Words fail when trying to describe my father, but he was truly the best man I have ever known.  He provided for our family in all the important ways–we were loved immensely, we had opportunities, we were comfortable, and we were happy (mostly).  He provided wisdom, humor, support, strength, and spirit in ways I find it hard to name.  Professionally, he worked as an FBI agent and later as an investigator for several government agencies.  In his work, he witnessed the acts of criminals and the darker side of life, but he never brought that home.  If anything, he worked even harder to shield us from pain and evil.  

So many small moments could be written about my dad, each one a glimpse of his rare character.  This small moment is a defining memory for me.  It reminds me that small actions can have lasting power.

Daddy was fastidious in keeping up with the news, mail, and household bills.  He frequently wrote personal letters to family and friends. Once a check was made out to pay a bill, or a letter written to my older brother or sister, he HAD to get it in the mail.  Whether it was impatience to receive a reply, or just his dislike of leaving “loose ends,” I’m not sure, but I know that trips to the post office were frequent and important to him.

One cold night in February my father, still in his suit and tie, put on his long, black wool overcoat, and wool fedora.  He always wore a hat in the winter.  He asked if anyone was up for a walk to the mailbox.  “I’ll come!” I exclaimed.  I bundled up and we headed out into the bitter cold night.  I could see my breath as we walked to the blue mailbox about a half mile around the block.  We looked up at the stars. “Look! There’s the Big Dipper, and there’s the Little Dipper!”  Stars seemed to awaken his philosophical nature.

I can’t recall our conversation exactly, but I remember the feeling.  My dad loved to ask questions of his children, such as, “Is is better to go fishing on Sunday and think about church? Or, is it better to go to church and think about fishing?”  He liked to make us struggle with an idea and he always listened to what we had to say.  I knew I had his full attention as we walked and talked.   

Walking with my Dad that night, I think he asked me about what I wanted to become in my life.  I felt he trusted me to have hopes and dreams and he wanted to be part of making them happen.  Walking with my Dad, I felt valued.

We were about half-way there when my dad reached for my small hand with his big, warm hand.  He had large hands with thick fingers. He always said his hands were clumsy, but I thought they were the most beautiful hands I’d ever seen or felt.  The veins on his hands stood up as if proud of their work.  His pinky was crooked, and his pointer finger bore the scar of an unfortunate encounter with a lawnmower blade.  His hands were always warm.  We walked briskly together in the cold, hand-in-hand.  His big hand said, “You’re safe with me.”

“Here we are.  Pull it open.”  I reached up, and he let me put the letter in.  I listened for it to hit the pile of mail already in the box. “Now, be sure it went down.” I opened the chute and looked to see.  

I still do that.  

I’m struggling with topic today.  So many stories come to mind, but then my inner censor says, “That’s too depressing, or that’s too personal, or that’s boring.”  I know stories will come, but perhaps not today.  Perhaps today is a day for reflecting.  I’m happy to be part of this SOL challenge.  It is my first time blogging, and the first time I’ve kept a commitment to write that’s lasted more than 3 days.  So that is something to celebrate.

I’m struggling on this 5th day in a good way – I know the struggle is worth it.  It doesn’t scare me to struggle, I have struggled with much harder things than my writing and am grateful for the lessons learned from those experiences.  I know that all writers go through this process.  I’m just newer at navigating it, but I have faith in the process and know that I will be surprised at how much I learn.

As I think now of my students, I know they often struggle.  I don’t want to steal that from them, no matter how many signals they give that it’s hard.  I have one student that enters my room every day with a “pouty” face.  She wants me to know loud and clear that she doesn’t want to be there, but I notice that gradually she enters the group, sits up a little taller, takes a risk to make a comment, and grows in her confidence.  That’s why I don’t mind her pouty face.  I know the struggle will pay off.

One of the great aspects of this SOL challenge is the opportunity to do as Stephen King said, “If you want to write, Read, Read, Read.”  Reading the posts of others teaches me so much.  

Mom, Did You Know?

Mom, did you know I would like to. . .

dress up in our lacey ballet dresses?

build blocks in my underwear?

not get stinky feet in my jelly shoes?

Mom, did you know that I like to. . .

scream your name at the pool to watch me go off the high dive?

to wear tennis skirts and feel like I am really good at tennis?

fall asleep with the lights on, not because I’m afraid of the dark,

but because light allows a more relaxed meeting with sleep?

Mom, did you know that. . . 

I’m in pursuit of the perfect pen

and the perfect pair of tennis shoes?

Mom, did you know I know the truth of you?

Yes, Jane, I know.

Today, I’m remembering earlier days in my teaching career when I was the sole ESOL (English for Speakers of Other Languages) teacher at a small elementary school.  Our instructional model at the time allowed me to work with upper grade students for their entire language arts period.  We had our own reading workshop and writing workshop.  

One particular year, I had an amazing group of new English speakers.  One boy was from Japan, one boy from Malaysia, one girl from Croatia, several students from Saudi Arabia, and a brother and sister from South Korea.  This diverse group of 5th and 6th graders became a learning community that seemed almost like family to me.  I confess I became very attached to them and still wonder about their progress as they are now young adults.  

This group of students worked hard and each of them progressed so much.  I remember the first writing we did together when one girl simply wrote the word “orange” on her paper.  Tears streamed down her cheeks as she lacked language to express more.  I felt her frustration and encouraged her with words she couldn’t understand, but hopefully felt.  By the end of the year, she was writing stories.

It was a classroom with much laughter.  English is such a quirky language that there were often opportunities for the “mis-use” of language that made us laugh.  One day, the phone rang in my classroom.  I was busy with a student, so I allowed Faisal to answer the phone.  It turned out he needed some prompting to know how to handle a call.  

Faisal:  “Hello? This is Mrs. Miner’s room.” (so far so good)

Caller:   “Is Mrs. Miner there?”

Faisal:  “Yes”  (ok, now what?)

Then Faisal looked at me, unsure how to proceed.  I whispered to him, “Say, ‘I’ll get her.'”

Faisal:  “She’ll get you.”

The students cracked up and laughter filled the room as an image of Mrs. Miner, monster, came to their view.  I quickly stepped across the room and spoke with the school secretary who good-naturedly delivered her message.  I’m not sure Faisal ever quite understood why his pronoun switch was so funny, but it still makes me laugh.