Oh goodness, just write something.

But nothing seems worth writing about.

It doesn’t matter. Ordinary things can make great stories.

Like the time Dad split his pants bending over to look at a can of paint at Sears?

Like the time my sisters and I measured our noses to see whose was bigger?

Like the time I pulled in the driveway and asked my kids where the red car was and they     said, “Mom, you’re driving it!”

Like the time we found starfish on the beach?

Like the time Tim made me laugh so hard I wet my pants?

Yeah, write stuff like that.

Okay. Maybe tomorrow.

I walked through the corridors of the Wilkinson Center (BYU student center) about 5:30 nearly every day of the fall and winter semesters of 1972-3. After a full day of classes, 2 hours of piano practice, and facing a ton of homework ahead, this detour was my few moments of relaxing and treating myself. Back then, BYU had a candy counter the likes of which I had never seen. AND you could buy 10 cents worth of any candy. Who could feel guilty about spending 10 cents? My 10 cents usually went for jelly beans or cinnamon bears which were so incredibly fresh. I’ve never had better jelly beans or cinnamon bears. The jelly beans included the brown ones that had a spicy flavor, but I actually liked black and yellow best.

It happened that several days a week I would cross paths with a boy I knew. He was an acquaintance, not really a close friend. However, he found it amusing that I usually had a small 10-cent bag of jelly beans and would say, “Hey, Jelly Bean! How are you?” Slightly embarrassed, I smiled and said, “Just fine,” offered him a jelly bean, and walked on.

Forty years later, our paths crossed again. “Hey, Jelly Bean! How are you?”

My OLW for 2016 is NOURISH, reminding me to nourish body, mind, and spirit.

Today I was nourished by:

• Warm air and bright sunshine
• Sally’s good Kidblog news (check here)
• Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 2 playing in the office as I walked through
• “Good morning, Mrs. Miner” from 100+ children at Kiss-and-Ride
• Teachers discussing assessment results and going beyond levels in their thinking
• An instructional coach’s skill with a challenging team
• Teaching my LLI class
• Seeing a picture of my sister and her husband kissing in Paris on their first trip there
• Breathing in and out
• Homemade chicken soup
• A fresh apple
• Maggie (almost 1 year!)
• 

I had been married three weeks when I discovered that I didn’t really know my husband. We woke up that 3rd Saturday after we married, and I innocently suggested that we go for a walk on such a beautiful September day in Utah. The sky was intensely blue with not a cloud in sight. I was new to this area where my husband grew up, so again, I innocently let him choose the place to walk.

We started out on a path at the base of Mount Olympus, one of the mountains very close to Salt Lake City. I love going for walks and was enjoying the cool morning air and comfortable pace. The path started to climb and turn. The terrain became a little more challenging, but we were still having fun after about an hour’s walk.

When two hours had passed, I was getting thirsty and the climb was getting more and more challenging. Since I had thought we were out for a short walk, we hadn’t brought any food or water. My husband kept urging me on, saying we could go to the top. I didn’t believe he was serious. Ha! He was. I started to get nervous and suggested we come back another day more prepared.

He refused to turn back. Soon I found myself standing up and lying down at the same time on the rocky face of the north side of the mountain. The shale was slippery. We had no rope, no gear, no water, no food. That was foolish, but what did I know? I was sure I was going to be face-to-face with a rattlesnake or a mountain lion at any moment. I was terrified, but I kept on. We finally reached the top. The view of the valley made the terror almost worth it. Miles and miles of valley clear to the Great Salt Lake.

New problem. How to get down. Death would be certain going down the way we came up. So my ever-optimistic(?) husband said, “My sister lives just down there. We can go down and get lunch at her house.” I blindly followed. Shielding my face from being scratched thoroughly by scrub oak, I followed as we made our way down the mountain. No trail to add to no water, no food, no gear, no rope.

Our morning walk turned into an 8-hour hike. He saw nothing out of the ordinary. I felt my life had been in danger. I learned there was a lot to learn about this man I married.

Mount Olympus, Salt Lake City, Utah

From “The Reading Mother” by Strickland Gillilan

You may have tangible wealth untold;
Caskets of jewels and coffers of gold.
Richer than I you can never be–
I had a Mother who read to me.

This poem is in the public domain.

“Strickland Gillilan (1869-1954) was an American humorist, lecturer, and poet. Born in Ohio, Strickland started out as a journalist and worked for several different newspapers, including the Washington Post. While on staff at the Richmond Daily Palladium, he wrote a humorous poem about an Irish railroader that ended up in Life Magazine and led to swift national acclaim. Credited with writing the world’s shortest poem–“Lines on the Antiquity of Microbes”(subtitled “Fleas”): “Adam/Had ‘em.”–as well as one of the world’s most anthologized poems (this one), Strickland produced a huge body of work during his lifetime. He traveled the country for years, entertaining enthralled audiences with his witty novels, satirical essays, rollicking songs, and heartwarming poetry.”

I have heard this stanza from many pulpits, lecterns, and read it in many parenting books and poetry anthologies.  It always mad me feel a little bit sad, because I don’t EVER remember my mother reading aloud to me or anyone else for any reason. She communicated, as I have written before, through music.

I was thinking today that I could, however, change a few words and write:

You may have tangible wealth untold;
Caskets of jewels and coffers of gold.
Richer than I you can never be–
I had a Father who sang to me.

My dad loved to put our names in songs, make up words to songs, and entertain us in the car with songs. He was a coal-mining Welshman’s son with music in his soul. He sang while he worked (when he wasn’t reciting poetry or practicing a speech).

I can hear him walking through the house singing the bass part of Beethoven’s “Hallelujah,” or just a simple hymn. He sang the old hymns from Kentucky, “The Little Brown Church in the Wildwood,” and “In the Garden,” or “The Old Rugged Cross.” He sang show tunes, but made up words when he forgot.  He sang children’s songs about little purple pansies and the “birdily-ird who satily-at on a windily-ind-ow sillily-ill.” He sang songs in German, especially Brahms’ “Lullaby” and “Stille Nacht.”

His voice was untrained, but true and naturally beautiful.

My father loved language and through song and poetry encouraged our love of language.  I remember he once challenged me to learn big words such as “pusilanimous.”  Having the right word at the right time was important to him. He was often known to ask, “What’s the good word, my friend?” rather than asking “How are you?” I miss that.

The words I loved most to hear, “I love you Marelee (his diminutive Marilyn), dear.”

I am rich. My father sang to me.

Today I had the unpleasant experience of having an administrator raise his voice and swear in response to my wondering aloud if it would make sense to ask successful ELLs what had helped them be able to pass state-mandated tests.  I was told there was no time for that BS–that we have no time to mess around with so many failing students.  To me, if you don’t find out from students what helps them, you just keep shooting darts in the dark and hoping for a bull’s eye.  I was so surprised at being cut off so abruptly that I had to fight back some emotion (thank goodness I didn’t cry!) and found it hard to know my purpose in the meeting.

I also wondered why it has taken until March for him to call a meeting to address the problem.

The Reading teacher and former ESOL teacher in me says it’s not the students who are the problem. The expectation that students learning English should be asked to pass the same tests as their native English-speaking peers, when they have had only 1-5 years of English instruction, is absurd. The political issues in this part of the educational process is complicated beyond my understanding. But my heart tells me it is wrong to squash the spirit out of kids who are “learning to become bilingual” (thank you, Colleen Cruz). There has to be a better way.

A year ago, I wrote about the excitement I felt as my youngest awaited the birth of her first child. What a joyful year it has been to watch her grow with her adorable Maggie. Maggie filled a place in me that I didn’t even know was empty. It’s hard to articulate the impact one little life can have on a family. She has brought so much laughter.

Now, we await the birth of my middle child’s first baby. A completely different set of emotions accompanies this one. My daughter’s journey has known tragedy. Her first husband took his own life. We grieved deeply. It took time, but Stephanie, always a strong young woman, emerged from that experience with resilience, hope, and an open heart. She married again last year and expects their baby April 12. I stand in wonder at her courage and willingness to be vulnerable, to give her life in love.

Stephanie is a natural athlete. She taught herself to dive and joined the diving team at age 12; she played basketball in AAU and on the varsity team as a freshman; she beat many members of the college football team in their PE class bowling tournament; she golfs. She hits homeruns on 2 softball teams. She ran the San Francisco marathon and several half marathons. She never stops. Last week, she played golf at 8 months pregnant. When I asked if that was a good idea, she said it actually helped her swing! (The baby helped her rotation.)

So when I think of Stephanie as a mother, I have no fears. She will open her heart some more. She will work at it and give 110%. That’s just who she is. Lucky little baby boy.

Today I am grateful for friends, two of whom are my sisters.  I heard on the radio the other day that friends are as important to our health and well being as exercise, eating right, and not smoking.  An article in the Huffington Post discusses this briefly:

“Most of us accept that the secret to living to a very old age is either down to genetics or lifestyle. In reality, it’s a bit of both, with genetics actually only contributing 20-30 percent of the likelihood of living to 100.

Ultimately, lifestyle is the bit that we can control, so most longevity research (research into lifespan) has focused upon this. Most of us know that eating a diet rich in fruit and vegetables, not smoking, drinking in moderation, and reducing stress in our lives is the way to go.

But one additional vital ingredient is missing from this menu. That ingredient is friends!

It turns out that the positive effect of regular social contact to a persons’ health is about as strong as the effect of blood pressure, smoking, alcohol habits, obesity, and eating a healthy diet.

Take, for instance, the following two pieces of research:

In 2010, researchers at Brigham Young University published a summary analysis of 148 different studies that involved 308,849 people. They were of an average age of 63.9 years and hailed from four different continents, and the study dealt with the impact of social relationships on mortality risk.

The conclusion was startling: People who enjoyed strong social ties had a 50 percent increased likelihood of survival over a measured period of 7.5 years compared with people with weak or no social ties.”  (Read more here.)

There are times I have felt lonely in my life, longed for a close friend, for the unencumbered connections of childhood. I’m always brought back to the way out of loneliness – to reach out and do something for someone else. To pick up the phone, to send a note, to smile at a stranger. Sometimes that is a great challenge for me, but I’ve never regretted trying to be a friend.

If connections to others are so important to our health and longevity, it concerns me that so many young people (especially late 20s, early 30s) seem to have trouble forming relationships. A young woman recently told me that she had made more than 150 attempts to connect to young men through reputable dating sites.  She had some responses, but has yet to meet one of these people face-to-face. Is the fear of rejection, of not being “good looking” enough, or smart enough, or whatever so strong? Or is it selfishness that makes it more comfortable to keep others at a distance?

This is probably not the right audience for this writing, but my concern for young people is real.  Just as real is the fact that the SOL community is one that thrives on connection.  For that, I’m so grateful.

I have a tender spot in my heart and mind for students learning English. A few years ago, our front sidewalk was the bus stop for the neighborhood school. Usually, I left for work before the students gathered, but one spring morning, as I walked to the car to go to work, I saw a beautiful sight.

A girl, who looked to be in 5th or 6th grade, leaned against my fence. She was alone. Her long brown hair shone in the morning sunshine. Her clothes were plain and her shoes were well-worn. She held a book in her hands. That alone was beautiful. She turned her head to look at me, but we did not speak.  But then, as I pulled out of the driveway, I glanced over and watched as she read aloud from her book. I could tell from the way she moved her mouth that English was not her first language. She was carefully pronouncing each word, working facial muscles, trying on new sounds, intent on her practice. I thought about how proud her teacher would be. I wondered what hopes and dreams she had and knew that her relationship with that book could make the difference.

This has been a good day.

I didn’t think it was going to be a good day.

I was scared.

I thought I might throw up.

I couldn’t concentrate.

I watched the clock.

One o’clock came.

There I was, standing next to my husband.

They read a letter.

They presented a certificate and a pin.

They honored 41 1/2 years of government service.

He retired.

What will that mean for us?