Ah! Christmas vacation! Snow, rest, lights, fire, hot cocoa, walks, cookies, books---all the things that make being away from the daily duties of teaching worth while.
On Christmas Eve I walked the dogs up the hill after dinner as the flakes fell on as silent o' night as I can remember. Lights glowed in the neighbors' warm houses as they celebrated their various seasonal rituals and traditions. In the quietude it was easy to seize the moment for its beauty, unlike those precious ones lost in the clatter of dishes and crackle of paper.
As I returned home, down the hill, our house glowed with warmth too.
On Christmas Day I walked the dogs again, this time in the other direction. I noticed that the snow sparkled, and I tried to think of a simile to describe it without using a cliche. So, that ruled out diamonds, frosting, sugar, pieces of glass, etc., even though they were apt.
While pondering, I decided to make a snow angel, so I put down the leashes and turned my back to the snow bank and sat, then lay down. Angel, the older dog, took it all in stride, but Brady cocked his head and looked at me like he was the smart one.
I began to move the snow with my arms and legs to form arcs for my "dress" and "wings." Only, I noticed I couldn't quite get my arms above my head like I remembered doing in the past. I tried harder, but it pained my shoulders.
My angel as fully formed as I could manage, I attempted to stand up. I didn't want to put my hands down to ruin the outline of my creation---but I couldn't get up.
Brady pranced around, laughing. He trotted over to help, and I said, "No, You'll ruin the angel."
It was no use, though. Wiggle and grunt though I might, I had no choice but to put my hands down in the snow to hoist myself, which left two deep impressions on the side of my perfect angel and a sprinkle of paw prints to boot.
I thought about trying another one to improve my technique, but the dogs were impatient. The important thing is I made the angel, and it was still pretty, though imperfect, there in the snow bank that looked like a frosted, sugary cake, decorated with a sort of angel-like impression.
When I got home, I told my husband the story and said my wing span isn't what it used to be.
He laughed and said, "That's because our body span is more than it used to be.
It was funny, only because he said "our."
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
To Fiction or Non?
Writing fiction is fun. It's like playing God to a world; in fact, one creates a world and the characters, the setting, the plot. It's heady stuff. It's also hard to do well.
I also enjoy writing nonfiction, though, then one is limited to the facts, or at least your version of the facts. Really, there is no such thing as nonfiction. Everything written is someone's rendition of something that really happened. Even biographies tell only the writer's side, and if that writer did interviews to give a more balanced approach, it helps, but it still is limited in perspective.
Maybe fiction is more honest and true than nonfiction, for at least the author does not claim it to be real and factual. It's been shown that even studies and statistics are skewed, depending on the survey questions, the demographics of those surveyed, and the prejudices (either outward or subliminal) of the researcher.
That being said, I do like reading and writing "nonfiction," but I always keep in mind that it is one author's perspective. Both fiction and nonfiction have a basis of facts, or else we wouldn't be able to relate to it at all. Even Star Wars has characters we can relate to. We all know a Han Solo or a Luke Sky Walker. Right, Mr. Ludlum?
What do you think? Fiction or non?
Sunday, October 24, 2010
NoNames Ramble
The piles of papers I have to correct has driven me to blog. Yeah, anything to avoid them. I figure the stack will take me a total of 24 hrs. to grade, so there's no way I'm getting them done today. Why even try?
Went to see a movie last night at the Avalon, the local movie hub in downtown P'ville. They're hosting the Driftless Film Festival in the area, and the feature film I saw was called "NoNames." It was pretty interesting, really, but certainly not in an uplifting way. A group of townies in central Wisconsin spend their days getting drunk and getting high as a way to escape the town without leaving it. All seem to have no end of problems and no jobs to speak of, so they bond together in their hopelessness.
Every small town seems to have these characters who graduate from high school to the locar bars. Alcohol must make life seem challenging, or why would they keep going to the same establishment, paying good money to take part in the same stupid banter and suffering the same sickening hangover?
Darren Borrows (Ed Chigliak) of "Northern Exposure" fame portrays a local deputy in the flim who tries to talk some sense into the main character, Kevin, who insists on screwing up his life, over and over again, in a cycle of stupidity. Baxter, Wisconsin is a disgusting, toilet of a town, or at least that's the side of it that we're privvy to.
I couldn't help but compare it to "Northern Exposure's" Sicily, Alaska, where life in a small rural town was portrayed at quaint, serene, and fun, though immensely quirky. The viewer would love to be a part of the simple life in Sicily, whereas life in Baxter is seen as a prison sentence and the dwellers dopes for staying there.
Small towns can be OK, I think. It all depends on how you spend your spare time and brain cells. No different than in a city, really. Cities have bleak, seamy sides, too: homeless, jobless people, crime, gangs, etc.
The film had great music; lots of accoustic guitar and folksy songs. I liked that much better than the country, Farm and Fleet musak they could have chosen for realism. The soundtrack gave the film some flavor, in a good way.
Went to see a movie last night at the Avalon, the local movie hub in downtown P'ville. They're hosting the Driftless Film Festival in the area, and the feature film I saw was called "NoNames." It was pretty interesting, really, but certainly not in an uplifting way. A group of townies in central Wisconsin spend their days getting drunk and getting high as a way to escape the town without leaving it. All seem to have no end of problems and no jobs to speak of, so they bond together in their hopelessness.
Every small town seems to have these characters who graduate from high school to the locar bars. Alcohol must make life seem challenging, or why would they keep going to the same establishment, paying good money to take part in the same stupid banter and suffering the same sickening hangover?
Darren Borrows (Ed Chigliak) of "Northern Exposure" fame portrays a local deputy in the flim who tries to talk some sense into the main character, Kevin, who insists on screwing up his life, over and over again, in a cycle of stupidity. Baxter, Wisconsin is a disgusting, toilet of a town, or at least that's the side of it that we're privvy to.
I couldn't help but compare it to "Northern Exposure's" Sicily, Alaska, where life in a small rural town was portrayed at quaint, serene, and fun, though immensely quirky. The viewer would love to be a part of the simple life in Sicily, whereas life in Baxter is seen as a prison sentence and the dwellers dopes for staying there.
Small towns can be OK, I think. It all depends on how you spend your spare time and brain cells. No different than in a city, really. Cities have bleak, seamy sides, too: homeless, jobless people, crime, gangs, etc.
The film had great music; lots of accoustic guitar and folksy songs. I liked that much better than the country, Farm and Fleet musak they could have chosen for realism. The soundtrack gave the film some flavor, in a good way.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
All the World's a Stage
Love the suggestion from Shakespeare for my Elvis story. Thanks.
Speaking of "All the world's a stage," I bussed on up to Spring Green to the American Players Theater with 50 or so high schoolers and Mrs. C last Friday to see Shakespeare's hillarious, As You Like It.
That "stage" quote is from that play, and oh, how true it is.
'Twas a glorious production, with costumes and music from the '3os and even a performance from Mother Nature mid-show. In the scene where Ganamede is speaking to her cousin about Orlando's love notes she's found dispersed throughout the forest, the wind blew one of the notes from its nail and carried it back and forth, dancing in front of the characters for about 20 seconds or so. She played her part beautifully.
The thing I like most about Shakespeare is the humor, and the APT players know how to ham it up to the hilt. Audrey and Touchstone stole the show with their innuendo and slapstick antics. The crowd of students in the audience seemed to take it in with relish.
And, our PHS seniors conducted themselves like seniors; how awesome!Wait, is Logan a senior? Well, almost all were a delight to chaperone.
About 14 years ago I chaperoned a group of sophomores to see As You Like It. I remember it distinctly. The actress who played Audrey had on a pretty revealing costume, and a student name Logan was rather smitten with her. When we returned from the play and I asked the students how they liked As You Like It, Logan said, "I liked Audrey."
"She was a good actress," I said.
"Yeah, I guess," he said. "But she sure had on a pretty dress."
Of course, the class laughed.
Yes, all the world's a stage, and that includes the classroom.
Speaking of "All the world's a stage," I bussed on up to Spring Green to the American Players Theater with 50 or so high schoolers and Mrs. C last Friday to see Shakespeare's hillarious, As You Like It.
That "stage" quote is from that play, and oh, how true it is.
'Twas a glorious production, with costumes and music from the '3os and even a performance from Mother Nature mid-show. In the scene where Ganamede is speaking to her cousin about Orlando's love notes she's found dispersed throughout the forest, the wind blew one of the notes from its nail and carried it back and forth, dancing in front of the characters for about 20 seconds or so. She played her part beautifully.
The thing I like most about Shakespeare is the humor, and the APT players know how to ham it up to the hilt. Audrey and Touchstone stole the show with their innuendo and slapstick antics. The crowd of students in the audience seemed to take it in with relish.
And, our PHS seniors conducted themselves like seniors; how awesome!Wait, is Logan a senior? Well, almost all were a delight to chaperone.
About 14 years ago I chaperoned a group of sophomores to see As You Like It. I remember it distinctly. The actress who played Audrey had on a pretty revealing costume, and a student name Logan was rather smitten with her. When we returned from the play and I asked the students how they liked As You Like It, Logan said, "I liked Audrey."
"She was a good actress," I said.
"Yeah, I guess," he said. "But she sure had on a pretty dress."
Of course, the class laughed.
Yes, all the world's a stage, and that includes the classroom.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Becoming the King
Yeah, I know. It's been awhile. Somehow that teaching school thing gets in the way of my writing, but---it also gives me stuff to write about.
Not today, though.
Today, I want to relate an experience I had last weekend at Platteville's Dairy Days. My cousin Peggy invited me to go see Tony Rocker, an Elvis impersonator performing in a tent on the main stage, actually, the only stage. He was asked back by popular demand, as everyone loved him when he was here last year.
I sat in the front row with Peggy and her friends, visiting until the show started. Tony's back-up band played tunes from the 60s and 70s to get us going, and they did. They're a rockin' bunch. They put out every thing they had into a myriad of standards, like Wipeout, Sweet Caroline and Daydream Believer. Very talented musicians. It would have been enough just to listen to them.
Then, the lights dimmed, the drums rolled, and Elvis, aka, Tony, was escorted to the stage sporting the black leather and chains of the tough Elvis. And, he WAS Elvis. He owned every little facial tic, from the sneer to the sexy smile, and every sexy move, from the gyrating hips to the perfectly timed karate chops. He sang ballads and rock, and walked through the audience distributing handshakes, beads and sashes, and he never left his character. Never.
In the second set Tony came out in a replica of Elvis' famous all-white, bell-bottomed jumpsuit. He rocked some more and his moves got increasingly harder, including several pantsplitting, leg-stretching moves to the floor. He was sweating, big time, even though the tent had open sides and the night was cool. He was workin' it, and the crowd loved it, especially a drunk lady who danced around in front and almost fell into the audience.
I saw Elvis at the Colliseum in Madison in June of '74, and he died in August that same year. The person I saw was a rather large blob trying to move around, but with little success. He began songs; stopped the band; and tried again. I think he may have sung one song all the way through without interruption. But, the crowd cheered and loved him just the same, because---well, he was Elvis. Ironically, he died as a result of the people who loved him. He was a victim of his success and lost himself in the bargain, or the fame, somewhere along the line.
Most of us spend our lives trying to "find ourselves" and our "comfort zones." Last weekend I saw someone who spends his life trying to be the best he can at being someone else. And, it was a bit eerie how good he was at it, too. He was a better Elvis than the real Elvis I saw.
Actors pretend to be other people, too, but they have different roles. Tony's got one, and he portrays it over and over to crowds who love it. It would be hard not to lose yourself in the persona, wouldn't it? There's a short story here somewhere; I know it. I'll call it "Totally Elvis" or maybe "Resurrecting the King" or "Lost in a Game." Let me know what you think.
Not today, though.
Today, I want to relate an experience I had last weekend at Platteville's Dairy Days. My cousin Peggy invited me to go see Tony Rocker, an Elvis impersonator performing in a tent on the main stage, actually, the only stage. He was asked back by popular demand, as everyone loved him when he was here last year.
I sat in the front row with Peggy and her friends, visiting until the show started. Tony's back-up band played tunes from the 60s and 70s to get us going, and they did. They're a rockin' bunch. They put out every thing they had into a myriad of standards, like Wipeout, Sweet Caroline and Daydream Believer. Very talented musicians. It would have been enough just to listen to them.
Then, the lights dimmed, the drums rolled, and Elvis, aka, Tony, was escorted to the stage sporting the black leather and chains of the tough Elvis. And, he WAS Elvis. He owned every little facial tic, from the sneer to the sexy smile, and every sexy move, from the gyrating hips to the perfectly timed karate chops. He sang ballads and rock, and walked through the audience distributing handshakes, beads and sashes, and he never left his character. Never.
In the second set Tony came out in a replica of Elvis' famous all-white, bell-bottomed jumpsuit. He rocked some more and his moves got increasingly harder, including several pantsplitting, leg-stretching moves to the floor. He was sweating, big time, even though the tent had open sides and the night was cool. He was workin' it, and the crowd loved it, especially a drunk lady who danced around in front and almost fell into the audience.
I saw Elvis at the Colliseum in Madison in June of '74, and he died in August that same year. The person I saw was a rather large blob trying to move around, but with little success. He began songs; stopped the band; and tried again. I think he may have sung one song all the way through without interruption. But, the crowd cheered and loved him just the same, because---well, he was Elvis. Ironically, he died as a result of the people who loved him. He was a victim of his success and lost himself in the bargain, or the fame, somewhere along the line.
Most of us spend our lives trying to "find ourselves" and our "comfort zones." Last weekend I saw someone who spends his life trying to be the best he can at being someone else. And, it was a bit eerie how good he was at it, too. He was a better Elvis than the real Elvis I saw.
Actors pretend to be other people, too, but they have different roles. Tony's got one, and he portrays it over and over to crowds who love it. It would be hard not to lose yourself in the persona, wouldn't it? There's a short story here somewhere; I know it. I'll call it "Totally Elvis" or maybe "Resurrecting the King" or "Lost in a Game." Let me know what you think.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Ed's Cafe
On Sunday mornings Ed's Cafe, known locally as "the truck stop," serves freshly baked, melt-in-your-mouth, big, honkin' cinnamon rolls. One can either order caramel pecan or vanilla frosted---if there are any left to be had.
My husband frequents this establishment during the week for lunch, coffee, or an afternoon piece of homemade pie so he has a familiarity with the place and the regulars. Yes, this group of men, and a few women, relish in the ongoing BSing sessions.
The food and the comraderie are the draws of the Truck Stop; it certainly isn't the ambiance. The ceiling is falling down; the tile floor is cracked in places and worn off in others; the stools are the same kind Fonzie sat on 40 years ago and were installed in the same "Happy Days" era, but the lack of design and upkeep doesn't daunt the locals.
You'll find them gathered at the big table to the left as you walk in the east entrance. I don't know all their names, but you've seen 'em around: the gray whiskered guy with the quick laugh; the young man in a uniformed shirt who shaves his head; the white-haired retired farmer whose posture is a bit stooped; the gray, curly-haired, retired city council woman, etc. These characters are much the same as those who meet for morning coffee to gossip and tease each other in every other town across the country.
It's always interesting accompanying my husband on Sunday mornings, for those seated at the greeting table on the left obligingly tease my husband about being so well behaved: "You ought to come with him more often," they tell me. "It would make it a lot more bearable for us."
One morning we walked in, and one of them said, "I see you brought your daughter out for breakfast this morning." I know I'm dense, but at first I wondered what they were talking about. Our daughter wasn't with us.
Then it occurred to me. Hah! Real funny. Gee, I'm glad I put on make-up this morning and fixed my hair. I know they're joshin', but I feel it was somewhat of a compliment, at my husband's expense, of course. Should I tell him he looks good for his age? But, I decide to bask in the attention and shut up, for he doesn't seem upset by it.
We sit down at a table and Sue brings the usual: coffee for him and tea for me. We order our rolls, savoring each bite and trading parts of the paper as we finish them.
I look up and an old couple comes in. The woman is smiling and stooped with gray hair, and the man is red-faced and happy looking, and one of the greeting committee pipes up, "Hey, Frank. Nice of you to treat your daughter to breakfast this morning."
My husband frequents this establishment during the week for lunch, coffee, or an afternoon piece of homemade pie so he has a familiarity with the place and the regulars. Yes, this group of men, and a few women, relish in the ongoing BSing sessions.
The food and the comraderie are the draws of the Truck Stop; it certainly isn't the ambiance. The ceiling is falling down; the tile floor is cracked in places and worn off in others; the stools are the same kind Fonzie sat on 40 years ago and were installed in the same "Happy Days" era, but the lack of design and upkeep doesn't daunt the locals.
You'll find them gathered at the big table to the left as you walk in the east entrance. I don't know all their names, but you've seen 'em around: the gray whiskered guy with the quick laugh; the young man in a uniformed shirt who shaves his head; the white-haired retired farmer whose posture is a bit stooped; the gray, curly-haired, retired city council woman, etc. These characters are much the same as those who meet for morning coffee to gossip and tease each other in every other town across the country.
It's always interesting accompanying my husband on Sunday mornings, for those seated at the greeting table on the left obligingly tease my husband about being so well behaved: "You ought to come with him more often," they tell me. "It would make it a lot more bearable for us."
One morning we walked in, and one of them said, "I see you brought your daughter out for breakfast this morning." I know I'm dense, but at first I wondered what they were talking about. Our daughter wasn't with us.
Then it occurred to me. Hah! Real funny. Gee, I'm glad I put on make-up this morning and fixed my hair. I know they're joshin', but I feel it was somewhat of a compliment, at my husband's expense, of course. Should I tell him he looks good for his age? But, I decide to bask in the attention and shut up, for he doesn't seem upset by it.
We sit down at a table and Sue brings the usual: coffee for him and tea for me. We order our rolls, savoring each bite and trading parts of the paper as we finish them.
I look up and an old couple comes in. The woman is smiling and stooped with gray hair, and the man is red-faced and happy looking, and one of the greeting committee pipes up, "Hey, Frank. Nice of you to treat your daughter to breakfast this morning."
Friday, August 20, 2010
Shoo!
For a few days the humidity cleared and we slept with the windows and patio doors open. We were serenaded by the frogs croaking rhythmically in the trees, while the cicadas sang the lullaby. An easy breeze played with the curtains, and it was almost like camping, maybe too much so.
At 2:00 a.m. I was awakened by a noise out on the deck. I listened, still as could be, and sure enough there it was again. Last summer there were a number of break-ins by someone who entered homes in the early morning in search of purses, cameras and easy-to-carry valuables lying around. Some friends of ours awakened in time to frighten her away and warned us to be vigilant and keep doors locked.
I got up, and by that time the dog was barking wildly and trying to jump through the screen door. I flipped the outside light on. And, there they were, the little rascals: one on my lounge chair, one tightrope walking on the rail of the deck, and the other inspecting the gas grill.
There was a party on our deck, and the baby raccoons were having a good 'ol time.
I watched as they gathered at the grill, for they smelled food, or what was left of it. One crawled on top and was trying to open the lid, while the others inspected the bottom and licked the grease from the deck, the bottom of the grill, as well as the propane tank.
Okay, they were cute, but enough fun for one night; it's time to go back to bed. I grabbed the broom and shooed them. They sat there and looked at me until I began to wave the broom about. They slowly walked away and then turned to watch me like I was their entertainment, so I put the broom down and slid it across the deck at their feet, and they took off running down the steps.
Hmpf. Got rid of you, you little stinkers!
I went back to bed, but not two minutes later I heard a tapping sound, over and over. What were they up to now? I flipped the light on again, and there they were playing with the broom, hitting it with their paws and watching it rock back and forth as it hung off the edge of the deck. Then, they went back to the grill to try to figure out how to get inside to scavenge the bits of food they knew were hidden in there.
Yes, they were adorable, waddling around, chattering at each other, like cartoon characters or something: Huey, Dewey, and Louie, or Moe, Larry and Curly or the Three Musketeers. But, enough is enough. I've got to get some sleep.
How do I get rid of the scamps, though? They didn't really seem to afraid of me or my broom, and I didn't want to sic the dogs on them for fear of an all out battle of bites and scratches. I didn't have a BB-gun and probably wouldn't use it if I did.
I went to the sink and filled a big cup with water and ventured onto the deck. All three of them sat by the grill and looked up at me with shining mischievious eyes, like, "What ya gonna do now, sucka?" I was about six feet away, and I threw the water over them and they high-tailed it outta there and never came back.
My husband and daughter slept through the whole thing. When I told them about our early morning visitors, they thought I'd been dreaming---until I showed them the evidence. All the little pawprints had dried on the deck and left a trail from the grill and down the steps.
At 2:00 a.m. I was awakened by a noise out on the deck. I listened, still as could be, and sure enough there it was again. Last summer there were a number of break-ins by someone who entered homes in the early morning in search of purses, cameras and easy-to-carry valuables lying around. Some friends of ours awakened in time to frighten her away and warned us to be vigilant and keep doors locked.
I got up, and by that time the dog was barking wildly and trying to jump through the screen door. I flipped the outside light on. And, there they were, the little rascals: one on my lounge chair, one tightrope walking on the rail of the deck, and the other inspecting the gas grill.
There was a party on our deck, and the baby raccoons were having a good 'ol time.
I watched as they gathered at the grill, for they smelled food, or what was left of it. One crawled on top and was trying to open the lid, while the others inspected the bottom and licked the grease from the deck, the bottom of the grill, as well as the propane tank.
Okay, they were cute, but enough fun for one night; it's time to go back to bed. I grabbed the broom and shooed them. They sat there and looked at me until I began to wave the broom about. They slowly walked away and then turned to watch me like I was their entertainment, so I put the broom down and slid it across the deck at their feet, and they took off running down the steps.
Hmpf. Got rid of you, you little stinkers!
I went back to bed, but not two minutes later I heard a tapping sound, over and over. What were they up to now? I flipped the light on again, and there they were playing with the broom, hitting it with their paws and watching it rock back and forth as it hung off the edge of the deck. Then, they went back to the grill to try to figure out how to get inside to scavenge the bits of food they knew were hidden in there.
Yes, they were adorable, waddling around, chattering at each other, like cartoon characters or something: Huey, Dewey, and Louie, or Moe, Larry and Curly or the Three Musketeers. But, enough is enough. I've got to get some sleep.
How do I get rid of the scamps, though? They didn't really seem to afraid of me or my broom, and I didn't want to sic the dogs on them for fear of an all out battle of bites and scratches. I didn't have a BB-gun and probably wouldn't use it if I did.
I went to the sink and filled a big cup with water and ventured onto the deck. All three of them sat by the grill and looked up at me with shining mischievious eyes, like, "What ya gonna do now, sucka?" I was about six feet away, and I threw the water over them and they high-tailed it outta there and never came back.
My husband and daughter slept through the whole thing. When I told them about our early morning visitors, they thought I'd been dreaming---until I showed them the evidence. All the little pawprints had dried on the deck and left a trail from the grill and down the steps.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Auntie Mae
You've probably heard of the Broadway musical about eccentric, bizarre, and borderline crazy Auntie Mame who could "coax the blues right out of the horn." She may have been something, but I have an Auntie Mae, who is the antithesis of Mame, and I'm right glad she is. She's as down to earth and non-eccentric as pork 'n beans. My Auntie Mae has been a dependable staple in my life, providing me with kisses, hugs, smiles, and birthday cards for as long as I can remember.
When I was little, Auntie Mae, whose real name is Marian, called me "Lulu" after the girl in the comic strip who enjoyed getting into mischief. "Uh, oh, Lulu's here. Now there'll be action," she'd say, laughing.
And, she was right. None of that dull sitting-around stuff for me. When we went to visit her house, I found the much-needed fuel for fun in her four kids, for I lived alone with my parents. Greg was older, and a cool teenager, so he brooded in his room much of the time, but the others were always game for tag, bicycle riding, red-light/green-light, or whatever. I'm sure my high energy hi-jinx drove her crazy, but she never let on---too much.
In a day and age when good men are hard to find, Auntie Mae lucked out and nabbed two fine husbands in her life time. Virgil, the first one and the father of her kids, was a noisy, kind-hearted, fun-loving sort who was into nature and camping and architecture. He created a fish pond in his back yard, and once, just for kicks and under the influence of the deceased, he and my dad had a funeral and buried an empty whiskey jug near our campsite in Yellowstone Park. Such hymns they sang! I remember riding in the back seat of Auntie Mae and Virgil's station wagon and going to get milk from the store, all of us kids singing and joking, and for a little while I wasn't an only child; I was part of a big family.
At far too young of an age, a brain tumor took Virgil's life, and after awhile Auntie Mae became reacquainted with and married Bob, a guy she had known growing up. Bob enjoyed fishing, gardening and outdoor activities, and he and Auntie Mae had much fun relaxing and having a few "berrs" (beers) together at the end of the day. She often bragged about Bob's cooking, but "Oh, that man's messy," she'd say. (Auntie Mae, my mother, and their sister Doris [Dottie] were raised by their mother to be the patron saints of cleanliness---and they were.)
Auntie Mae loved simple things: a good laugh, good friends, good food. She steered clear of conflict, and I never heard her say anything bad about anyone else. Though she had endured the horrific pain of losing a child and did not feel well much of the time in her later years, she didn't make a habit of complaining.
In all the family pictures, she and my mother have their arms around each other; Mom was the girly girl who cooked and polished the stove, and Marian the tomboy just back from milking the cows. They exchanged letters on a weekly basis back in the day, but switched to calling as their arthritis made writing difficult. Auntie Mae could write the best letters. Kind of like "Seinfeld," they were about nothing, really, but her personality was revealed in them. She liked to write something funny and then put "Ha!" after it. Her letters always made me feel like I was a special part of her life because she shared it so honestly.
Mom passed away in March, and I began calling Auntie Mae about once a week to sort of fill the gap, but I think maybe I filled in for my mother for her, too. Now, Auntie Mae, age 80, is gone as well. There were three sisters raised on that farm in Squirrel Hollow in Glen Haven, and all have passed away.
I will miss you Auntie Mae.
When I was little, Auntie Mae, whose real name is Marian, called me "Lulu" after the girl in the comic strip who enjoyed getting into mischief. "Uh, oh, Lulu's here. Now there'll be action," she'd say, laughing.
And, she was right. None of that dull sitting-around stuff for me. When we went to visit her house, I found the much-needed fuel for fun in her four kids, for I lived alone with my parents. Greg was older, and a cool teenager, so he brooded in his room much of the time, but the others were always game for tag, bicycle riding, red-light/green-light, or whatever. I'm sure my high energy hi-jinx drove her crazy, but she never let on---too much.
In a day and age when good men are hard to find, Auntie Mae lucked out and nabbed two fine husbands in her life time. Virgil, the first one and the father of her kids, was a noisy, kind-hearted, fun-loving sort who was into nature and camping and architecture. He created a fish pond in his back yard, and once, just for kicks and under the influence of the deceased, he and my dad had a funeral and buried an empty whiskey jug near our campsite in Yellowstone Park. Such hymns they sang! I remember riding in the back seat of Auntie Mae and Virgil's station wagon and going to get milk from the store, all of us kids singing and joking, and for a little while I wasn't an only child; I was part of a big family.
At far too young of an age, a brain tumor took Virgil's life, and after awhile Auntie Mae became reacquainted with and married Bob, a guy she had known growing up. Bob enjoyed fishing, gardening and outdoor activities, and he and Auntie Mae had much fun relaxing and having a few "berrs" (beers) together at the end of the day. She often bragged about Bob's cooking, but "Oh, that man's messy," she'd say. (Auntie Mae, my mother, and their sister Doris [Dottie] were raised by their mother to be the patron saints of cleanliness---and they were.)
Auntie Mae loved simple things: a good laugh, good friends, good food. She steered clear of conflict, and I never heard her say anything bad about anyone else. Though she had endured the horrific pain of losing a child and did not feel well much of the time in her later years, she didn't make a habit of complaining.
In all the family pictures, she and my mother have their arms around each other; Mom was the girly girl who cooked and polished the stove, and Marian the tomboy just back from milking the cows. They exchanged letters on a weekly basis back in the day, but switched to calling as their arthritis made writing difficult. Auntie Mae could write the best letters. Kind of like "Seinfeld," they were about nothing, really, but her personality was revealed in them. She liked to write something funny and then put "Ha!" after it. Her letters always made me feel like I was a special part of her life because she shared it so honestly.
Mom passed away in March, and I began calling Auntie Mae about once a week to sort of fill the gap, but I think maybe I filled in for my mother for her, too. Now, Auntie Mae, age 80, is gone as well. There were three sisters raised on that farm in Squirrel Hollow in Glen Haven, and all have passed away.
I will miss you Auntie Mae.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
No Reservations Vacation
The ferry ride that totes cars and people from one side of Lake Michigan to the other rocks. It's a four-hour mini trip that will get you in shape for a longer ocean cruise. And, it's a heck of a lot simpler and faster than driving around the lake through Chicago if you're headed from Wisconsin to Michigan or vice-versa.
We purchased our tickets online for the S.S. Badger and boarded in Manitowoc, Wisconsin for the trip to Ludington, Michigan, arriving forty-five minutes ahead of time for the 2:00 departure time, but we didn't do any departing until 2:45. Oh, well. We explored the ship and relaxed in lounge chairs watching sea gulls and people, so it wasn't too bad---until the air horn behind us sounded our departure, knocking our ears off and blasting our blood into high gear again.
The ferry has two decks and offers much to occupy time when you reach mid-lake and see aqua blue every which way you gaze. Bingo, movies, TV, video games, two restaurants, a lounge deck and cabins to rent are the fare. The ferry does a run at night too, so I suppose some passengers want to get some shut-eye "or something."
Older kids ran around investigating the nooks and crannies, while younger ones napped in strollers. Many passengers were reading actual books. I was impressed. Beware, though, the food and drink is expensive, like anyplace where they know you can't really go anywhere else. They've got you, and they know it.
When you get to the ferry, you leave your keys in your car and they park it on the boat, while a drug/bomb-sniffing dog inspects your vehicle for safety purposes. The poor dog barked almost the whole trip; I don't know if he was seasick, scared or mad, but I felt sorry for him nonetheless.
When we docked in Ludington, we stood on the second deck and watched the "runners" as they drove the vehicles from the ferry. They whisked it off, parked it, and ran back for another one, a process that took about 45 minutes, total. The boat was full, and apparently there were about 400 passengers that day. Many of them rode bicycles and took off immediately when we docked.
I wanted to make reservations for a hotel, but my husband said, "Oh, there're always hotel rooms. Let's go see what there is instead of booking ahead." He's just not a reservation type of guy.
Right.
After seeing a bevvy of no vacancy signs posted, we stopped anyway, and the innkeeper said there was not a room to be had from Ludington up to Traverse City. Hmm. So, we thought, we're sleeping in the car tonight. Well, we drove a few miles up the coast and stopped to get a pizza. Apparently, there was a big casino up the road; one would think they would have ample rooms to keep their clientelle captive and satisfied.
Wrong.
Yes, I was disgusted, but I held my tongue, pretty much. The lady at the casino desk said she'd call an out-of-the-way resort outside of Onekama, about twenty minutes away. She did, and lo and behold they had one "doll house" left. (A doll house is a cabin with a bed and bath and a front porch.)
"We'll take it," I said. Ha. It's only right my husband get to sleep in a doll house tonight.
Portage Point, it was called, and it was pretty cool, I must say. There was a lake, a lodge with a restaurant and bar, hiking trails, shuffleboard, a dance hall, boat and jet ski rentals, and all the amenities a summer vacationer would want. It reminded me of the resort in the movie Dirty Dancing. And, we never would have found it had we made reservations. I guess it pays off---sometimes.
We had a relaxing breakfast and spent the rest of the morning sunning ourselves on a sandy beach of Lake Michigan a few miles away. It was a perfect day: sunshine, gentle breeze, and, we had it pretty much to ourselves. Awesome!
The next night we spent in Traverse City at a time-share hotel. We went to the beach and then had a meal at a Mexican restaurant across the way. Very relaxing.
The next day we bought fresh Michigan cherries and peaches at a roadside stand. (Delicious!) And, we stopped for a piece of pie at a little diner in a small town, and my husband and I agreed it was one of the best, if not THE best, we'd ever had. (Not counting mine, of course. But, it came pretty close.) He sampled the blueberry, and I, the raspberry. Yum!
We spent the last night in Green Bay, and I took a dip in the hotel pool in the morning, and we headed off for home. All in all, a delightful four-day get-away, with no reservations!
We purchased our tickets online for the S.S. Badger and boarded in Manitowoc, Wisconsin for the trip to Ludington, Michigan, arriving forty-five minutes ahead of time for the 2:00 departure time, but we didn't do any departing until 2:45. Oh, well. We explored the ship and relaxed in lounge chairs watching sea gulls and people, so it wasn't too bad---until the air horn behind us sounded our departure, knocking our ears off and blasting our blood into high gear again.
The ferry has two decks and offers much to occupy time when you reach mid-lake and see aqua blue every which way you gaze. Bingo, movies, TV, video games, two restaurants, a lounge deck and cabins to rent are the fare. The ferry does a run at night too, so I suppose some passengers want to get some shut-eye "or something."
Older kids ran around investigating the nooks and crannies, while younger ones napped in strollers. Many passengers were reading actual books. I was impressed. Beware, though, the food and drink is expensive, like anyplace where they know you can't really go anywhere else. They've got you, and they know it.
When you get to the ferry, you leave your keys in your car and they park it on the boat, while a drug/bomb-sniffing dog inspects your vehicle for safety purposes. The poor dog barked almost the whole trip; I don't know if he was seasick, scared or mad, but I felt sorry for him nonetheless.
When we docked in Ludington, we stood on the second deck and watched the "runners" as they drove the vehicles from the ferry. They whisked it off, parked it, and ran back for another one, a process that took about 45 minutes, total. The boat was full, and apparently there were about 400 passengers that day. Many of them rode bicycles and took off immediately when we docked.
I wanted to make reservations for a hotel, but my husband said, "Oh, there're always hotel rooms. Let's go see what there is instead of booking ahead." He's just not a reservation type of guy.
Right.
After seeing a bevvy of no vacancy signs posted, we stopped anyway, and the innkeeper said there was not a room to be had from Ludington up to Traverse City. Hmm. So, we thought, we're sleeping in the car tonight. Well, we drove a few miles up the coast and stopped to get a pizza. Apparently, there was a big casino up the road; one would think they would have ample rooms to keep their clientelle captive and satisfied.
Wrong.
Yes, I was disgusted, but I held my tongue, pretty much. The lady at the casino desk said she'd call an out-of-the-way resort outside of Onekama, about twenty minutes away. She did, and lo and behold they had one "doll house" left. (A doll house is a cabin with a bed and bath and a front porch.)
"We'll take it," I said. Ha. It's only right my husband get to sleep in a doll house tonight.
Portage Point, it was called, and it was pretty cool, I must say. There was a lake, a lodge with a restaurant and bar, hiking trails, shuffleboard, a dance hall, boat and jet ski rentals, and all the amenities a summer vacationer would want. It reminded me of the resort in the movie Dirty Dancing. And, we never would have found it had we made reservations. I guess it pays off---sometimes.
We had a relaxing breakfast and spent the rest of the morning sunning ourselves on a sandy beach of Lake Michigan a few miles away. It was a perfect day: sunshine, gentle breeze, and, we had it pretty much to ourselves. Awesome!
The next night we spent in Traverse City at a time-share hotel. We went to the beach and then had a meal at a Mexican restaurant across the way. Very relaxing.
The next day we bought fresh Michigan cherries and peaches at a roadside stand. (Delicious!) And, we stopped for a piece of pie at a little diner in a small town, and my husband and I agreed it was one of the best, if not THE best, we'd ever had. (Not counting mine, of course. But, it came pretty close.) He sampled the blueberry, and I, the raspberry. Yum!
We spent the last night in Green Bay, and I took a dip in the hotel pool in the morning, and we headed off for home. All in all, a delightful four-day get-away, with no reservations!
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Summer Reading
Eat, Pray, Love the movie comes out on August 13th and stars Julia Roberts and Javier Bardem. I'm excited. I loved the book, though books are usually better than movies, so we'll see.
Started the summer getting lots of books under my belt and have slowed a bit. Cape Cod Magic was a good read if you like a man's perspective on how his parents' relationship affected his marriage. It's funny, introspective and sometimes slow. But, that is good for a summer read.
The Elephant Keeper kept me interested, though the writing was very basic. It's historical fiction and set in England, so it gives an interesting glimpse into the past. The ending is somewhat weird, as the main character and the elephant have long conversations with each other. It was entertaining, though.
For Book Club I read The Help, and it was by far the best book I've read in awhile, with thought-provoking perspectives and historical references to the racial tension of the 1950s and early 60s. It was uplifting, kind of like the "Rocky" of African American maids. I wanted to give a cheer at the end for the women who, in their own way, stood up for themselves.
Today's a good reading day, too. A gentle breeze, no humidity. Have to take a blanket and Leap into Darkness to the back yard for some contemplation.
Almost forgot, The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao was the best reading of the summer after The Help. It was bizarre in places, but the creative voice of the narrator and glimpses into Oscar's family were memorable and real. It shows how we all have a history, and it affects us greatly, along with environment and circumstances beyond our control. Cool book, but beware if you don't like swearing; the narrator tells it like he sees it, no words barred.
Started the summer getting lots of books under my belt and have slowed a bit. Cape Cod Magic was a good read if you like a man's perspective on how his parents' relationship affected his marriage. It's funny, introspective and sometimes slow. But, that is good for a summer read.
The Elephant Keeper kept me interested, though the writing was very basic. It's historical fiction and set in England, so it gives an interesting glimpse into the past. The ending is somewhat weird, as the main character and the elephant have long conversations with each other. It was entertaining, though.
For Book Club I read The Help, and it was by far the best book I've read in awhile, with thought-provoking perspectives and historical references to the racial tension of the 1950s and early 60s. It was uplifting, kind of like the "Rocky" of African American maids. I wanted to give a cheer at the end for the women who, in their own way, stood up for themselves.
Today's a good reading day, too. A gentle breeze, no humidity. Have to take a blanket and Leap into Darkness to the back yard for some contemplation.
Almost forgot, The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao was the best reading of the summer after The Help. It was bizarre in places, but the creative voice of the narrator and glimpses into Oscar's family were memorable and real. It shows how we all have a history, and it affects us greatly, along with environment and circumstances beyond our control. Cool book, but beware if you don't like swearing; the narrator tells it like he sees it, no words barred.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Poofing the Japanese beetle
Summer is simmering to a full boil. Ample rain and sunshine have pushed the flora into aromatic bloom on lush foliage, and the Japanese beetles love every bite. They chomp their way through leaves like Pac Men through mazes, leaving skeletal leaf veins in their wake.
I get out my Seven Dust and poof it over anything remotely green and tasty, and the pesky buggers still chomp the white-coated leaves, then die. No sadness here. I sweep them off the deck with gusto.
With all the rain we've had, I'm out there "poofing" dust and sweeping a lot. But, those plant vultures will not win. Let them eat cake!
I get out my Seven Dust and poof it over anything remotely green and tasty, and the pesky buggers still chomp the white-coated leaves, then die. No sadness here. I sweep them off the deck with gusto.
With all the rain we've had, I'm out there "poofing" dust and sweeping a lot. But, those plant vultures will not win. Let them eat cake!
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Birthday Blog
This is my first birthday without the woman who made my birthdays possible. On this day every year she would recall the hot, humid day I was born at 3:15 a.m. at the old hospital. She said she didn't remember my actual birth because back then doctors used ether to calm patients. In other words, she was pretty much knocked out.
My father was in the adjacent park, pacing and smoking cigarettes, waiting for the news, also common for the times. She said when they showed me to her, she counted my fingers and toes and looked me over. I was long and skinny with blond hair and a ruddy face.
We went home after about five days, and my father and older brother did the wash and hung out the laundry on the clothesline for the first few weeks. When my father first showed me to his Uncle Bert and Aunt Vera, he unwrapped the wrong end of the bundle of blankets carefully, and proudly displayed my tiny feet.
In later years, we always vacationed over my birthday. Until I was five or so, we rented a cabin on Diamond Lake in Cable, Wisconsin, where we roasted hot dogs on the beach, caught fireflies, fished, swam and boated. Later, we got a camping trailer and traveled throughout the South and West, and, one year, to Washington, D.C., usually with my cousins and their families. I learned to play mumbly peg, black jack and do a back flip off the diving board.
Today, I will have coffee with a good friend, lunch with my husband, and visit Mom's grave to thank her for her gift.
My father was in the adjacent park, pacing and smoking cigarettes, waiting for the news, also common for the times. She said when they showed me to her, she counted my fingers and toes and looked me over. I was long and skinny with blond hair and a ruddy face.
We went home after about five days, and my father and older brother did the wash and hung out the laundry on the clothesline for the first few weeks. When my father first showed me to his Uncle Bert and Aunt Vera, he unwrapped the wrong end of the bundle of blankets carefully, and proudly displayed my tiny feet.
In later years, we always vacationed over my birthday. Until I was five or so, we rented a cabin on Diamond Lake in Cable, Wisconsin, where we roasted hot dogs on the beach, caught fireflies, fished, swam and boated. Later, we got a camping trailer and traveled throughout the South and West, and, one year, to Washington, D.C., usually with my cousins and their families. I learned to play mumbly peg, black jack and do a back flip off the diving board.
Today, I will have coffee with a good friend, lunch with my husband, and visit Mom's grave to thank her for her gift.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Not so Flagpole Neighbor
When I first began teaching, I was part time and had no room of my own: I was a scholastic nomad, a cart teacher. Everything I needed for my classes that day had to be packed, stacked and organized on that little four-wheeled vehicle so I could push it to other teacher's rooms and teach during their prep periods. (If you've ever been in a crowded high school between classes, you know that this was a navigational nightmare.)
All my handouts and supplies had to be on this cart, which, I must admit, forced me to be better organized than I am now. Too many places to stash things in a big room. A few years ago, one of my former students came back to observe my class as a part of his university requirement in preparation for becoming a teacher. When he arrived, I was pawing through piles of papers for a copy of the day's schedule to give him, and he said, "Still looking for stuff, huh, Mrs. Kies?"
During that year of the cart, one veteran teacher was very fussy and never failed to chastise me if a desk was out of place or a scrap of paper left on the floor. Daily, I scrambled to straighten the desks, erase the board, and pick up the room, only to have him glare at me as I headed off to my next classroom. I didn't know if it was me, or the idea of sharing his room that irritated him, but I came to think of him as Mr. Persnickety, and sometimes worse, depending.
When I went to full time and FINALLY got my own room in the new part of our school, guess who became my next-door neighbor.
At first, I avoided him whenever possible. Then, I began to pick up on his quirks. He taught three classes of freshman geography, and one of his winter traditions was to confide in them that school was being let out early because of an incoming snow or ice storm, "but don't tell anyone." Of course being freshmen, unless someone had filled them in (and who wanted to ruin the fun?), they swallowed the bait. They looked out the windows expectantly and knowingly, and spread the word, not suspecting they'd been horns waggled. This only works once per year, but Persnickety thought it good fun and a proper initiation, I guess.
Because I had been part time and did not eat lunch or spend time in the teacher's lounge, I had not realized that Persnickety used his perfected poker face for challenging the inexperienced "rookies," both students and faculty. It was his forte---his MO. After I became full time, I found out at lunch one day that he had told one of the other teachers during her first year that, as a new teacher, she wasn't supposed to go to the Christmas party; it was only for veterans. So, she didn't go.
"Don't believe anything this guy tells you," they said. Now they tell me.
OK, I get it. He's old school. He loves high-jinx and respects experience and chutzpah. One day in the teacher's lounge he was bragging about one of his pranks, and I referred to him as body part that rhymes with "flagpole." He roared with laughter. Loved it. I'd put a stamp on his preferred persona and mailed it back to him.
He retired this year, and I'm going to miss Persnickety more than I ever would have imagined. We've been through a lot the past fifteen years, sharing our stories and commiserations while watching traffic in the hall between classes. One day two girls were beating up on another one, and he intervened; one jumped on him in anger and hurt his back, and later that spring he had to go to court and testify in the matter. Somewhere in those years, he discovered he had cancer, and has now been free of it for more than five years. Before one of his nauseating chemo treatments, not knowing what else to do, I gave him a package of Hershey's Hugs; he liked that, too.
During my prep time, bits of the lively and compelling discussion from his Social Problems class would lead me to shirk my work and eavesdrop, especially on the day he had the maximum security prison guards as guest speakers. And, when the AP Gov class decorated the room for the holidays using a cardboard soldier, their own political cartoons and Christmas lights, it could be a tad distracting.
The past two years, his grade-school age grandson Austin came to his room almost every day after school so they could walk home together. Grandpa, or Pop, as Austin called him, helped him with his homework and spelling words while preparing his room for the following day of classes. Austin always visited my room to say "hi" and sometimes drew me pictures and filled me in on his school day.
After my son passed away five years ago, and this past year, my mother, Persnickety came to my room offering sentiments of compassion. We watched each others' guided studies and each others' backs (except for that one time in the hall.) Before he left he bestowed on me a few of his plants, including Ol' Betsy, a ten-foot cactus, and his podium, embellished with layers of stickers and student autographs and laden with 30-plus years of experience and memories.
He and his wife deserve the best of retirements. Now, every day will be a snow day, only without the snow.
All my handouts and supplies had to be on this cart, which, I must admit, forced me to be better organized than I am now. Too many places to stash things in a big room. A few years ago, one of my former students came back to observe my class as a part of his university requirement in preparation for becoming a teacher. When he arrived, I was pawing through piles of papers for a copy of the day's schedule to give him, and he said, "Still looking for stuff, huh, Mrs. Kies?"
During that year of the cart, one veteran teacher was very fussy and never failed to chastise me if a desk was out of place or a scrap of paper left on the floor. Daily, I scrambled to straighten the desks, erase the board, and pick up the room, only to have him glare at me as I headed off to my next classroom. I didn't know if it was me, or the idea of sharing his room that irritated him, but I came to think of him as Mr. Persnickety, and sometimes worse, depending.
When I went to full time and FINALLY got my own room in the new part of our school, guess who became my next-door neighbor.
At first, I avoided him whenever possible. Then, I began to pick up on his quirks. He taught three classes of freshman geography, and one of his winter traditions was to confide in them that school was being let out early because of an incoming snow or ice storm, "but don't tell anyone." Of course being freshmen, unless someone had filled them in (and who wanted to ruin the fun?), they swallowed the bait. They looked out the windows expectantly and knowingly, and spread the word, not suspecting they'd been horns waggled. This only works once per year, but Persnickety thought it good fun and a proper initiation, I guess.
Because I had been part time and did not eat lunch or spend time in the teacher's lounge, I had not realized that Persnickety used his perfected poker face for challenging the inexperienced "rookies," both students and faculty. It was his forte---his MO. After I became full time, I found out at lunch one day that he had told one of the other teachers during her first year that, as a new teacher, she wasn't supposed to go to the Christmas party; it was only for veterans. So, she didn't go.
"Don't believe anything this guy tells you," they said. Now they tell me.
OK, I get it. He's old school. He loves high-jinx and respects experience and chutzpah. One day in the teacher's lounge he was bragging about one of his pranks, and I referred to him as body part that rhymes with "flagpole." He roared with laughter. Loved it. I'd put a stamp on his preferred persona and mailed it back to him.
He retired this year, and I'm going to miss Persnickety more than I ever would have imagined. We've been through a lot the past fifteen years, sharing our stories and commiserations while watching traffic in the hall between classes. One day two girls were beating up on another one, and he intervened; one jumped on him in anger and hurt his back, and later that spring he had to go to court and testify in the matter. Somewhere in those years, he discovered he had cancer, and has now been free of it for more than five years. Before one of his nauseating chemo treatments, not knowing what else to do, I gave him a package of Hershey's Hugs; he liked that, too.
During my prep time, bits of the lively and compelling discussion from his Social Problems class would lead me to shirk my work and eavesdrop, especially on the day he had the maximum security prison guards as guest speakers. And, when the AP Gov class decorated the room for the holidays using a cardboard soldier, their own political cartoons and Christmas lights, it could be a tad distracting.
The past two years, his grade-school age grandson Austin came to his room almost every day after school so they could walk home together. Grandpa, or Pop, as Austin called him, helped him with his homework and spelling words while preparing his room for the following day of classes. Austin always visited my room to say "hi" and sometimes drew me pictures and filled me in on his school day.
After my son passed away five years ago, and this past year, my mother, Persnickety came to my room offering sentiments of compassion. We watched each others' guided studies and each others' backs (except for that one time in the hall.) Before he left he bestowed on me a few of his plants, including Ol' Betsy, a ten-foot cactus, and his podium, embellished with layers of stickers and student autographs and laden with 30-plus years of experience and memories.
He and his wife deserve the best of retirements. Now, every day will be a snow day, only without the snow.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Herman's Hermits Invade Again!
Last night I time traveled to being a young teenager again. Who would want to relive that time? The insecurity? The angst? The pimples?
I thought the same thing when I ordered tickets to see Herman's Hermits at the Mississippi Moon Bar at the Diamond Jo Casino in Dubuque last night. I talked my husband, and myself, into going: "I know, there'll be all these aging old fools like us who are trying to recapture the past, and, well, we know that just doesn't work. It'll be corny and silly. But, what the heck. Let's go and have fun."
He said he'd go. And, we did have fun.
In fact, I'm hoarse today from singing "I'm Henry the Eighth I am--- 'enery the eighth I am--I am/I got married to the widow next door/'n she's been married seven times before/'n every one was an 'enery ('enery!)/she wouldn't have a Willie or a Sam (No Sam!)/I'm 'er eighth ol' man I'm 'enery/'enery the eight I am. Second verse---same as the first---and yelling out H -- E -- N - R - Y at the end.
Sorry. Once a person begins, it's hard to stop.
What made the show fun was Herman's self-effacing humor: "Yes, I'd always dreamed of this. I called my Mum this morning to wish her a happy 86th birthday, and she asked me where I was. I told her, 'You'll never believe it, Mum. You'll be so proud. I'm playing tonight at the Mississippi Moon Bar in Dubuque, Iowa.'"
He said he gets to be seventeen every night, and he and the lads still get underwear thrown at them. "They're just a little bigger than they used to be is all."
In case you don't know this important era of rock, Herman of the Hermits is Peter Noone, originally from Manchester, England, was part of the British Invasion of the early 60s rock bands, along with boy bands like The Monkees, The Young Rascals, The Kinks, The Dave Clark Five, The Rolling Stones and, of course, The Beatles, and a host of other rockers with long hair and rebelious notions, or so my father thought.
"What is it with those long-haired British hoods? Why is everyone so hell-bent on giving them our money?" he'd say, as if threatened by their popularity. They were on our side in both world wars, I thought. I don't get it. He forbade me to buy any of their albums with my allowance, but I snuck a few into the house anyway, and I drew a picture of Herman that I still have in a box somewhere. Over time, Dad mellowed about this subject, but I can imagine his remarks about the autographed, Hermans Hermits t-shirt I'm wearing at this moment.
Young people need to have their own brand of music because it offers a protest to getting old. We all love the music we grew up on, and be assured my tastes have changed over the years. I like good music of all genres. Country is a little iffy, but I even like some of that, too. Still, I can't imagine being married to someone so much older, or younger, that he couldn't recognize and sing along with these tunes. And, yes, my husband sang along, too. We had a blast! (Do they still say that?)
There's nothing like the nostalgia of watching Peter Noone (can he really be 62?) singing live: "I'm Into Something Good," "Listen," "Sillouhettes," and "There's a Kind of Hush." Admittedly, somewhat bubble-gummy, these are some of the anthems of my coming of age. My recaptured youth, if only for a night.
When I was thirteen, I would have given anything to do what I did last night. After watching him sing, I shook Peter Noone's hand. Oh, the unexpected journeys of life!
I thought the same thing when I ordered tickets to see Herman's Hermits at the Mississippi Moon Bar at the Diamond Jo Casino in Dubuque last night. I talked my husband, and myself, into going: "I know, there'll be all these aging old fools like us who are trying to recapture the past, and, well, we know that just doesn't work. It'll be corny and silly. But, what the heck. Let's go and have fun."
He said he'd go. And, we did have fun.
In fact, I'm hoarse today from singing "I'm Henry the Eighth I am--- 'enery the eighth I am--I am/I got married to the widow next door/'n she's been married seven times before/'n every one was an 'enery ('enery!)/she wouldn't have a Willie or a Sam (No Sam!)/I'm 'er eighth ol' man I'm 'enery/'enery the eight I am. Second verse---same as the first---and yelling out H -- E -- N - R - Y at the end.
Sorry. Once a person begins, it's hard to stop.
What made the show fun was Herman's self-effacing humor: "Yes, I'd always dreamed of this. I called my Mum this morning to wish her a happy 86th birthday, and she asked me where I was. I told her, 'You'll never believe it, Mum. You'll be so proud. I'm playing tonight at the Mississippi Moon Bar in Dubuque, Iowa.'"
He said he gets to be seventeen every night, and he and the lads still get underwear thrown at them. "They're just a little bigger than they used to be is all."
In case you don't know this important era of rock, Herman of the Hermits is Peter Noone, originally from Manchester, England, was part of the British Invasion of the early 60s rock bands, along with boy bands like The Monkees, The Young Rascals, The Kinks, The Dave Clark Five, The Rolling Stones and, of course, The Beatles, and a host of other rockers with long hair and rebelious notions, or so my father thought.
"What is it with those long-haired British hoods? Why is everyone so hell-bent on giving them our money?" he'd say, as if threatened by their popularity. They were on our side in both world wars, I thought. I don't get it. He forbade me to buy any of their albums with my allowance, but I snuck a few into the house anyway, and I drew a picture of Herman that I still have in a box somewhere. Over time, Dad mellowed about this subject, but I can imagine his remarks about the autographed, Hermans Hermits t-shirt I'm wearing at this moment.
Young people need to have their own brand of music because it offers a protest to getting old. We all love the music we grew up on, and be assured my tastes have changed over the years. I like good music of all genres. Country is a little iffy, but I even like some of that, too. Still, I can't imagine being married to someone so much older, or younger, that he couldn't recognize and sing along with these tunes. And, yes, my husband sang along, too. We had a blast! (Do they still say that?)
There's nothing like the nostalgia of watching Peter Noone (can he really be 62?) singing live: "I'm Into Something Good," "Listen," "Sillouhettes," and "There's a Kind of Hush." Admittedly, somewhat bubble-gummy, these are some of the anthems of my coming of age. My recaptured youth, if only for a night.
When I was thirteen, I would have given anything to do what I did last night. After watching him sing, I shook Peter Noone's hand. Oh, the unexpected journeys of life!
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
M&Ms, anyone?
One thing most new teachers don't realize is the breadth of their job. Not only do you get to plan lessons, teach, correct papers, manage discipline, communicate with parents, attend meetings, and coach something, but your most demanding job will be as a supply clerk.
Yes, students will request just about every item needed for any school assignment or project: paper, folders, pens, pencils, sharpener, markers, colored pencils, construction paper, poster board, note cards, paper clips, glue, rubber cement, Scotch tape, masking tape, duct tape, stapler, three-hole punch, scissors, Post-its, erasers, paint brushes, etc. Jump drives and DVDs have become a popular request too, especially when a video project is due. Oh, and hats, wigs and costumes are in demand as well. And, let's not forget the extra books because they lost theirs.
Some students pride themselves in being able to successfully complete a day of school and not carry a thing. They walk from class to class, swinging their arms, no backpack, no nothing. And, sympathetic students and well-meaning teachers enable them to mooch.
Mind you, supplies do not only relate to school needs. I have been asked for money,finger nail clippers, nail files, lint rollers, dental floss, tampons, safety pins, band aids, rubbing alcohol, spot remover/ laundry stick, air freshener, cough drops, breath mints, gum, needle and thread, hand sanitizer, hair spray, mirror, tissues, paper towels, and the ever popular: hand lotion. (Note: free hand lotion samples from hotels work perfectly, as they can choose their favorite scent.)
What do they think we are, Wal Marts?
One student wondered if I had a phone charger so he could charge his phone in my room. Yeah, right.
And food. OMG! Whatever you do, don't feed them. Once they find out about your stash of Ritz Crackers, Tootsie Pops, M&Ms or whatever in your desk drawer or filing cabinet, they will stare you down and whine daily like shameless puppies, until you toss them a scrap.
And the best request, yet, though it wasn't for a supply, persay: "Mrs. Kies, can you give me your password so I can get into YouTube and show you and the class a funny video?"
Yes, they will ask for just about anything. So, new teacher, it's up to you to immediately set up the boundaries and decide how willing you are to supply them with things other than knowledge.
Yes, students will request just about every item needed for any school assignment or project: paper, folders, pens, pencils, sharpener, markers, colored pencils, construction paper, poster board, note cards, paper clips, glue, rubber cement, Scotch tape, masking tape, duct tape, stapler, three-hole punch, scissors, Post-its, erasers, paint brushes, etc. Jump drives and DVDs have become a popular request too, especially when a video project is due. Oh, and hats, wigs and costumes are in demand as well. And, let's not forget the extra books because they lost theirs.
Some students pride themselves in being able to successfully complete a day of school and not carry a thing. They walk from class to class, swinging their arms, no backpack, no nothing. And, sympathetic students and well-meaning teachers enable them to mooch.
Mind you, supplies do not only relate to school needs. I have been asked for money,finger nail clippers, nail files, lint rollers, dental floss, tampons, safety pins, band aids, rubbing alcohol, spot remover/ laundry stick, air freshener, cough drops, breath mints, gum, needle and thread, hand sanitizer, hair spray, mirror, tissues, paper towels, and the ever popular: hand lotion. (Note: free hand lotion samples from hotels work perfectly, as they can choose their favorite scent.)
What do they think we are, Wal Marts?
One student wondered if I had a phone charger so he could charge his phone in my room. Yeah, right.
And food. OMG! Whatever you do, don't feed them. Once they find out about your stash of Ritz Crackers, Tootsie Pops, M&Ms or whatever in your desk drawer or filing cabinet, they will stare you down and whine daily like shameless puppies, until you toss them a scrap.
And the best request, yet, though it wasn't for a supply, persay: "Mrs. Kies, can you give me your password so I can get into YouTube and show you and the class a funny video?"
Yes, they will ask for just about anything. So, new teacher, it's up to you to immediately set up the boundaries and decide how willing you are to supply them with things other than knowledge.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Hazy, Crazy, Lazy---at last!
Summer feels like waking up to a new day. Lots of them. Anything is possible! But, one has to complete a year of teaching to feel that utterly joyous exhileration of accomplishment and freedom.
I liken the school year to the nine months it takes to have a baby. Fall begins with limitless potential and antsy anticipation of great things to come, and I'm happy and priveleged to have signed the contract that allows me this opportunity to teach teenagers: the writing lesson I've been perfecting for 15 years, the sure-to-inspire reading technique I read about in The English Journal, and the organized computer files last year's student teacher created. (No more of my precious time spent looking for misplaced folders.)
Even the 1st quarter parent/teacher conferences cause my heart to beat faster, as parents and I conspire to turn their children on to the miraculous world of writing and reading. Pink or blue? Makes no difference.
In the second trimester, sticking to those organizational routines becomes a little troublesome, and I notice the piles have appeared on my window ledge and a stack of papers next to my computer. I'm feeling a little bogged down with the extra weight of morning meetings and Literary Magazine deadlines. At this stage, though I HATE cold weather, I consider myself fortunate to live in the magical Midwest where a zealous weather forecaster and reluctant school superindendent can work together and bless us with a SNOW DAY due to blizzard conditions. Instead of tackling tasks to get me ahead, though, I loll at home and catch up on rest, watching movies, and baking chocolate chip cookies. (One's appetite increases midway through a pregnancy.)
And, then there's the third trimester.
The downward---which feels like upward---slope to the end. After spring break, time slows to counting the weeks and days; and, if the weather turns nice early, like it did this year, look out, for summer fever sets in. Eighty degree temperatures tell the brain it's quitting time, and convincing it to continue to think and complete school tasks is a ponderous propostition.
And, after Memorial Day, each hour of labor is documented. It's time to get this baby outta here, and that's all there is to it!
Then, the overwhelming sensation of accomplishment and the jubilation of being done rejuvenates the exhausted body and mind. No papers to correct. No lessons to plan. No classroom to organize. Sheer and utter joy.
Until---the baby blues set in for a brief stay while adjusting to the weight loss. I miss the students, mourn their parting.
But, not for long.
My list of projects becomes feasible because I have TIME. Let's see---there's the picture for the living room I've been wanting to paint, the upstairs closet to clean, my mother's stuff in the garage to sort, the gardening, the endless list of books to read, and, of course, the writing to do and blog to write, just to name a few. Oh, and my teacher's license needs renewing by next summer, so I need to either take classes or finish my PDP, Professional Development Plan. Whew!
I'm sure I'll be glad when fall comes around again and I won't be faced with any more summer projects and vacations to plan, just another nine months of hatching.
Until then, a little deck sitting and tree watching seems in order.
I liken the school year to the nine months it takes to have a baby. Fall begins with limitless potential and antsy anticipation of great things to come, and I'm happy and priveleged to have signed the contract that allows me this opportunity to teach teenagers: the writing lesson I've been perfecting for 15 years, the sure-to-inspire reading technique I read about in The English Journal, and the organized computer files last year's student teacher created. (No more of my precious time spent looking for misplaced folders.)
Even the 1st quarter parent/teacher conferences cause my heart to beat faster, as parents and I conspire to turn their children on to the miraculous world of writing and reading. Pink or blue? Makes no difference.
In the second trimester, sticking to those organizational routines becomes a little troublesome, and I notice the piles have appeared on my window ledge and a stack of papers next to my computer. I'm feeling a little bogged down with the extra weight of morning meetings and Literary Magazine deadlines. At this stage, though I HATE cold weather, I consider myself fortunate to live in the magical Midwest where a zealous weather forecaster and reluctant school superindendent can work together and bless us with a SNOW DAY due to blizzard conditions. Instead of tackling tasks to get me ahead, though, I loll at home and catch up on rest, watching movies, and baking chocolate chip cookies. (One's appetite increases midway through a pregnancy.)
And, then there's the third trimester.
The downward---which feels like upward---slope to the end. After spring break, time slows to counting the weeks and days; and, if the weather turns nice early, like it did this year, look out, for summer fever sets in. Eighty degree temperatures tell the brain it's quitting time, and convincing it to continue to think and complete school tasks is a ponderous propostition.
And, after Memorial Day, each hour of labor is documented. It's time to get this baby outta here, and that's all there is to it!
Then, the overwhelming sensation of accomplishment and the jubilation of being done rejuvenates the exhausted body and mind. No papers to correct. No lessons to plan. No classroom to organize. Sheer and utter joy.
Until---the baby blues set in for a brief stay while adjusting to the weight loss. I miss the students, mourn their parting.
But, not for long.
My list of projects becomes feasible because I have TIME. Let's see---there's the picture for the living room I've been wanting to paint, the upstairs closet to clean, my mother's stuff in the garage to sort, the gardening, the endless list of books to read, and, of course, the writing to do and blog to write, just to name a few. Oh, and my teacher's license needs renewing by next summer, so I need to either take classes or finish my PDP, Professional Development Plan. Whew!
I'm sure I'll be glad when fall comes around again and I won't be faced with any more summer projects and vacations to plan, just another nine months of hatching.
Until then, a little deck sitting and tree watching seems in order.
Monday, May 31, 2010
The Penis Syndrome
I taught sophomores for 17 years, and as most teachers will attest, they not only learned from me, but I from them. One bizarre behavior I observed was that boys at that age were enamored by, proud of, or obsessed with their penises---to the max. They drew them on folders (not necessarily theirs), in books, on posters I had in the room (Shakespeare would have been thrilled with his endowment), on the board when I wasn't looking, or even when I was.
One year they nabbed my poster putty, the whitish gray sticky stuff I use to hang posters, and for several days I found tiny putty penis sculptures hanging indiscriminately throughout the room.
One would think that after sixteen years living with this body feature that they wouldn't be so hell-bent on displaying crude replicas. All males have them for heaven's sakes, and all females by this point know they have them. Are they reminding us or themselves? Is this a display of mature potency or male immaturity? (My vote is for the latter.)
In my 19 years of teaching, I've never once seen one girl draw anything resembling a vagina anywhere. When you think about it, wouldn't you think that boys would be drawing girls' vaginas instead of their own penises? There's probably some sex psychologist out there who knows the answer to this, but it surely is hard for me to understand.
When I switched to teaching juniors two years ago, I thought the whole penis syndrome would subside. And it has---somewhat. I no longer see penises all over the place, but every so often one pops up.
Take, last week. As a reward for reading, studying and giving my class their all, I took the AP class outside to fingerpaint. The educational connection was that we had studied movies and stories where water was the main theme, either in a romantic or realistic or naturalistic way: Hemingway's Old Man and the Sea, Melville's Moby Dick, Crane's "The Open Boat," and Norman Maclain's A River Runs Through It.
We took out the paints, water and paper and they went to work. Their objective was to make a piece of art by finger painting, and it had to have water in it. They had to be able to explain to the class whether their work represented romanticism, realism or naturalism and why.
It was cool to see students kneeling on the ground using the different colors, making different shapes, and getting their hands into the mess. As I walked around and looked at the creations, I noticed Matt was making a big gray whale whose fins were suspiciously round, and whose smile was suspiciously positioned at the end of the big whale in just the right place to look like---Moby Dick, literally.
And just when I thought boys matured by the time they became juniors. (Deep sigh!) Thanks, Matt.
One year they nabbed my poster putty, the whitish gray sticky stuff I use to hang posters, and for several days I found tiny putty penis sculptures hanging indiscriminately throughout the room.
One would think that after sixteen years living with this body feature that they wouldn't be so hell-bent on displaying crude replicas. All males have them for heaven's sakes, and all females by this point know they have them. Are they reminding us or themselves? Is this a display of mature potency or male immaturity? (My vote is for the latter.)
In my 19 years of teaching, I've never once seen one girl draw anything resembling a vagina anywhere. When you think about it, wouldn't you think that boys would be drawing girls' vaginas instead of their own penises? There's probably some sex psychologist out there who knows the answer to this, but it surely is hard for me to understand.
When I switched to teaching juniors two years ago, I thought the whole penis syndrome would subside. And it has---somewhat. I no longer see penises all over the place, but every so often one pops up.
Take, last week. As a reward for reading, studying and giving my class their all, I took the AP class outside to fingerpaint. The educational connection was that we had studied movies and stories where water was the main theme, either in a romantic or realistic or naturalistic way: Hemingway's Old Man and the Sea, Melville's Moby Dick, Crane's "The Open Boat," and Norman Maclain's A River Runs Through It.
We took out the paints, water and paper and they went to work. Their objective was to make a piece of art by finger painting, and it had to have water in it. They had to be able to explain to the class whether their work represented romanticism, realism or naturalism and why.
It was cool to see students kneeling on the ground using the different colors, making different shapes, and getting their hands into the mess. As I walked around and looked at the creations, I noticed Matt was making a big gray whale whose fins were suspiciously round, and whose smile was suspiciously positioned at the end of the big whale in just the right place to look like---Moby Dick, literally.
And just when I thought boys matured by the time they became juniors. (Deep sigh!) Thanks, Matt.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Readin' Write
Been readin' a lot lately, that is, compared to what I usually get done during the school year. Need to get writin' now, too.
Every time I get into a book I like, I get inspired to write a book like that book. I remember reading The Shipping News by Annie Prouilx and get sucked in by the the non-pretty, but alluring characters and charmed by the illustrations of little knots at the the beginning of each chapter.
I was writing a novel at the time called Closing Words about a woman who gets raped and identifies the wrong man, and I got the idea to begin each chapter with a different postage stamp because each chapter alluded to closing words from a letter or note, e.g. always, sincerely, etc. I sent for a brochure from the Postal Service which had pictures of every kind of stamp one could order, and my plan was to choose one that was symbolic for the closing words or the chapter. The novel is finished, but the postage stamp idea? Didn't quite happen.
Most of the time I don't even get the writing finished because I'm on to reading another book that inspires me in a different direction. Last summer I began a series of essays about teaching because I was romanced by Michael Perry's Population 485. It's my goal to finish those this summer.
But, I recently met fictional Olive Kitteridge thanks to Elizabeth Strout, and went to Italy, India and Indonesia to Eat, Pray, Love with Liz Gilbert. Both deposited some fine, rich starting soil over my ideas, so now I need to plant and water them so they grow into fine, strong stories. And, this morning I did yesterday's paper's cryptoquote puzzle, and it was by Albert Einstein: "Science without religion is lame; religion without science is blind." Hmmm. Have to be blind not to see some writin' potential in that topic.
So many ideas---so little time!
As the end of the school year winds up, I find myself tired but inspired. This summer I will make a list and check the piece off when I'm finished. Yes. This summer I will write everything I ever wanted to write and finish everything I start!
I suppose I should put blogging on that list. Right, AZ?
Every time I get into a book I like, I get inspired to write a book like that book. I remember reading The Shipping News by Annie Prouilx and get sucked in by the the non-pretty, but alluring characters and charmed by the illustrations of little knots at the the beginning of each chapter.
I was writing a novel at the time called Closing Words about a woman who gets raped and identifies the wrong man, and I got the idea to begin each chapter with a different postage stamp because each chapter alluded to closing words from a letter or note, e.g. always, sincerely, etc. I sent for a brochure from the Postal Service which had pictures of every kind of stamp one could order, and my plan was to choose one that was symbolic for the closing words or the chapter. The novel is finished, but the postage stamp idea? Didn't quite happen.
Most of the time I don't even get the writing finished because I'm on to reading another book that inspires me in a different direction. Last summer I began a series of essays about teaching because I was romanced by Michael Perry's Population 485. It's my goal to finish those this summer.
But, I recently met fictional Olive Kitteridge thanks to Elizabeth Strout, and went to Italy, India and Indonesia to Eat, Pray, Love with Liz Gilbert. Both deposited some fine, rich starting soil over my ideas, so now I need to plant and water them so they grow into fine, strong stories. And, this morning I did yesterday's paper's cryptoquote puzzle, and it was by Albert Einstein: "Science without religion is lame; religion without science is blind." Hmmm. Have to be blind not to see some writin' potential in that topic.
So many ideas---so little time!
As the end of the school year winds up, I find myself tired but inspired. This summer I will make a list and check the piece off when I'm finished. Yes. This summer I will write everything I ever wanted to write and finish everything I start!
I suppose I should put blogging on that list. Right, AZ?
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Mom
Three weeks ago today I last saw my mother the way I want to remember her: smiling, hugging, joking, walking, driving.
She was 87, spunky, stubborn, and endearing, and a stroke or a fall, we're not sure which event came first, ended her earthly term as my mother. Many of her words and actions, however, will be with me until my time comes---and live on after, for I know I have already passed her on.
One of my coworkers said when his mother died he felt like an orphan. He was right. There is nothing like Mom. She was always pro-ME. Her honesty was brutal, especially in her later years, but I always knew she was in my corner.
The other day I called the telephone company to cancel the number I memorized as soon as I could talk. That number has been my "911" for as long as I can remember. As I cried on the phone, the lady on the other end politely offered her sympathy, but I found it ridiculous to try and relate to her why a phone number should mean so much. Lately, Mom and I had talked every day, and almost every evening I forget and think I should call and see how she's doing.
My daughter asked me about my favorite Mom memory, and it came to me in pages turning. "The Little Mailman of Bayberry Lane," "The Little Majorette," "Little Black Sambo," and "Hiawatha." Hardly politically correct by today's standards, these stories and the time she spent reading to me piqued my love of the sharing words and language and ideas. Thank you, Mom.
She had a beautiful smile and loved to laugh. Pictures of her when she was young portray the image of a woman with wavy, brown hair, and eyes filled with the anticipation of life and adventure. We pretended to believe her when she shared stories of daily evening motorcycle rides with friends and the dances and proms she went to in high school. She had to be making this up or talking about someone else, we thought. She could never have been that young.
She cut her own grass and trimmed bushes until she was 84 years old. She was the kind of mother who took good care of herself so her children didn't have to. She was proud and determined to be independent. Last year when she moved to an apartment, she lost some of her spark. Her ability to hear was waning, as was her ability to get around, and she was nostalgic about the days when she used to go for a three-mile walk every day.
She had lived a full life and was "ready to go," she said on several occasions, probably, more than anything, to get us ready for her passing. She was tired and ready for a rest, she said.
I hope her life fulfilled the dreams of her youth.
Love ya and miss ya, Ma!
(RIP: Wilma Mary Ackerman Benda Leamy/11-15-22 to 3-18-10)
She was 87, spunky, stubborn, and endearing, and a stroke or a fall, we're not sure which event came first, ended her earthly term as my mother. Many of her words and actions, however, will be with me until my time comes---and live on after, for I know I have already passed her on.
One of my coworkers said when his mother died he felt like an orphan. He was right. There is nothing like Mom. She was always pro-ME. Her honesty was brutal, especially in her later years, but I always knew she was in my corner.
The other day I called the telephone company to cancel the number I memorized as soon as I could talk. That number has been my "911" for as long as I can remember. As I cried on the phone, the lady on the other end politely offered her sympathy, but I found it ridiculous to try and relate to her why a phone number should mean so much. Lately, Mom and I had talked every day, and almost every evening I forget and think I should call and see how she's doing.
My daughter asked me about my favorite Mom memory, and it came to me in pages turning. "The Little Mailman of Bayberry Lane," "The Little Majorette," "Little Black Sambo," and "Hiawatha." Hardly politically correct by today's standards, these stories and the time she spent reading to me piqued my love of the sharing words and language and ideas. Thank you, Mom.
She had a beautiful smile and loved to laugh. Pictures of her when she was young portray the image of a woman with wavy, brown hair, and eyes filled with the anticipation of life and adventure. We pretended to believe her when she shared stories of daily evening motorcycle rides with friends and the dances and proms she went to in high school. She had to be making this up or talking about someone else, we thought. She could never have been that young.
She cut her own grass and trimmed bushes until she was 84 years old. She was the kind of mother who took good care of herself so her children didn't have to. She was proud and determined to be independent. Last year when she moved to an apartment, she lost some of her spark. Her ability to hear was waning, as was her ability to get around, and she was nostalgic about the days when she used to go for a three-mile walk every day.
She had lived a full life and was "ready to go," she said on several occasions, probably, more than anything, to get us ready for her passing. She was tired and ready for a rest, she said.
I hope her life fulfilled the dreams of her youth.
Love ya and miss ya, Ma!
(RIP: Wilma Mary Ackerman Benda Leamy/11-15-22 to 3-18-10)
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Spring is Springing?
Every year at this time, students come out of their shells---not like snails peeking out, but like nuts cracking open.
Could be the weather.
Though there is still a foot or so of snow on the ground here in 'sconsin, the air has changed. In "Walden" Thoreau describes the coming of spring as a "memorable crisis." Anybody who works in a school knows what he means. Spring break, prom, and graduation are monopolizing everyone's minds---while the looming AP tests, the ACT and final exams are not yet in any acknowledged realm of existence.
Could also be that students have become accustomed to me and know my limits, so they feel comfortable extending them a bit.
One of my rules at the beginning of the year is not to write on the white board with my markers without asking first. Last week I hid the markers because one day the front board became a grafitti wall. Colorful and school appropriate though it was, with alligators and penguins and messages to other classmates, it used up a lot of marker juice and took awhile to clean. And, even worse, now that students have discovered that I'm not a Disney fan---silly, obnoxious Disney characters, princesses and such rot, regularly surface on my board like shiny, smiling, smarmy worms after a summer rain.
Last week I handed back papers, and Chris said to me, "Mrs. Kies, what's this?" I went to his desk, thinking he was disgruntled over a quiz score or something. "See?" He pointed at the top of his paper. "Yeah? It's a smiley face. You too old for those, or something?" "But, Mrs. Kies. That's mean." I asked, "What are you talking about, Chris?" "What are you doing giving me a one-eyed smiley face? See?" He pointed again. The class laughed and I turned red when I finally got what he was implying. "Real funny, Chris," I said.
The ensuing conversation revealed that he had lost his eye at age nine when the hooked end of a bungee cord struck him smack in the face. Of course, he told the rest of his classmates at lunch that I had given him a one-eyed smiley face, and I was plagued with jabs for the two afternoon classes.
One student in my AP class has hardly said a word all year. Not even to complain about quizzes or reading assignments. Lately, however, he pipes up regularly saying things like all the authors and characters in our women's unit were "crazy ladies" and that One Hundred Years of Solitude consists mainly of beastiality and incest. Though he's got a point, I find his sudden urge to spout these comments after months of quiet compliance somewhat weird.
Gotta be the cracking of the pond from the longer days and increased sunlight that Thoreau described. Or, hormones maybe? Ah, the topic of my next blog.
Could be the weather.
Though there is still a foot or so of snow on the ground here in 'sconsin, the air has changed. In "Walden" Thoreau describes the coming of spring as a "memorable crisis." Anybody who works in a school knows what he means. Spring break, prom, and graduation are monopolizing everyone's minds---while the looming AP tests, the ACT and final exams are not yet in any acknowledged realm of existence.
Could also be that students have become accustomed to me and know my limits, so they feel comfortable extending them a bit.
One of my rules at the beginning of the year is not to write on the white board with my markers without asking first. Last week I hid the markers because one day the front board became a grafitti wall. Colorful and school appropriate though it was, with alligators and penguins and messages to other classmates, it used up a lot of marker juice and took awhile to clean. And, even worse, now that students have discovered that I'm not a Disney fan---silly, obnoxious Disney characters, princesses and such rot, regularly surface on my board like shiny, smiling, smarmy worms after a summer rain.
Last week I handed back papers, and Chris said to me, "Mrs. Kies, what's this?" I went to his desk, thinking he was disgruntled over a quiz score or something. "See?" He pointed at the top of his paper. "Yeah? It's a smiley face. You too old for those, or something?" "But, Mrs. Kies. That's mean." I asked, "What are you talking about, Chris?" "What are you doing giving me a one-eyed smiley face? See?" He pointed again. The class laughed and I turned red when I finally got what he was implying. "Real funny, Chris," I said.
The ensuing conversation revealed that he had lost his eye at age nine when the hooked end of a bungee cord struck him smack in the face. Of course, he told the rest of his classmates at lunch that I had given him a one-eyed smiley face, and I was plagued with jabs for the two afternoon classes.
One student in my AP class has hardly said a word all year. Not even to complain about quizzes or reading assignments. Lately, however, he pipes up regularly saying things like all the authors and characters in our women's unit were "crazy ladies" and that One Hundred Years of Solitude consists mainly of beastiality and incest. Though he's got a point, I find his sudden urge to spout these comments after months of quiet compliance somewhat weird.
Gotta be the cracking of the pond from the longer days and increased sunlight that Thoreau described. Or, hormones maybe? Ah, the topic of my next blog.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Teaching Trials
Part of the women's literature unit that I teach in AP Language and Composition consists of students performing a mock trial based on the play by Susan Glaspell called Trifles, also written as a short story called "A Jury of her Peers."
Well, this year's trial took the cake---really the doughnut. Let me explain.
I give the play to the five characters to read so they know who they're supposed to be and what they are supposed to know. This year the prosecution team got a bit overzealous and looked up the play on line and found out some things they normally wouldn't know if they obtained their information "legally" by interviewing and questioning the witnesses. That darned Internet!
But, the trial really came together, and everyone played his or her part magnificently. The two judges, who in other years needed some coaching throughout the trial, knew exactly what to do and how to proceed because they had actually read the packet on court room procedures I had given them. They were so believeable I felt GUILTY for laughing at the young man who played the Sheriff, whose outfit was outta here (Afro wig, plaid shirt, and leather stars and stripes vest), and so was his testimony, referring to a significant others as "honey bunnies" and insinuating he was prone to having accidents in his pants at the sight of blood.
All the while the characters were on the stand dressed in period clothes (thanks to the costume design crew) proficiently proclaiming the facts of the case, the two bailiffs were stuffing their faces with powdered sugar doughnuts, their mouths smeared in white like the people who do the milk commericials, only all the way around, not just delicately on the upper lip.
On a dramatic note, the attorneys knew their stuff and asked poignant questions that made some witnesses squirm, like the defendent who sought the mercy of the jury through tears and irratic sewing, and the farmer who blurted out an unrecognizeable phrase our of sheer panic.
I know. Sounds crazy. But, if you read the play, the trial would have made sense---mostly---except for the end where the bailiff got stabbed over a doughnut.
OK, so it was crazy---in a very good way. Students learned the basics of courtroom trial procedures, successful cooperative planning, character portrayal, improvising, debating, and doughnut dunking. (Hot chocolate was available after the performance.)
Well, this year's trial took the cake---really the doughnut. Let me explain.
I give the play to the five characters to read so they know who they're supposed to be and what they are supposed to know. This year the prosecution team got a bit overzealous and looked up the play on line and found out some things they normally wouldn't know if they obtained their information "legally" by interviewing and questioning the witnesses. That darned Internet!
But, the trial really came together, and everyone played his or her part magnificently. The two judges, who in other years needed some coaching throughout the trial, knew exactly what to do and how to proceed because they had actually read the packet on court room procedures I had given them. They were so believeable I felt GUILTY for laughing at the young man who played the Sheriff, whose outfit was outta here (Afro wig, plaid shirt, and leather stars and stripes vest), and so was his testimony, referring to a significant others as "honey bunnies" and insinuating he was prone to having accidents in his pants at the sight of blood.
All the while the characters were on the stand dressed in period clothes (thanks to the costume design crew) proficiently proclaiming the facts of the case, the two bailiffs were stuffing their faces with powdered sugar doughnuts, their mouths smeared in white like the people who do the milk commericials, only all the way around, not just delicately on the upper lip.
On a dramatic note, the attorneys knew their stuff and asked poignant questions that made some witnesses squirm, like the defendent who sought the mercy of the jury through tears and irratic sewing, and the farmer who blurted out an unrecognizeable phrase our of sheer panic.
I know. Sounds crazy. But, if you read the play, the trial would have made sense---mostly---except for the end where the bailiff got stabbed over a doughnut.
OK, so it was crazy---in a very good way. Students learned the basics of courtroom trial procedures, successful cooperative planning, character portrayal, improvising, debating, and doughnut dunking. (Hot chocolate was available after the performance.)
Sunday, January 24, 2010
MAPs are our Friends
Got paid to attend a seminar at school yesterday. It was on interpreting and implementing the data we get from our MAPs testing, which we do with freshmen through juniors every spring and fall. Sounds like fun, huh?
MAPs (I know I should remember, but I forgot what the acronym stands for) are tests which students take on the computer, which zero in on their skills and aptitudes in Math, English and Science. When the student answers a question correctly, the questions get progressively harder.
In the past, we have recorded the scores and done nothing with them. This seminar has provided us with some resources to help us evaluate the data critically so we can see the possible gaps in students' learning so we can fill in the missing pieces of their education by creating "learning ladders." I did like how the program gave a suggested reading list in the student's lexile range. More reading---makes sense to me.
The whole thing sounds great in theory. Finding the time to do this, not too realisitic.
"Maps are our friends" is the mantra of our geography teacher. I doubt he was talking about MAPs, the test.
Weird: I've noticed when a group of teachers get together to take a class, we become our students. Though we may get disgusted with the chronicly late student, the one who asks all the questions, the talkative ones, the clown, and the ones who don't quite get the directions the first time, we become a class of those exact students. OK, maybe not the one who throws a wad of paper across the room only to miss the wastebasket, but we certainly are not the model students that we say we want in our classroom. And, I notice by the end of the day, we become our last hour class, watching the clock and trying to get out of the last fifteen minutes of work.
We did refrain from bunching by the door like a herd of mooing cows, waiting to be let out of the barn. Just barely, though.
MAPs (I know I should remember, but I forgot what the acronym stands for) are tests which students take on the computer, which zero in on their skills and aptitudes in Math, English and Science. When the student answers a question correctly, the questions get progressively harder.
In the past, we have recorded the scores and done nothing with them. This seminar has provided us with some resources to help us evaluate the data critically so we can see the possible gaps in students' learning so we can fill in the missing pieces of their education by creating "learning ladders." I did like how the program gave a suggested reading list in the student's lexile range. More reading---makes sense to me.
The whole thing sounds great in theory. Finding the time to do this, not too realisitic.
"Maps are our friends" is the mantra of our geography teacher. I doubt he was talking about MAPs, the test.
Weird: I've noticed when a group of teachers get together to take a class, we become our students. Though we may get disgusted with the chronicly late student, the one who asks all the questions, the talkative ones, the clown, and the ones who don't quite get the directions the first time, we become a class of those exact students. OK, maybe not the one who throws a wad of paper across the room only to miss the wastebasket, but we certainly are not the model students that we say we want in our classroom. And, I notice by the end of the day, we become our last hour class, watching the clock and trying to get out of the last fifteen minutes of work.
We did refrain from bunching by the door like a herd of mooing cows, waiting to be let out of the barn. Just barely, though.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Here's to New Beginnings
I'm back! I must have needed a break.
Can't wait for this week! It's 1st semester exam week! Yippee!
Should I tally how many students approach me about what they can do to raise their grade? (I'll resist telling them to time travel back 18 weeks---and this time try doing their work.)
Shall I count how many students come to me five minutes after taking their final exam to see what they got and what their final grade is? (I'll resist telling them to ---well, let's just leave it that I'll resist.)
Yes, exam time. Students cram. Teachers grade 'til their eyeballs crack from dry air and not blinking. And, everybody is a bit---sometimes a lot---testy. (pun intended)
But, the good thing is students get half an hour between each exam and an open campus lunch. That can make even an Algebra II test worth taking.
Teachers look forward to a new semester and a fresh start hoping that the students who didn't do their work the first semester will have learned. And, even more hopeful we are that the students who DID do their work have learned.
Hope. The thing with feathers that perches in the soul and sings. Thank you Emily D.
Can't wait for this week! It's 1st semester exam week! Yippee!
Should I tally how many students approach me about what they can do to raise their grade? (I'll resist telling them to time travel back 18 weeks---and this time try doing their work.)
Shall I count how many students come to me five minutes after taking their final exam to see what they got and what their final grade is? (I'll resist telling them to ---well, let's just leave it that I'll resist.)
Yes, exam time. Students cram. Teachers grade 'til their eyeballs crack from dry air and not blinking. And, everybody is a bit---sometimes a lot---testy. (pun intended)
But, the good thing is students get half an hour between each exam and an open campus lunch. That can make even an Algebra II test worth taking.
Teachers look forward to a new semester and a fresh start hoping that the students who didn't do their work the first semester will have learned. And, even more hopeful we are that the students who DID do their work have learned.
Hope. The thing with feathers that perches in the soul and sings. Thank you Emily D.
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