads, automated phone calls, and commercials have me insane with disgust. These mudslinging campaigns are tiresome; they bring out the worst in all candidates, regardless of platform. By the time Election Day rolls around, I don't like any of my options. That ugly nature of politics today makes it nearly impossible for anyone to run a clean campaign that focuses on a candidate's positive aspects. To do so is certain death. Instead, they spend hundreds of thousands of dollars exaggerating and flat-out lying about their opponents' past while simultaneously trying to defend their own. It's up to us voters to do our own research and sort the truth from the garbage. It requires time most of us don't have and effort we don't feel like putting forth.

And yet the option is unthinkable: Believe what each candidate has to say about the other and take their remarks at face value. Yeah, I don't think so. And as fed up as I get every year (and admittedly, have remained throughout the entire Bush administration), I wouldn't even so much as entertain the idea of not voting. To vote is to express hope for something better, brighter, more representative of our interests and needs. It is a simple gesture that holds great meaning, a ritual that, in and of itself, is motivated by a desire for something much greater than ourselves. To vote is to believe.

And yet, not everyone who can, votes. Voting has never been easier or more convenient. Do it early. Do it while you're away. Do it on Election Day. Doesn't matter how or when you do it, just that you do it. When someone tells me s/he doesn't vote, it's all I can do not to slap the mouth that uttered those dirty words. I can't understand why anyone would give away one of the few powers we as individual Americans have left to wield. Especially women. In 1776, Abigail Adams reminded her esteemed husband to "Remember the Ladies" as he and his cronies worked on developing the Declaration of Independence. He blew her off by telling her the Declaration specifically stated that all "men" are created equal.

Throughout most of the following century, woman was forced to conform to a society that inducted her into the Cult of Domesticity. Her role was that of nurturer, housewife, upholder of family morality. Forget her own ambitions and desires, and God forbid she use that brain of hers. I surely would have been in prison on First Degree Murder had I lived in the 1800s. Lizzie Borden and her ax would have had nothin' on me.

The struggle for women's suffrage continued into the twentieth century, and it wasn't until 1920 that the Nineteenth Amendment was added to the Constitution. It took more than one hundred years of struggle, sacrifice, sweat, marginalization, ostracism, and sheer determination for women to enjoy the right to be heard. And yet there are those today who do not vote for one reason or another. To me, that is the epitome of hopelessness and defeat.

As long as there is breath running through me, I won't give up hope. As much as I abhor the negativity and ugliness of American political campaigns, I won't let that deter me from exercising my right (while I still have it) to have a say in who represents me. To neglect my duty as a voter would be to dishonor the struggle of the hundreds of thousands of women--and enlightened men--who allowed me this voice. If I don't vote, I have no right to complain or dissent or engage in civil disobedience. Where would that leave me?

I tried the Cult of Domesticity; doesn't work for me. And with all its flaws and foibles, the voting system we have in place beats the bunzolas off not having one at all. Miscounts, hanging chads, mysteriously misplaced ballots...there's definitely evil at work here, no doubt. Still. Hope is where it's at for me.

How about you?

Playground games: The Latest Casualty

An elementary school in Massachusetts has banned tag, dodgeball, and touch football on the recess playground. According to the principal, this drastic measure was taken in an effort to keep children safe (and thereby, avoid lawsuits) and avoid "inappropriate touching."

I want to say something about this, but the sheer absurdity of the situation leaves my fingers paralyzed. (It took me 3 minutes to type that sentence, and I'm not kidding.) My mind reels at the idea that society has sunk to such an all-time low that school administration is willing--and feels the need--to revoke one of the few carefree childhood activities our kids are still allowed to enjoy: chase games.

While a first-grader, I participated in a version of tag called Boys Chase the Girls at nearly every recess. We all played together...kids from my neighborhood, kids from across the highway, kids from other classes. These were kids whose families I knew, whose faults I was well aware of and loved anyway. They were my friends. One sunshine-filled winter day, the kind where ice covers the tree branches and ground and the air is so cold it burns to breathe, we were running wild around the playground. It was how we got our wigglies out, expended that excess energy that drove our teachers mad in the classroom. We were Wisconsin children; freezing temperatures and icy conditions didn't slow us down. That playground was our domain, and we took advantage of it.

In the midst of our game of tag, the bell rang, signaling it was time to channel our chi, calm down, and get in line to retreat to the confines of the school building. I abruptly stopped running, unaware that my little pal, Joey Messenger, was hot on my trail and had not heard the bell. Upon seeing me stop, Joey seized the chance to tag me. Only what would have normally been a gentle shove morphed into a serious body slam, and I hit the ground, face first.

The pain blinded me, and when I was able to sit up, Joey began screaming at the sight of blood gushing from somewhere on my face. It turned my new, white mittens scarlet, and in that innocent way kids do, I was more concerned with ruining my pretty Christmas gift mittens than I was with the sensation that I was chewing on gravel.

Turns out I was chewing gravel. That collision tore my mouth up and caused my right eye tooth to slice completely through my upper lip. That tooth was literally sticking out through my top lip. And if you've ever seen or experienced a mouth injury, you know how profusely they bleed. Poor Joey stood by, sobbing and apologizing. I didn't want to hug my friend and get him bloody. But I remember telling him through my dazed tears that it was okay, I'd be fine.

I managed to hang on until my mom arrived to whisk me to the doctor's office. Clearly, I was a mess, because when she saw me, her eyes grew wild and her mouth fell open. But what really signalled the seriousness of the situation was her hair. Mom was in pink foam curlers, the kind you can sleep on. I can't stress enough how shocking this was. My mom never went anywhere without doing her hair, makeup, nails, and dressing nicely. I was always immensely proud of how she looked, despite the Marge Simpson hairstyle she favored. Mom was not a sloppy woman, so for her to show up in public looking like that, I knew I was in dire straits.

The injury required 3 stitches in my lip, but only after the doctor peeled it off my tooth, dug the gravel out of my gums and cheeks, and gave me anesthesia via a large needle through my lip. It was by far the worst accident of my childhood. I still bear the scar. Mom was pretty shook up, too. But I don't think it ever entered her mind to sue the school or Joey's folks. She understood what so many today seem to have forgotten: Sometimes things just happen.

But the point is, I survived the trauma, perhaps better than Joey did. Kids have accidents. They play hard, they sometimes suffer. I don't think this is a fact that translates into a problem needing a solution. If we want to keep our kids safe, how about keeping pedophiles locked up, revamping child protective services so that children don't die or suffer at the hands of their parents, or even simply having communities policed by local government employees for trash? I found last week, just outside our privacy fence, a used hypodermic needle as the kids and I were walking home from school. I've already told you how I often find used condoms, broken glass bottles, etc. on the journey to and from school. All of these pose serious health risks to our little people, and yet the problem remains.

I understand we live in litigous times. I get that some parents are off their rockers and punch each other out over grade-school sports, threaten teachers not to give their children failing grades (though they may be well deserved), and make spectacles of themselves in various and sundry ways. But haven't we taken enough away from our children already? Some of us allow them to sit in front of a TV screen for hours on end because at least that way they're not in our hair. We have no problem subjecting them to unceasing violence through the media. There are parents who willingly serve their minors alcohol while others choose to ignore the fact that their kids are sexually active. We are raising a generation of kids who have no sense of responsibility or accountability or even human decency. Shame has become taboo and a conscience is becoming nearly extinct. Seems to me we've forced our children to grow up way too fast as it is.

Do we really have the right to steal from them one more childhood activity? In a society that's increasingly lenient and unsupervised in ways it shouldn't be, and more strict and rule-oriented than it should be, what impact can such a limitation have on a population for whom days of innocence and simple fun grow shorter with each passing day?

Go to your local park, sit on a swing, and pump your legs until you're really high in the air. Then lean back and close your eyes and remember what it was like to be a kid. Let your stomach be tickled, your laughter escape as the wind blows your hair and brushes your face.

What you've got is simple joy. That is what will keep our kids safe.