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.

Let's Give God a Break

A twenty-year-old mother in North Carolina suffocated her 9-month-old twin boys on Wednesday because they were crying and she didn't feel well. Those babies were on the bed next to her when she murdered them. Then she rolled over and took a nap. Authorities found the body of one boy on the bed, the other on the floor. The mother has been arrested on two counts of homicide by child abuse.

So here we have the ruined lives of three people, not to mention other family members. Obviously (to me, anyway), this woman never should have become a mother. She was not equipped to deal with the harsher moments that go along with parenthood. I don't know a mom alive who hasn't had to deal with needy children when she herself did not feel well. I don't know one of them who killed her kids over it.

I don't know any further details of this story. But based on the few I've mentioned and some other pieces of information I've gleaned from news reports, I can imagine she was a single mother, low-income. Uneducated, unskilled, perhaps unemployed. No one ever explained to her the resources available to her and her children. No one paid any attention to her, at least not when she needed it most. And now two innocent lives have been snuffed out.

This is just one of hundreds of similar stories that unravel throughout this great nation every day. Maybe they don't all end the same. Instead of death, children suffer sexual and physical abuse, emotional neglect...to such an intense and irrevocable degree that they would rather die. But they don't die. So then they seek escape by turning to gangs, drugs, prostitution, self-mutilation...you get the picture.

I can't imagine a life like that. I hope my kids can't, either, though I would sometimes like them to understand that the life they have isn't unfair simply because I expect them to help with chores around the house and do what I ask the first time I make the request. I'd like them to have at least an inkling of what it's like not to be them because being them seems (to them) to be a rip-off when I don't just hand them money for no reason, or when I hold them accountable for their actions. Sometimes, being a parent really blows. It means being the bad guy, the nag, the one who says No when saying Yes would be so much easier.

But although we require training and licensing for driving motor vehicles, obtaining certain jobs, and constructing buildings, we don't provide mandatory training for parents-to-be. Oddly enough, some counties require a course for parents who are divorcing, to help them smooth the transition for the kids and remember that they are the adults, regardless of the circumstances. So we are, according to law, trained to handle divorce, but not parenting.

I wonder how that North Carolina mother might have better handled her frustration had she received some assistance (and I'm not talking welfare) before her babies arrived. Or, perhaps even better, before she got pregnant. Instead, we have folks who want to ban sex education in favor of abstinence-only rhetoric AND outlaw abortion. Where is the logic in this?

The idea of having an abortion fills me with unutterable sadness. Really, I can't put together words to express how devastating the thought is to me. But in a world filled with thousands of unwanted children who endure unbearable suffering at the hands of those who are supposed to love and cherish them most, I can't find the logic in revoking one of few options available. To the young girl who is repeatedly raped by her dad or brother, or the woman who is abused in every manner by her psychotic husband, abortion is, perhaps, the only ray of hope. I don't know; I've never been in such a situation. But I can't for one moment pretend that I know what is best for someone who has had this experience.

I want a presidential administration that values everyone, not just the rich or religious (but it has to be the "right" religion), the white or powerful. Everyone. If that were the case, there would be little need to ever discuss the rights of the unborn vs. the born. We would all get what we need, those basic necessities such as education, food, shelter, health insurance. If life weren't a dire struggle for so many hundreds of thousands of people just to survive, maybe there would be more time to devote to bettering ourselves so that we might just be able to give our kids what they need.

Instead, we have mothers barely out of their teens, suffocating their babies and facing life in prison. And we have young boys and grown men storming our schools and terrorizing our children, murdering some and traumatizing the rest for life. We have young girls and grown women dying from self-induced abortions and those performed by back-alley pseudo doctors because men are passing laws telling us what we can and cannot do with and to our own bodies. Everyone in these scenarios is a victim, from the dead babies to the suicidal, gun-wielding maniacs.

I'm an idealist. At various times in my life, it's been the only thing between me and a very bad choice. I believe in the overall goodness of the human race, that there still exists the possibility that things can change for the better. I need to believe that something new and improved lies just beyond the horizon, because the news I read yesterday and today, the headlines I will surely read tomorrow, are soul-crushing. They could easily rob me of my hope and determination if I hadn't already spent more than forty years learning how to detect that sliver of potential in the mountain of disappointment.

The family of the slain boys say they're giving the situation up to God, that it's in his hands. Maybe if more people here on earth would take responsibility for what happens not only to themselves but to their neighbors, we wouldn't need to keep giving God so much to do.

In the meantime, our simple leader has made us the police of the world, and we're spending billions of dollars we don't have fighting a war we can't seem to bring to an end for a reason we can't seem to remember (oh, that's right; there wasn't [a real] one) while our own people suffer needlessly and endlessly due to poverty, ignorance, and destitution. Then, that same simple leader and his henchmen pass laws that are rapidly making second-class citizens out of anyone who isn't white, straight, wealthy, and male. Despite my idealism, I can only predict that this will end badly.

Abortion. War. Poverty. Murder. Foreign policy. Parenting. Ignorance. Politics. You may think these concepts aren't related, but they are. In its simplest form, everything is related in one way or another.

And it isn't God who provides the common thread. It's you. And it's me. And until we truly understand this, every effort we make is destined to fail.

The Spilling of Innocent Blood

The murders of young Amish school girls in Pennsylvania earlier in the week hit me hard. It's not as if we don't have our own school shootings in this state; we seem to lead the troops in that sad scenario. Every time I read or hear of yet another shooting, a small part of me is shamed. These are our children, and we're failing them miserably in so many ways.

But the shootings in Pennsylvania ripped through me on several levels. My sister and brother were born in Lancaster, PA, home to thousands of Amish folk. My extended family lived (and a few still remain) near that region, and I spent many childhood summers there. From the time I was small, the Amish and their horse-drawn buggies were a familiar sight as I enjoyed carefree summer days with my cousins and grandparents, aunts and uncles. I remember feeling sorry for the little girls whose dresses were so drab, whose dolls had no faces. And always, always, I pitied them having to spend those humid days in full clothing while I cavorted in shorts, tank tops, and flip flops. In my eyes, the Amish children seemed so serious and sullen. I wanted for them the same fun and laziness I had the luxury to enjoy during those summer months.

In my teens, I looked at the Amish more with disbelief than anything. My lifestyle was so far removed from theirs; I had little understanding of how a life so simple and removed from my reality could be fulfilling. No phones, no lights, no motor cars, not a single luxury...it was Gilligan's Island without Gilligan or the Island. I just didn't get it. Why would anyone voluntarily adopt that way of life?

It was not until adulthood that I came to admire the Amish and what being Amish actually meant. Because they are a throwback to centuries long gone, society has tended to mystify and revere them. I never fell into that trap; I'm sure they have their bad seeds just as we English do. I find it hypocritical that some sects are not allowed to own cars or phones or any modern conveniences that might make them slaves to their trappings, but that they can use them if need be. I absolutely hate driving behind them on long stretches of highway, moving, as Max would say, at the speed of smell. But.

To the extent of my understanding of and familiarity with the Amish, I consider them the one population truly closest to God. In a world that is a political jungle, they take no side. They live in a war-waging country, yet are unapologetic pacifists to the core. They have no need to impose their beliefs on anyone, whether from the pulpit, the classroom, or the White House. And as their reaction to this recent horrific tragedy demonstrates, they embody the essence of forgiveness. Their daughters' simple pine coffins not underground yet, they spoke of the need to forgive the deranged murderer. And despite their own grief and immeasurable loss, they crowded his funeral so that they might offer solace and comfort to his tormented family.

These people live their beliefs not only publicly, but in private. They shun those temptations that might lure them further from their God, yet they offer their teenage children a respite from the strict limitations of their lives to give them a chance to see what life outside the Amish community is like. During this time, their children can engage in any activity they choose: drinking, drugs, sex...you name it. The purpose of this milestone is to allow young people to make a choice to remain Amish or to choose a life in mainstream America. I know of no other Christian denomination as a whole that gives its young the room--not to mention the trust--to make a faith choice based on experience. Perhaps that's why there's such a rebellion from the church among young people today. To me, the Amish don't talk the talk; they walk the walk.

And now their gentle community has been desecrated. I can't help but wonder what went through the minds of those innocent girls as they experienced those last moments of life. Surely they had nothing against which to compare what they were going through. They had no reference to the outside world and its evil. Did this ignorance of their fate deepen their fear, or lessen it? According to newspaper reports, even in their terror, they were seeking meaning, asking their captor why he wanted to harm them. And one 13-year-old volunteered her own life for the safety of her younger peers. Even in the face of death, she rose above the sheer wickedness of the situation to offer herself as a sacrifice. That is an example of the love of God, and it was manifested in the selflessness of a young girl.

There is no ending to this story. I fear this is but a beginning.

Nothin' to Do and All Night to Do It

I attended a PTAC meeting earlier this week at Skyview. Due to schedule constraints, I was never able to attend the PTAC meetings last year, so I was thrilled to realize that, at least for now, I can make it to these Monday-night affairs.

At one point in the meeting, we were brainstorming ideas for events the schools could hold to help bring parents and students together, maybe raise some money, show school spirit...that sort of thing. And while I consider myself a creative person, my mind was a complete blank. I couldn't think of one activity or idea. On top of that, I didn't like any of the ideas others came up with.

After the meeting, while I was getting ready at home to let the day come to a close, I thought about my inability to contribute to or even support what went on at the meeting. After putting Max and Tuck to bed (the girls were already there), clearing off the kitchen table, folding that last load of laundry, getting lunches ready for the next day, and checking the calendar so that there would be no unwelcome surprises come Tuesday morning, I flopped into my recliner, exhausted. And that's when it hit me: I had no good ideas, nor could I support anyone else's, because I don't want one more thing added to my schedule. I don't want another school event I feel obligated to attend, no matter how fun it might be.

What would truly be great is if the school district could get together and give its families one night a month--one night--free of sports practices and games, extracurricular activities, meetings, events, and homework. One night a month to just be together as a family, with nothing to do, nowhere we have to go, and all night to enjoy that nothingness. No responsibilities to school...just empty hours for us to fill --or not--as we choose.

We've never been a family that schedules every waking moment with some sort of organized activity. I have the good fortune to work from home, so I have even more flexibility than many parents, and I don't need to rely on daycare schedules. I usually walk with my elementary-aged kids to and from school; Max rides in with Wes at 6:40 a.m. each weekday so that he can be on the marching (band) field by 7:00 sharp (and I do mean sharp, or the entire band has to run laps if one kid is late), and then I pick him up from cross country practice between 5 and 5:30 p.m. most days. Evenings are spent with the kids doing homework, us parents helping when appropriate. Add to that bath time, story time, and the getting-ready-for-bed process, and we're until well into the night. And then there are those nights when Max has an out-of-town cross country meet, or a band competition, and I have to stay up waiting for the phone call to pick him up. Last weekend, he called at 12:10 a.m. on Sunday, having just arrived back at the school from a band competition that was supposed to get the kids home by 11 p.m. Saturday night.

All that (and I didn't even mention the community playhouse, which requires the younger kids to be at 2 practices a week, 2 hours each practice, efforts which will culminate in more than ten performances and will require them to miss 2 full days and 2 half days of school), and I have just one kid at the high school level, where extra-curricular activities really seem to kick into high gear. There are families who have more than one there, and who still have children in the middle and/or elementary schools as well. It's a logistical nightmare.

So the thought of yet another event or activity does not appeal to me. I see how hard students are pushed in school, and while I understand that we're just trying to keep up with the pace of the world, I want there to be some sort of boundary where these kids come home and have a chance to just be kids again. Not students. Not athletes. Not thespians. Just kids. Kids with time on their hands to do whatever...even nothing, if they choose. I remember doing nothing; it's a sweet memory.

I don't think my fantasy is unrealistic. I was an involved student myself. I played tennis and basketball, helped manage the track team, wrote and edited the yearbook, participated in two choirs, competed each year in state vocal competitions, took piano lessons, was a member of several school clubs and organizations, and eventually was a peer mentor for kids from families where substance abuse was an issue. Add to that youth group at church and, by the age of sixteen, a part-time job at the public library, and I was busy.

But I fondly remember, despite my crowded schedule, having down time when I could read, play piano, play with friends (an activity we later called "hanging out" because it sounded cooler), or just stay in my bedroom with the door shut, thinking...dreaming...imagining. I don't see Max getting much time for that sort of thing, even though I monitor and limit how many activities he's involved in simultaneously so that he doesn't spread himself too thin. He's currently in marching band and cross country. That's it. And he's a strong student, academically. He should be able to handle 2 activities and school. And he does, but not without paying the price of having some freedom.

Free time, time with family...these shouldn't be luxuries. Kids should be able to participate in extra-curricular activities (from which, I believe, they learn important skills) and still have a life. I don't see that happening. Those kids who choose to engage in sports and other organizations are now expected to give early mornings, after school, precious summer weeks, and part of their weekends away, too. It isn't enough that these sports and clubs get five days a week; they want more. I have a hard time with that demand, especially when the schools stress parental involvement in their students' lives. How can we be involved when many, if not most, of us are just trying to keep up as maid, chauffeur, and time management consultant? I suppose if a family consists of just one child, the schedule isn't so rigorous. But for those of us who have kiddos across the spectrum, everyday life gets so crowded that there isn't room for connection of any real quality. When I have to stay up until nearly 1:00 a.m. to pick up my kid from a weekend school function and then have to get up six hours later to start the day with my younger kids, how can I be the parent I want to be?

Life is undeniably rushed on every level any more. Society as a whole has forgotten how to be still, and I think the schools play into that. I know: Kids don't have to sign up for sports, band, or anything else outside of academic classes. But for those of us who want to raise a whole child, those activities that mirror our children's personal interests aren't "extra." And they shouldn't require so much of the kids who participate or their families. I don't see why this has to be an all-or-nothing scenario, but that's pretty much what it is.

Family dinners, family movie night, game night, whatever...these are just as important as anything the kids are getting from school. Yet homework and extra-curricular activities and the stupifying number of hours they require prevent family time from happening.

It's a shame, really, because the very people who are working so hard at all these activities are the ones who are paying the price by having nothing but one goal after another that they must achieve and no time to enjoy just being kids.

No more activities or events. Please. Give us one night a month to ourselves. Surely, that's not too much to ask.

Fourteen and Counting

School pictures have arrived for high school students, and as I was switching out the old for the new in a frame I keep on the piano, a very old photo of Max fell out. Staring up at me was a blond, brown-eyed boy of 13 months. Next to that fallen photo was Max's most recent, taken just one month ago. Brown hair, green eyes covered by glasses, a retainer soon to be followed by braces...so many changes, yet the smile--the expression--was the same. He knows oh so much more than he's letting on.

Seeing these two versions of my eldest child side-by-side gave me pause. I sat down and studied the face I once felt I'd waited several lifetimes to see. And I remembered the very strong sense of familiarity I'd experienced the first time I laid eyes on Max. Although I had spent that pregnancy in great anticipation of meeting this baby, once I saw him, I realized it wasn't meeting him that excited me. It was seeing him again. I'd been missing that child and wasn't even aware of it until he was there, studying my face with wide-open eyes.

This knowing him is what allows the two of us to communicate without talking. I'll be in the middle of a thought, and Max will come into the room and finish it for me, out loud. In my head, I'll be singing a tune, and he'll start to sing it aloud. We often say the exact same thing at the same time, and sometimes, he answers a question I haven't yet given voice to. This is weird stuff, I know. Believe me, I know. We're both used to this sort of thing now, but it still gets kind of freaky sometimes when we see something on TV or in a movie and have the same response, word for word. More than any of my other kids, I have a connection with Max in terms of how we think and process information. We are two sides of the same coin. It is creepy and cool at the same time.

Some kids--most, I suppose--are born brand new. Or at least they seem that way. That wasn't the case with Max. He was a complete package the moment he arrived, and everyone who met him knew it. They expressed it differently, of course. "He seems like such an old soul," some would say. Others commented on the depth of his facial expression, or the feeling they'd get that this was no baby. I had those same gut feelings, but because he was my first, I had no other children against which to compare him. He wasn't unusual in any way at first. He was just Max.

As he grew, however, he began to share with me vivid memories of events and people from what he called "my life before." In hushed tones, he would speak to me, late at night as we watched the stars, of the future, and how he would die before I would. He instructed me not to be sad, because that was just the way God wanted it to be. Imagine hearing this from a two-year-old as he holds your hand and gently pats it, much as an adult pats a child's hand as a gesture of comfort.

Max turned 14 this past Monday. His memories of his "life before" have faded, but not entirely. And still he believes he will come to an early demise. It is not something he frets over or laments; he simply accepts this knowledge and expects me to do the same. Outwardly, I accept; I will not disrespect him by doing otherwise. Inwardly, I scream and rant, curse and weep. This is no stranger we're talking about; this is my son. My firstborn. Everything he has ever told me...every event he has ever predicted, has happened. It's another thing we share. Not that we're able to tell the future, per se...but we have both had quick blasts of images and scenes, and those images have always come to pass. I have seen events from the past--long before I was born--in much the same way. Again, creepy but cool.

So it is with unfathomable relief and gratitude that I celebrate each anniversary of Max's birth. In some ways, he is a typical teen: operates with finely honed selective hearing skills, talks back when he feels he's being made to do something totally outrageous (such as taking out the recycling), forgets what he's told 5 seconds after you've finished speaking to him. But in other ways, he's atypical: How many teens would be okay with having their moms write about them in a public forum? He's uncommonly secure in who he is; peer pressure and teen angst claim no space in this kid's life. He is very much marching to his own beat, with little regard and absolutely no need for the approval of others.

Often, children of a family "belong" to one parent or the other. Bella, for instance, is very much her daddy's girl. She is like him in most ways, both physical and behavioral. Max is mine. He's been mine from the moment he "found me again," as he was fond of saying as a little boy. What I have with that kid is valuable beyond any treasure. It is a love that we both know has superceded time, a devotion that needs no explanation or expression.

That Max is my son is a gift. That I am his mother, an honor. He's not perfect, but he's mine. And I'll take mine over perfect any day.

Where Were You When the Towers Fell?

Today is the five-year anniversary of the tragedy known simply as 9/11. Say "nine-eleven" out loud to anyone in the country, and no further explanation is needed. Today, every news channel on TV and news site online is filled with survivor stories, photo collages, lists of the dead. We must relive that horrific event whether we want to or not.

The only other event that has occurred in my lifetime that shook the nation to its core was the death of Elvis Presley in 1977 (and arguably, the explosion of the Challenger space shuttle, though someone had to remind me of that one). I mean no disrespect in comparing the two events; they both often enter into conversations with the question "Where were you when..." I can answer that question for both events. I was twelve years old, bouncing my Super Pinky ball off the concrete wall of our garage in small-town Wisconsin when a radio announcer interrupted whatever tune was playing to inform us listeners that the King had been found dead in his bathroom. Never a devoted Elvis fan, I still knew enough to know at that very moment that this was news that would leave America as a nation in shock. And it did.

As for 9/11, I recall that morning just as clearly. Bella was only 8 months old, and I was nursing her in my recliner in the family room. I clicked on the TV in hopes of getting a weather forecast for the day so I could dress the kids appropriately for school. Max and Tuck were eating breakfast in the kitchen; Tavi was still in bed. It was just around 7 a.m. The horrifying images that assaulted me from the television left me speechless. I set Bella down on a blanket on the floor and ran upstairs to wake up Wes. "Get up," I said as I shook him. "Get up. Terrorists have attacked New York." And then I started to sob. Heaving, stuttering sobs. A bleary-eyed Wes just looked at me. "What?" he asked in a disoriented tone. "The Twin Towers. Planes crashed into them. They're gone," was all I could manage.

We went back downstairs and I tried to compose myself so as not to scare the boys. As I packed their lunches and filled their water bottles, I thought how absurd it was for me to be going about my daily routine while, on the other side of the country, human limbs and pieces of scalp were raining from a bloody sky. How could I do this? Before the details, before learning of who orchestrated the attack, before knowing much of anything, I still knew America would never be the same. Life as I had known it for over three decades was irrevocably changed in those minutes between the attack on the North Tower and the downing of United Airlines Flight 93.

And changed, it is. In those immediate months following the attack, we seemed to reach a level of human kindness never before achieved, at least not in my lifetime. We were Americans. Not whites or blacks, upper- or lower-class, believers or non-. We were simply Americans, all of us mourning for losses that couldn't possibly be measured. We accepted the heartfelt condolences so graciously offered us from around the world, and we wept. For days, months. We wept tears of sorrow, fear, anger. We wept for those we knew and those we'd never know. For the loved ones left behind, the babies yet to be born, the lives so viciously stolen.

But as the years passed, so too have those days of grace and kindness. We waged a war on false pretenses, and we're still there. Fighting. Fighting. Fighting. Thousands of innocents are dying, and we don't want to hear about it. On the homefront, we're divided. It's not a blurry, dotted line, but a solid chasm that pits us one against the other. Those of us who speak out against our leader, this war, are labeled unpatriotic. Fervent nationalism has taken hold of this country, and like racism and sexism, it is a prejudice. While so much of the rest of the world looks upon America as an arrogant imperialist, we raise our flag high and continue to insist we are in the right, even as our soldiers are imprisoned for their brutality and conduct unbecoming.

For all their bluster and alleged efforts, our government has not made America a safer place to live since 9/11. On the contrary, terrorist attacks are on the rise. And though we look back on the unfathomable tragedy of 9/11 with the hindsight of five years, I ask: Where is the humanity? What happened to that nation of folks who tirelessly gave of themselves, past the point where they had anything left to give? Where went that kinder, gentler nation?
We waged war in Iraq, to be sure. But we waged it right here at home, too. And for all our tears and empathy, we will never return to the charitable, selfless nation we were for those few months following 9/11.

It's us against them, only we're the us. And we're the them.

Sitting at the Big Folks' Table

The other evening, Tucker was sweeping the kitchen floor, Max was in the living room allegedly doing homework, and I was in the family room folding laundry. Our home is a split-level, so even though the three of us were in different rooms, it was easy to communicate with one another.

Tuck seems to do some of his best thinking when he's sweeping and mopping the kitchen floor. I can't tell you why; but that job takes him approximately three times longer than it has to simply because he continuously stops to chat. That evening, he had explorers on his mind. He's in fifth grade, and his class is knee-deep in a unit on global exploration. Whenever I hear the names Magellan, de Gama, and Ponce de Leon, I am instantly transported back to my own fifth-grade classroom at Lincoln Elementary School in Wisconsin. Explorers and fifth grade go hand-in-hand.

Tuck began talking about what he was learning, and Max chimed in with his two cents (which is always more like five hundred sixty-two dollars), and then I got involved in the conversation. For ten minutes, the three of us discussed the pros and cons of each explorer in terms of how interesting each was. It was a lively conversation.

And when it was over, I realized that for the first time ever, Tuck was able to participate in an intellectual conversation with his older brother. Those two talk about music, guitars, bands, and playing techniques all the time. But dinner time is often taken up with a discussion begun by Max regarding some current news topic. This stuff often goes right over the heads of the younger kids, and then boredom sets in and Bella breaks the serious atmosphere by burping (or worse) like a truck driver.

But this time, Tuck got in on the dialogue, and it was really fun for me to listen to those two go back and forth. At bedtime, I asked Tuck if he realized what had come to pass in the kitchen with that conversation, and he grinned and said "Yeah. I actually had something to say that Max felt was worth listening to." As most younger siblings do, Tuck has always compared himself to his big brother, and in his estimation, has often come up short. Not this time. I could see how empowering those few minutes were for him, and I silently celebrated the milestone. And for the rest of the evening, Max treated Tuck more like a friend and less like a nuisance; he recognized what happened, too. For those few minutes, Tuck was a peer.

Anyone who has more than one child realizes that scenes like the one I just described are blessings. The kids put aside their differences and get caught up in whatever it is that's brought them together, even if only for a short time. I'll take that sort of thing anywhere I can get it. I imagine teachers experience this now and then, too. It's got to be one of the definite perks of the job.

His whole life, Tuck has been the child of mine who never seems to age. In my mind's eye, he's still a small child with a bowl haircut and a face that wrinkles up with glee. That perception was shattered Tuesday night, as I listened to him confidently debate with his big brother which explorer would be more interesting to research for a social studies project.

It's hard, in a way, to let go of the visual of Tuck as a toddler. But it's nothing short of divine to embrace the preadolescent he's become. And that he recognizes his own progress and claims ownership of it...it just doesn't get any better than that.

Johnny Mathis, Stick Pins, and Felix

The last few years of her life, my mom lived in a side-by-side duplex in a small rural town in Pennsylvania. Had that house been situated anywhere else in the continental United States (with the possible exception of backwoods Kentucky), it would have been condemned. The electrical wiring alone was enough to bring on the wrecking ball, and it wasn't worth fixing. From the outside, it was a residence like many others on that street: old, ugly, falling apart.

But once inside the door, you found yourself embraced by a welcoming environment carefully crafted by someone who very obviously loved her home and made the best of what she had. If a piece of furniture was ugly, Mom painted or reupholstered it. Hole in the wall? A framed Victorian Era postcard covered that up nicely, and no one was the wiser (except that Mom was always so proud of her abilities, she made sure she showed you the hole). And as my sister was fond of saying, everything else that didn't move got decoupaged.

Little children and adults alike took comfort in Mom's house. No matter the time of day or night, a pot of coffee was brewing, its aroma wafting from the back kitchen to the front of the living room. Mom drank way too much coffee. In fact, we found no fewer than seven coffee pots in her home after she died. And yet she wondered why she could never sleep.

Add to the smell of coffee any one of the glorious aromas emanating from Mom's oven, and it was almost easy not to notice the pitch-perfect voice of Johnny Mathis singing softly in the background. I grew up listening to his mesmerizing pipes, and to this day I cannot hear the song "Arianne" without my eyes tearing to overflowing:

Arianne is Mama's crystal
bread that's nearly finished baking
She's a rainbow in a puddle
and the happiest of birthdays
She's the going off on Friday
and the coming back on Monday
with a tan

That song, to me, is my mom. That and Dobie Gray's "Drift Away." Mom couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, but that never stopped her from singing. And dance...the woman could dance. People would clear the dance floor to watch her; I've seen it happen.

In the other half of the duplex lived a woman named Phyllis. Tavi endearingly called her Felix, something that never failed to make both Phyllis and Mom double over with cigarette-hacking laughter, the kind that threatened to make them pee their pants. Phyllis was one of those neighbors found in small towns across America. She was loud, talked incessantly, and Mom often complained that she was nosy. But when they were together, I could tell how much Mom loved her pal Felix. There wasn't a thing in the world that woman would not do for my mom, and I know Mom appreciated that. And when Mom died, Phyllis was devastated. Two peas in a pod, and now the pod was feeling too roomy.

Phyllis died last Saturday. She was 77 years old. I don't know the cause of death. I only know she wasn't feeling well, so she went into the hospital and never came back. When I went to Pennsylvania this summer, I thought about visiting Felix. But the thought of doing so felt awkward; the one thing we had in common was Mom, and she wasn't there. I just didn't know how I could go back to that house, revisit those memories. So I didn't. And I didn't call. And I'll never have an opportunity to do that again.

There was a time when a less forgiving version of myself would have grabbed hold of that weakness and berated myself with it for weeks, maybe months. I've learned the futility of that sort of behavior, realized that my energy could be spent in more productive ways. But it will always be a regret. More than that, though, I'm feeling a melancholy rooted in the fact that I've lost yet another link to my past. It happens everyday, to everyone, in some little way. I know this. Knowing it doesn't make it easier to handle.

Felix was like the pot roast in the oven, the coffee in the pot, the overkill of decoupage. As sure as I knew I'd sit on one of the 863 straight pins Mom kept stuck in her sofa (she was a seamstress, after all, and pin pricks in my butt, arms, back, and legs were just a fact of life), I could always count on seeing Felix when I visited Mom. She was a fixture in Mom's life, and now she's gone.

I sigh. Cry a bit for reasons both selfish and benevolent. Wish for her grown children a sense of peace, knowing full well they've got some powerfully dark days ahead of them. And I say goodbye.

If only Johnny Mathis had a song for this.

Is Formal Schooling Mere Crowd Control?

I was talking with a mom of young children recently, and she informed me she had decided to homeschool her kids. I told her I admire that decision because it takes serious commitment and dedication.

At any rate, this parent told me that formal schooling is really nothing more than crowd control. I immediately filed that statement away in the "to do" list of my mind so that I could give it further thought at a later date. At the time, I was standing in the produce section of King Soopers, not the ideal setting for deep contemplation.

I've had a couple weeks to think about what she said. And while I agree that there are areas of concern regarding formal (I can't say public, because this mom lumped all schooling together: public and private) education, I think it's an undeserved simplification to say that it's nothing more than crowd control.

I have wondered at times how much of the formal school day is spent actually learning. Figure in the time it takes to get to and from classes as well as the time spent having the teachers deal with "problem" students and other crises, and I imagine that percentage might be somewhat disappointing. And given that there are more than a handful of learning (and teaching) styles, it's inevitable that some students are not being taught in the way that would benefit them most. A kid in Tuck's fifth-grade class was highly disruptive from the first day. I heard about this kid from other kids in class, too. How can a teacher effectively teach--or a student effectively learn--when a student's negative behavior demands so much attention (fortunately, Tuck has one of the most capable teachers in his school, and he's reported improvement of the situation)?

Formal schooling also does us no favors in terms of learning social skills. After just a few days in kindergarten, Bella has already been introduced to negative behaviors she's never had to deal with at home. For instance, at our house, no means no. No exceptions. No, don't touch me. No, don't tickle me. No, don't take my shoes and throw them around the playground. Other children in her class don't seem to understand the meaning of the word no, and she's frustrated by this lack of respect. As a parent, I am too.

And yet. Formal schooling as a journey isn't just about what kids learn from the books, lectures, and handouts. It isn't all about memorizing dates and names, or the details of wars and presidential administrations. Formal education, lacking as it may be in some areas, prepares our kids to live in the real world. It presents children with situations and scenarios they will eventually confront in life, and because they will have already traveled that road, they'll have the knowledge and experience to deal with them effectively. Granted, sometimes kids are forced to face situations much earlier than is healthy; the subject of last week's column (parents serving their young kids alcohol) is a prime example of this. But if parents are involved in their kids' lives, they can guide them through these difficult situations by sharing wisdom and insight to help shine a light on the path. I'd rather my children go through some of life's hardships while I'm still directly involved in their everyday lives than have them be bludgeoned with them as adults.

Formal schooling has other advantages. If they have dynamic and effective teachers, young people learn that what's good enough for one person is not acceptable for another. Throughout the years, Max has often complained that his teachers required more of him than he felt they did other, less capable students. I explained to him that that's how it is in the real world, too. I taught him that along with natural gifts comes a responsibility to use them to their potential. What needs to be looked at isn't the final result of an assignment or project so much as the effort put into it. One kid's best effort might mirror a half-hearted attempt by another kid. Despite Max's numerous "that's not fair" complaints, he realizes that fair doesn't always mean equal. He couldn't have learned that on a consistent basis by the age of 13 anywhere else.

Formal schooling, by its very nature, requires children to learn to deal with ignorant, loud, obnoxious, mean, lazy, arrogant, apathetic people--a skill necessary to get through life without blowing someone's head off. School is where kids will learn what works best for any given encounter: confrontation? ignoring and walking away? conflict resolution? I've seen this countless times with all 3 of my older kids. One of the kindest things anyone ever said about Max was that he gets along with everyone; yet if you talk to Max, you'd realize he's not one to suffer fools gladly. But he's already learned how to coexist in a healthy way with people he does not like or respect, and that will serve him well for the rest of his life.

But perhaps the most important thing formal education gives our children is the regular opportunity for learning self-control and taking responsibility. While there are a lot of kids who don't seem to grasp the concept that they are responsible for their own actions and choices, our schools are filled with children who obviously do. In school, students are immersed in situations that allow them the chance to participate or not, excel or not, do their best or not. And they learn that their choices directly affect the outcome of any given situation. Mom and Dad aren't there, supervising their behavior or learning, and teachers don't have time (nor should they take the responsibility) to babysit students by making sure they're doing what they should in the form of taking notes, listening, etc. Our students are making their own choices and living with the consequences; I think that's fantastic. If the results are disappointing, then parents and caregivers have a responsibility to step in. Ideally, they're already involved in their child's education anyway.

Choosing a child's educational direction is a personal decision; a parent has to do what s/he thinks is truly best for the individual child. Many people I've talked to believe homeschooling is just wrong; I disagree. I think homeschooling, given the right parents and the right circumstances, is a terrific option. I feel the same way about Montessori and Waldorf schools. No option, however, is perfect. And not all options are right for all students.

As in everything else involving kids, I think it comes back to the parent or primary caregiver. Know your kids, their strengths and weaknesses, and their abilities. Keep in touch with every aspect of their lives, even when doing so makes you feel like Sisyphus.

I believe we're luckier than the hopeless Sisyphus. Sooner or later, our labor will pay off. And our kids will reap the rewards.

Kindergarten and Underage Drinking

About 30 minutes ago, I dropped Bella off for her first day of school. Not accustomed to needing to be at the school for the first bell (which is when the kindergarten students go into the classroom), I was, of course, late. Tavia had a shoe crisis at the last moment, and although the kids had been up since the butt crack of dawn, we still managed to be in "rush" mode once we hit school grounds.

Anyway, Bella never had time to stand in line with the other munchkins. Instead, I walked her to her classroom door, hugged and kissed her, and sent her on her way into the warm smiles of her very courageous teacher. No time for tears. And yet...as I walked home, I couldn't help but think that here we pass another milestone. I will never have another first day of kindergarten as a parent.

And as I experienced that bittersweet feeling a parent experiences over cutting another notch in the apron strings, I thought about Max, who is a 13-year-old freshman this year. His initial reaction to high school is that it is a vortex of evil, but he'll manage. I, on the other hand, felt the sting of parental angst recently, and I'm not sure I'll manage at all.

My family attended a party last weekend, and to my shock and amazement, the 14-year-old son of the host family was allowed to drink alcohol. His mom explained her philosophy: If he is served at home, he won't sneak and hide it, like she did at his age. At home, his underage drinking can be supervised. Holy crap-ola. I could not believe my ears.

We left the party shortly after this discovery; I simply could not wrap my brain around the idea that this kid was served alcohol by his parents. Disappointment and fear threw me in a tailspin. But mostly, I was just really sad. There's no other word for it. Earlier in the evening, the mom was voicing her concern over the lyrics of some heavy metal music her son listens to; within hours, she was trying to legitimize giving beer to a kid, a concept I can't make sense of no matter how I look at it. Truly, I spent the rest of that weekend in a funk, reassessing my values and beliefs in an effort to determine if I had become a constipated prude. Am I so out of touch with reality that I'm making a big thing out of nothing?

No. I came to the conclusion that it is not out of touch or prudish to abstain from serving a 14-year-old alcohol. What is unrealistic is to encourage destructive behavior by giving it approval and then expecting that such allowance on the part of a parent will curtail more of the same behavior. I find it appalling that any parent would willingly start his child down a path that is not healthy either physically or mentally. This is a kid we're talking about, not a young adult. A kid. Someone not even 6,000 days old.

I know...we all parent as we see fit. And I know the kids in this family are very loved. I simply can't follow the logic of allowing a kid to drink as a solution to a problem that might never occur. To everything a time, right? Well, the time to drink is not as a kid. The brain is still developing. Impulse control is at a lifetime low. There are all sorts of things physiologically going on in a teen's body that should not be influenced by alcohol. Given the loopy logic of the argument, how would a parent handle teen sex? Escort the young couple to a candlelit bedroom, with John Coltrane playing softly in the background, rose petals strewn about the bed? Come on. Some activities should not be pursued by hormonal kids...boozing it up and sex are two of them, at least where 14-year-olds are concerned.

I know teen alcohol and drug abuse are serious issues facing families today. That's nothing new. But encouraging your kid to take part in harmful activities in an effort to keep him from hiding such behavior is just, well, lacking. In everything. By the same token, being too strict or overprotective...fear-based parenting...that doesn't work either. Isn't there a middle ground here? Tell our kids we expect them to obey the law, but if they should choose to make a poor choice, avoid further trouble by calling home and extricating themselves from the situation. The night of the party in mention, I had given Max permission to spend the night. After learning that his friend was drinking, I changed my mind. Once home, I explained to Max that while I trust him, I also know that when a group of kids gathers and there is drinking involved, really stupid ideas can start to seem glorious, and it's easy to get caught up in the moment. Thankfully, Max assured me he understood, and told me he thinks drinking is about the stupidest thing a kid can do. (I hope he can hold on to that belief, but if not, I hope I react out of love and the memories of being a teenager.)

As a parent whose job it is to love and guide him, there's no way I'm going to put him in the situation of having to choose between doing something I think is wrong (and illegal) and harmful, or having to resist and be the odd man out. He'll find himself in situations like that his whole life; do I need to push him into one at the age of thirteen? I don't think so. And though Max is comfortable with who he is more than most kids his age, I just can't see the point of placing him in a precarious situation if I don't have to.

I'd be interested in hearing from others who've had experience with similar situations. How did you approach it? And those of you who have raised your kids...did you ever have to deal with this sort of thing? What works? What doesn't?

Is Summer Over Already?

Until this past weekend, I was lamenting the onset of another school year. I like lazy summer mornings when we stay in our jammies much longer than we should. I enjoy letting the kids stay up later because, after all, there's nothing they have to do in the morning. And almost always, I enjoy the company of my kids.

That all changed within the last week, beginning right around the time this little gem occurred:

Tavia: I found Bell's Silly Putty! It was behind the TV.
(understand that the elusive glob of Silly Putty had been AWOL for some time, to Bella's great consternation.)

Me: Where is it now?
(understand that while I vividly remember my own great love of the stuff, I detest Silly Putty as an adult, for reasons which are about to make themselves obvious)

Bella (with great glee): I put it in the banana chips!

At this point, I pull the bag of banana chips off the counter, and sure enough--therein resides a disgusting ball of Silly Putty, complete with carpet fibers so plentiful that it resembles a Picasso-like rendering of a cat.

It was at that moment that I silently thanked the Powers That Be for the return of the school year. And as the week has worn on, I've been just a touch more thankful with each passing day.

This has been quite a summer for Bella, who earlier in the season informed us her soul had left for Mexico in a red convertible, and that was the reason for her naughtiness. Turns out her soul had quite a vacation planned, because she's remained this summer's biggest challenge. Just last night, when I asked what happened to that wonderful little girl I used to know, Bella matter-of-factly informed me--without hesitation or obvious contemplation--that "Good Bella" was stuck behind the bookcase and no matter how hard she's tried to free her from her jail, she's had no success.

Of course, I do my best not to laugh when my white-haired imp feeds me these lines, but in the back of my mind, I'm looking ahead and realizing that, in the matter of one week, she's going to be under the care of another adult for 2 1/2 days a week. Bella starts kindergarten this fall, and I don't know any of those teachers. And--may the Force be with them--they don't know Bella. Boy, are they in for a treat.

I have no worries about the quality of care or teaching Bella will get; I don't think there's a bad teacher at Skyview. No, my concern is FOR the teacher, who will not realize that under that cherubic exterior dwells a charming maniacal midget. And while Bella is not malicious by any stretch of the imagination, she is prone to reacting first, thinking later. That tendency doesn't always give the best results.

So it will be with mixed emotions that I walk my youngest (and final) child to her first day of school next week. She has been warning me that she's shy (what the ???) and has changed her mind; she no longer wants to attend school. So there may be tears--hers and mine. But I'll follow the advice I always give my kids and try not to let my fear get in the way of my progress.

And then I'll walk the 2 blocks to our home and say a prayer that Bella's teacher survives that first day.

Trouble at...the Library?

The latest on an ever-growing list of "issues" facing our ever-growing town is that of teachers tutoring students in the public library. Apparently, there have been some complaints of the noise level and the lack of table seating/space available during the day. So now that complaints have been made, the library has chosen to enforce a policy it already had in place, one that states patrons cannot use the public library as a way to make a monetary profit.

This situation immediately brings to mind two questions: Is this an issue of noise and space, or one of individuals conducting business in a public place? And, if there is a policy already in place, why has it been overlooked and ignored, but now becomes worth enforcing?

If this is an issue of noise and space, it could be easily remedied by something as simple as restricting tutoring time to certain hours. Perhaps even limit the space made available to the tutors and students. Of course there would be details of how to figure out who gets time and when, but that sort of thing could be negotiated after putting such a policy in place.

If this is an issue about individuals making a profit in a public building, then it really isn't about the noise and space at all, and let's just call it what it is. I mean, if these tutors provided their services for free, would that change the noise levels and amount of space they take up? Nope. So suddenly enforcing a policy that prohibits individuals from profiting from work in a public building doesn't make sense in this case, unless the problem is the money-making aspect.

If it is, then I ask--what the hell's wrong with people? Sure, these tutors are making money. But I'll bet no one's getting rich off of it, nor is that their goal. Despite having serious doubts about the intentions and integrity of some people who sit on boards in this town, I hold onto the belief that the teachers who choose to tutor in the summer do so because they know there are a lot of children who need the extra attention and help. There's no crime in being paid for their time; don't we all believe our time is valuable? It isn't as if we've got insurance salesmen lurking about the stacks, just waiting to pounce on the next unsuspecting patron as she browses for a romance novel. I can't recall ever having seen a hooker, ambulance chaser--or anyone else who makes his living preying on people--at the library, at least, not while they were on the clock. These are teachers, teaching kids who need taught, in the most logical location for their purpose.

Libraries across America allow tutoring to take place on the premises. Yes, I know these libraries probably have more money, more space, more everything necessary to make the tutoring as least invasive of other patrons' visits as possible. But this is Windsor. We are no longer a small town, and we need to stop acting like we are. Looking the other way when a policy is broken is not a good idea, no matter what the policy is, no matter if we know the people who are in violation of it. If an organization is going to take time to develop rules, it ought to adhere to them or get rid of them.

But let's stop confusing the issues here. A patron (possibly more...I don't know) complained about noise and lack of table space. The policy that was suddenly enforced was one based on the aspect of making money, not on how noisy certain patrons were. Had the tutors and students kept the noise level down, the library would still be allowing them to violate the policy. That wouldn't be right. On the other hand, if the teachers were giving their services away instead of demanding monetary compensation, they wouldn't be breaking any private business policy. So would they still be allowed to tutor in the library, perhaps with a warning that they need to be more quiet? That wouldn't be right either; these professionals deserve to be paid for their services.

And while it's easy to say "let them teach in their homes," that's just not the ideal situation. Aside from any personal reasons that might interfere with tutoring at home, the fact remains that teachers aren't paid a salary that allows them to build a home reference library that includes the resources readily available in a public library.

My first job as a teen was in a public library just slightly bigger than the one in Windsor. Even then, in the early 1980s, the library was not a place of silence. When I was working, I'd see various groups of kids from school who'd come there to study and complete homework. And they were loud. When I needed to research, I headed to the library. We didn't have computers and the Internet then; all our research came from books, magazines, and microfilm. Sigh... I'm old. Anyway, even then, the library was a lively place. That it still is, is not something to complain about. And yet I understand that some patrons want (need?) a modicum of tranquility to get from their library what they need.

The library board says it wants to work with these teachers, and I believe them. By "work" I hope they mean listen to the tutors and take into consideration who they are what they're trying to do. I hope they deal with the issue head-on, looking at it for what it is, and not try to force a solution from a one-size-is-supposed-to-fit-all policy that probably was never a great idea to begin with. Kids have always needed libraries, and libraries have always put out the clarion call to kids. That much hasn't changed.

And I hope it never does.

Are You a Toxic Parent?

I read a great article in the Washington Post this weekend. Should be required reading for every parent. I tried to provide you with the link, but it's too long. Just go to www.washingtonpost.com and check out the front page; it's probably still there. If not, do a keyword search of "toxic parent."

The article is long, but worth the time spent reading it.

This blog's policy on anonymous comments


Someone's been leaving me anonymous comments that I have rejected. My doing this is driving him crazy, because he keeps leaving more, almost daily. I say "he" because I'm 99.9% sure I know who's leaving them. Based on the context of his comments, he knows journalism and he knows about my 3 years at the Trib...information only an insider would know (unless he's writing on hearsay, which he wouldn't dare, since he accused me of doing that). He also wants to know if I know what editors do (he helped me out there, just in case: They edit.), and in fact, I do! When I'm not writing for a living, I'm editing. Or indexing. Or doing taxonomy (not to be confused with taxidermy, which is just, well, yuck). See the pattern...words. I work with words.

This particular reader so very obviously doesn't like me, yet he's taking time out of his life to read my blog. Often. Only he doesn't seem to read anything except the very first column, waaaaaaaaaaay at the bottom of the blog...the one about why I left the Trib and the Beacon. And he's getting madder because I won't give him a voice here in my own personal space. So I figure it's time to let ya know where I stand on anonymous comments:

I've got no problem with them (there are many here on the blog already, and not all are positive) as long as they discuss issues and related topics and are not personal attacks. The guy who's leaving these snarky comments needs to get over whatever it is he's so angry about and stop visiting The Front Porch because it obviously raises his blood pressure. Life's too short to focus on all that negative energy.

Intelligent discussion of a topic is one thing; I welcome that with open arms or I'd never have started writing my column in 2003. I'd be an idiot to think everyone agrees with all the things I say...that's not the point (and where's the value in that?). The point is to find a maturity level where we can disagree, discuss, and agree to disagree if we must. When that happens, everyone, including myself, walks away having looked at something from a different perspective.

If you're not capable of doing that, don't leave a comment. I won't publish it. On the other hand, if what you're really after is just to be sure I know you don't like me without telling me who you are, then leave the comment with the understanding that I'll read it, but no one else will. However, keep this in mind:

In this lifetime, I've been married and divorced; made the horrible, unintended mistake of leaving my baby in a vehicle unattended (wrote about that one long ago); cremated my mother and a son; have been cheated on, lied to, beaten up, and sexually assaulted (haven't written about that one). I'm a liberal living in a religious-right society that cares more about keeping gays from marrying than it does starving children and underfunded schools. My president almost choked himself to death on a pretzel while his right-hand man so adeptly shot his hunting partner in the face, and these are the representatives of my country. There's a war in Iraq; the disastrous effects of Katrina; our CIA leaks information, and the federal deficit is bigger than ever. Global warming is a serious, threatening issue despite what our administration wants us to believe, and people actually want us to replace sex ed with abstinence-only misinformation, science with Intelligent Design. If I want to worry about something, it won't be whether or not someone likes me.

My life has graciously brought me enough experience to know that what truly matters in this world isn't so much what others may think of me, but what I know to be true of myself.

So anonymous comments? Keep 'em comin'...but if you're going to act hateful, go sit on your own Front Porch.

A shameless plug for a fantastic weekend getaway and an invitation for you

Wes, the kids, and I spent last weekend at a terrific place near Red Feather Lakes. We rented a beautiful cabin (it's quite a bit bigger than what I think of when I think of a "cabin") called Mountain Rose, and it exceeded our expectations in every way. Check it out by visiting www.themountainrose.com. Between the spectacular views from our location nestled among the mountains, the relaxing hours in the private hot tub, and the warm welcome we received from owners Maggie and Marge, we couldn't have asked for anything more. I highly recommend giving this place a try if you're in need of some R&R. Staying there gives you fishing and boating access to several private lakes as well as public lakes. We spent some time on Crystal Lake...breathtaking.

That said, I'd also like to invite anyone who's interested to join us in a fundraising BBQ for Democratic Congressional candidate Angie Paccione. The BBQ begins at 2:00 p.m. on Saturday, August 19th, and will be held on the private, 5-acre lot on which Mountain Rose is situated. Guests will enjoy excellent food and drink as well as live music. Financial contributions to Angie's campaign are, of course, voluntary...maybe you'd just like to meet her or get to know her stance on the issues (that's the main reason I'm going--I know what I've read about her, but I want to meet her in person). This is a perfect opportunity to do so, and at the same time, you'll get a firsthand look at the property. If anyone wants to ride up with Wes, the girls, and me (the boys will be with their dad that weekend), we've got room in the van for 3 people. Or, if you want to travel there on your own, email me for directions. If you plan on going, please RSVP to the hosts at mmatmtrose@centurytel.net or by calling 1-800-477-7673.

If you've read my columns over the years, even only a couple, you can imagine how much I dislike Marilyn Musgrave. I respect that not everyone shares my opinion of her, and that's cool. But if you think it's time for a change, it would be great to see you at the BBQ. And I would love for you to get to see Mountain Rose.

There's Peace In the Letting-Go
My grandma is 97 years old. She spent her life in a rural region of Pennsylvania, toiling on the farm and raising five children. Thanks to decades of hard physical labor, her body is tough. Her mind, on the other hand, is not. In fact, her mind has already left her behind, and I think she's on the brink of catching up to it.

Gram broke her hip a couple weeks ago. Surgery has repaired the bone, but the after-effects on her mind are troubling. I last saw her in June. She had no idea who I was, but she sure thought my kids were nice. She expressed a special appreciation of my daughter's beautiful hair. I didn't have the heart to tell her that hair was situated on the head of my youngest son, Tucker (and, to her credit, even people with full mental capacity often mistake Tuck for a girl; he could care less). All her life, Gram's wanted a head of thick, luxurious hair. The two strands remaining on her head are not exactly what she had in mind. I vividly remember her affinity for the country band Oak Ridge Boys, not because of their music, but because of their long, curly tresses.

Gram is just a little wee woman, never having been exactly Amazonian to begin with. She lies in her nursing home bed, refusing to eat. She chews on her bottom dentures like they're candy, and she keeps removing her own catheter tube, not without damaging her already-frail body. At night she calls out to her husband and son, both of whom left this world many years ago. And she reaches up for them in her sleep. Maybe she's seeing them. Maybe they're calling to her. She has missed them so profoundly these last decades. Imagine how angry and frustrated she must be when she awakes only to realize she's not only with them, but connected to machines via tubes and tape. The situation seems almost criminal to me.

Gram is my mom's mom. In the recent past, in her more lucid moments, she understood that her oldest daughter had died. Two minutes later, she'd ask again why Mom wasn't coming to see her, but clarity was hers, even if only fleetingly. Now...well, she doesn't remember anyone but Pap and Uncle Bob, and it's plain she wants to see them. She spends her days with a nasty disposition, being feisty with my aunt, her daughter, who spends hours with her everyday, trying to get her to eat and making sure she's bathed. Gram's never been big on the sponge bath thing, and it annoys her now more than ever. Yet my aunt continues to care for her mom in ways I mercifully never had to care for mine.

I know this is an instance when others in my position might drop to their knees in prayer, calling on God to help Gram recover. I'm not a prayerful person in the traditional sense of the word. I don't have daily conversations with God; I don't ask for much of anything except wisdom to guide my children so that they can learn to blossom in a world that sometimes seems hell-bent on kicking kids in the ass. Even when my own mom died, I didn't ask God "why?"; I didn't wonder what the bigger purpose of her death was. That grief, which many of you shared with me through this column, was so mind-numbing, I had trouble stringing together three-word sentences. No, I didn't pray in the way one thinks of prayer.

For me, every act of kindness is a prayer. A kissed owie, a door held open, a tearful farewell...each act is an appeal to the hopeful side of human nature. Turning on the bathroom nightlight each evening, I am aware of how thankful I am to have made it through another day, to have had yet one more chance to be a good mom, a supportive partner, a friend. Likewise, turning that same light off each morning gives me pause to take a deep breath, look in the mirror, and hope that I end the day having done something worthwhile. Awareness itself is prayer; acting in accordance with that awareness is nothing short of evangelizing.

So I can only hope my intent is understood when I say that I do not wish my gram's life to be prolonged. Her life is over; all that's left is her failing body. As my aunt struggles to see her mom like that each day and still keep her spirits uplifted, I have to admit to my belief that death is not the worst fate one can experience. Gram has had a full life. She gave birth six times and buried three of her children. With nothing more than an elementary-school education, she raised a family and kept a farm during some of the most trying times our country has ever known. She was active in her church and extended her loving kindness to anyone who needed it. This existence she's experiencing now is not life. She breathes, but she does not live.

If this is all she has to look forward to here on earth, I want Gram's body to let her go. I know it's not up to me, and I appreciate that. But a body without a mind that can recognize loved ones and familiar places is nothing but a shell. Just one month ago, Gram could smile. It was a vacant smile, backed up with empty eyes that could no longer see the world they loved. I knew then that she was on the final glidepath, as Mom used to call it. And her descent sure picked up speed.

We aren't supposed to wish death on people, I know that. Our society is messed up when it comes to death and dying. We're so afraid of it. I don't think Gram is afraid; I think it will bring her peace. And though I won't pretend to know what's going on in that head of hers, I definitely know what's not going on. And that's all I need to know.

I love my grandma fiercely. And I want her to go home.

I had no idea...

Since leaving the Beacon, I have received an astonishing amount of support from this community. Some of you I already knew; a great many of you I didn't. You've taken the time to write letters to the editor of the paper on my behalf (knowing full well they'll never see print). You've found a few moments to pick up the phone and call to give me moral support and encouragement. How many calls have I gotten that begin with, "Hi. You don't know me, but..." The emails I've received could fill a book. Truly, I'm overwhelmed (why is that a word? is anyone ever just "whelmed"?) with how this has all turned out.

That I've claimed one small space in your busy lives...what a terrific honor. Without a print publication, I've lost a great deal of my readership, I know. So it's up to us to spread the word that I'm still here. Please...let people know. I feel like I've disappointed those who can only read me because I was delivered to their doorstep, and that saddens me. So much of life is hard; I'm glad we can still meet here for a laugh or two...a "right on"...a brief oasis from this desert heat we've been living with.

I wouldn't be here without you, and I just can't tell you how touched (in a good way, not one of those creepy, old-man-brush-up-against-you ways) I am that the change in venues hasn't meant a cessation of publication.

So...keep on dropping by. Leave me a comment. And tell your friends I haven't disappeared.

Can we please let go of Wal-Mart??

Am I the only person in this town who is ready to drown myself in Windsor Lake just to escape the whining and moaning about Wal-Mart's decision to build in Timnath rather than here? Dear god, get over it!

I was not against Wal-Mart coming here; neither was I in favor of it. Had the store been built here, I would have shopped at it. It's not here, so I'll continue driving the very short distance to any one of four other Wal-Marts should the urge overcome me. It's not a big deal.

Building a big-box store near a school is stupid. It's an idea lacking in all important areas: logic, safety, reason. Champions of the idea of becoming home to a Wal-Mart Supercenter are grieving the loss of revenue. But you can't lose what you never had, and we never had that money. The possibility was there, but if it was meant to happen, it would have happened. It didn't.

It would be easy to say that Windsor is divided into two camps: those who want development and those who don't. But that would be an unfair simplification. Smart growth is one thing; jumping at an opportunity that presents itself at the wrong time and in the wrong place is another. It's not as if Windsor is the only community ever to fight back against Wal-Mart. Consider that in 2002, Wal-Mart planned to build 40 new Supercenters in California. Inglewood was one town that did not welcome the retailer. Its citizens lobbied city council, claiming it would be a net-loss for the community (and there are many studies that back up this claim). Two years later, Inglewood residents went to the polls and opposed Wal-Mart's initiative with a resounding 60.6% to 39.3%. Wal-Mart, undeterred, moved on. More importantly, so did Inglewood.

This is exactly what happened here in Windsor. Wal-Mart wanted in, clearly Windsor was not united in its views on the pros and cons of such an endeavor, and Wal-Mart went elsewhere. It's time to move on.

Yes, we need new schools (and here, I would argue that, given just the information that is available on the Internet, a K-8 makes much more sense for this district's needs in every way than does renovating a fossilized middle school and building other schools, but the task force has decided it would be too hard to convince us simpletons of the benefits of a K-8 configuration. But this is fodder for another column.). But Wal-Mart was not going to be the answer to all our prayers. Study after study shows that in the long run, Wal-Marts reduce overall wages of a town's employees, cost taxpayers billions of dollars each year because many of its workers can't afford the company's health insurance, and seriously drain smaller local businesses, including supermarkets. And...there's a reason Wal-Mart is so anti-union.

So let's get past this ridiculous mourning of a retailer that, in the long run, was not going to do us any favors. Let's focus our energies instead on figuring out other ways to build new schools and get the other things this community needs.

[For some interesting reading on Walmart, cut and paste this URL into your browser: http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline/shows/walmart/]

On another note: The school board is in the process of selecting candidates for a task force to revamp the student discipline policy in the district. Think they'll give me a call?

Here's the Column that caused such a fuss

Several folks have asked me to post a copy of the column that ran in the Beacon and raised such a ruckus. Here is that column, which ran on 7/1. A few things to know in case you're not familiar with the situation:

- On 5/12, five teenage boys (some of whom had prior records of illegal activity) vandalized the high school by supergluing all the locks. Initial estimate of damage was $4000. All 5 boys were suspended for the rest of the school year, and 4 were expelled for this upcoming year. This sentence was in line with school district policy, as stated in the handbook.

- One of the boys involved comes from a prominent family in town. The father practically owns Windsor...he's donated some $$ to the school district, and it seems to me (and a whole lot of other Windsor residents) that he called in a favor when his appeal failed to give him the outcome he was looking for and...


- He took it a step further and held a special meeting with the school board. The result of that meeting was a revocation of the expulsion. Instead, the 4 boys must pay restitution (which dropped from $4000 to $1600), must provide 40 hours of community service each, and will return to school here in Windsor. Supposedly, if they step out of line again, they will be expelled. Except that only a fool would believe that this ruling will be upheld, since it seems obvious who's calling the shots. This revocation of the ruling went against the wishes of the high school admin AND the interim superintendent (who was set to retire and doesn't live in Windsor anyway, so she really had nothing to lose by speaking her mind).

- The school board president claimed that this was a matter of wanting to see these kids in school. But I think that's just spin. These kids could have gone to school, they just wouldn't have gone back to a Windsor school.

- A school board official wrote a letter to the editor refuting my claim that the board is spineless. She listed all sorts of initiatives that show that the board has the students' best interests in mind, but I don't know what that has to do with any of this. I'm pretty sure most of those initiatives were started by a superintendent that this board ran out of town (yet his initiatives were good enough to continue). A Windsor resident also wrote a letter to the editor, singing the praises of the father who I believe used his clout to strongarm the authorities into doing what he wanted. I've been told this woman received the parcel of land she built her daycare facility on for free--from the father! In the development community his money built (she neglected to mention this in her letter)! Her sister tells me this isn't so, that she's leasing the land legitimately. Either way, the woman was not upfront about her ties to the father.

- I stand by what I wrote, no regrets. I absolutely believe that, had the crime not included the son of a wealthy, powerful man, the original sentence would have been upheld. The fact that this simple op-ed piece raised such a furor says more about the situation than anything I wrote. And based on the onslaught of emails and phone calls I received in support of this column, I only said out loud what many people in town are thinking.

Parents and school board failed Windsor

Three years ago, I began writing a weekly column called The Family Room. As my column relocates from the Windsor Tribune to the new-and-improved Windsor Beacon, I thought it appropriate to change its name to reflect its gradual evolution from a families-only to a community column. And so I welcome you to The Front Porch, where no topic is off limits and discussion runs the gamut from personal anecdotes to politics and current events. To readers who have enjoyed this column in the past, I thank you for following me to The Front Porch. To those of you who are just joining us, I encourage you to kick back and relax as you read about yourselves, your neighbors, and your community here each week. You may not always agree with my point of view, but I'll always give you something to think about.

What I've been thinking about are those five teenage vandals who were recently expelled from school for destroying high school property, only to have their sentence seriously modified. This wishy-washiness in dealing with these young criminals is a perfect example of what I've said before: Windsor doesn't seem to know what it wants to be.

I don't know with absolute certainty the identities of the boys. But my initial reaction upon learning of the sentence revocation was that someone's daddy has money, and that money gave him the power and influence to challenge and rise above the rules. And a reliable source has since confirmed my suspicion. On the one hand, I understand parents not wanting their kids' permanent record marred by a school expulsion. On the other hand, the district handbook clearly states that the willful destruction of school property is grounds for expulsion, and a neutral arbitrator upheld the original sentence. I hope the parents of all five boys take a good, hard look at the role they played in their children's choices. The kids aren't the only ones who are guilty here; their behavior is a cry for help.

That plea seems to have fallen on deaf ears. I think the parents who could afford to do so bought these kids a warped sense of justice. Their rescue attempt is not going to give these teens what they need most, which is a wake-up call and a dose of reality. Instead, all they've done is make a feeble attempt to save face, and give the not-so-subtle message to their children—and ours—that money can do for them what their own moral compasses cannot. And the authorities who could have stood firm, they wavered and collapsed. Who, then, can we depend on in this town to hold our youth accountable when they do wrong? And what will be done when future vandals do their dirty work? Will authorities consistently give them this second chance? If not, then this sentence modification is problematic on several levels.

At 14 and 15 years of age, these kids were old enough to know right from wrong. But seeing as how their parents don't have that degree of discernment, what can we expect? The school board doesn't shine in times of controversy, either. I thought they were still trying to rebuild our trust in them in the wake of the Karbula debacle. If so, they've failed.

This isn't about keeping students in school; it's about the corruption of wealth and school officials who seem to have misplaced their spines.