pelicansandprose

Like clockwork.

Only better.

Got up on time.

Train came on time.

Plane left on time.

Quiet seatmates.

Smooth ride.

No bumps.

Baggage claimed.

“Marilyn–”

“DAVID!”

My big brother’s huge embrace.

My childhood hero

In real life.

Happy Pi Day! 3.14

When I was a teenager, our church youth group met monthly on a Sunday night at our leader’s house for pie parties. There was always a variety of homemade pies–apple, pumpkin, cherry, chocolate cream, and sometimes strawberry, if they were in season. There was ice cream, cool whip, or the very fun squirt cans of whipped cream. We arrived around 7:00 p.m. and I’m sure some stayed until 10:00 or so.

Looking back, I’m sure that our leader’s wife (a mother of 6) should be sainted for so much work in the kitchen on behalf of a bunch of noisy, goofy teenagers while her husband got the credit for hosting the party. I’m not sure I would have the generosity of heart, hand, and mind to provide such a haven for young people. We laughed, teased, flirted, ate, and sometimes had a serious discussion about life in the late 60s, early 70s. Those were formative, bonding times that created friendships that are still vibrant after 45 years.  In fact, there is a reunion of this group coming up next August. Pie became a metaphor for friendship. I still think giving a pie is a lovely gift.

I bought a pie to celebrate Pi Day from The Pie Gourmet.  Mixed fruit with a crumb topping. Yum. I am able to bake a fairly good pie, but didn’t have the energy for that much mess today. I love to bake, but I’m a rather messy baker. Baking a pie is a multi-step process, and a pie-fail is so sad. I may go enjoy another bite now.

Ann Lamott posted a piece on Facebook today and asked if we are spending some time each day being here, now, or if we are like skeeter bugs on the water flitting about on the surface of life. I loved that image and know that at this moment my brain is like a skeeter bug because 2000 miles away, my beautiful, smart, resilient 3rd child and 1st daughter is in labor with her first baby. “The Little Chief,” as her husband calls him, decided to come a month early. My mind is in overdrive as I think about so many plans that will need to be rearranged at work and at home. But all for a joyful reason!

If I could stop being a skeeter bug on the water for a moment, would I dive down deep in the cool waters, or would I reach up to the tips of tree branches that sway overhead? In either case, the truth would be the same. Life with family is never predictable, but wholly reliable for bringing the wonders of love and a fragile balance of joys and sorrows. Of that, I am sure.

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.