Angel Teacher

“I’m having withdrawals.  You haven’t posted a story in over a week.  Are you okay?” says a message on my computer.

That is the way I get greeted some mornings as I sit in front of the screen holding my coffee cup.

I respond that “I’ve been away on vacation.” or more likely “I’m fine but I have nothing to say this week.”

Readers shouldn’t get too nervous.  I don’t go off on a vacation all that often.  And, those that know me well will tell you that I most often have plenty to say.

Anything can set me off.  I think there is nothing to write about today.  I might as well do something about that mountain of dirty towels.  And, then the bus pulls up outside of my dining room window.

Here comes a week of teacher stories.

I had some wonderful teachers.  My children also had some memorable teachers as well.

I didn’t haunt the hallways when my kids were in school.  I didn’t press my nose to the window to see how they were faring.  But, I was present.  I introduced myself during the early days.  I had lunch with my kids once in a while in the school cafeteria.  Yes, on purpose.

I was asked to be “Home Room Mother” by a lot of those teachers.  I made lots of cupcakes. I ran roller skating parties. I organized book fairs.  I helped costume the multitudes for school plays.   I went on lots of outings that involved school buses and lunch boxes.  All those teachers had my number and they used it.

It started with my daughter’s first grade teacher.

We moved here during the summer.  My daughter had attended only half day kindergarten classes in a different state.  This had me worried.

I called over to her new school to co-ordinate bringing in her birth certificate and immunization records.  I spoke with the school secretary on the phone.  This was the lady that ran that place.  I think the Principal did her bidding.  She was a little scary.  Especially when she was on the phone.

Her speech patterns were very like listening to a machine gun going off.

I took my kids with me when I dropped off the paper work at the school.  The secretary was nicer in person even though she still barked at us.  I told her I was a little nervous that half day kindergarten had not fully prepared my daughter for first grade.

“Does she know her letters, her numbers, her colors?  Is she potty trained? ” she blurted at me.

“Yes, she knows all of that.  We’re working on her new address and phone number now.  Potty trained?  Of course.  She’s six years old for heaven’s sake.” I answered.

“Then she’s going to be a star!” said the secretary.  “Hey, listen.  I’m going to put her into Mrs. C’s class.  She’s in the building right now setting up her classroom before she heads off to her cottage for a month.  Go on down and say hello.  Put your mind at rest.  Enjoy your summer without worry.”

Turns out the secretary was a very nice woman.  A woman with no time for crap.  She had no time to take breaths between sentences.

So, we visited my daughter’s new classroom and met her very nice teacher.

My daughter loved everything about her new school.  She loved riding the yellow bus.  The kids.  Her classroom.  Lunches.  The playground. Especially, her teacher.  It was all good.

Winter came and the snow.

The phone rang one day.  It was my daughter’s teacher.

“I need your help.” she said.  “I need your help with a little subterfuge.  How good are you at lying in front of a bunch of kids?”

I laughed.  She was serious.

“Well, this sounds intriguing.  I’m not normally a liar but I suppose I could pull off a good one if there is a decent reason.” I replied.

She explained that the playground was very snowy.  The little kids loved playing out there in the cold and the snow.  I knew this.  We had been asked to send in a snow suit and boots to be left at the school.  This woman didn’t hide from the weather.  She had a rack in the furnace room where she helped over twenty kids in and out of snowsuits and boots.  Every day.

I hope she remembered to have them pee first.  You know how that goes.

Ir seems that one little girl in the class was growing and growing.  I had noticed the little girl that stood a head over the rest.  The teacher just could not stuff her into her snowsuit any longer.  She had also outgrown her boots.

She  knew this little girl’s home situation.  She wasn’t about to call there and ask them to buy all new stuff.

“For the past few days I’ve had to leave her with the school nurse while I take the rest of them out to play in the snow.  The lost and found had nothing to fit her.  That’s usually my first answer when I have this kind of problem.  So, I bought her a new snow suit and boots.  But, I can’t give them to her.  It’s against the rules here.  I just can’t leave that poor little soul behind anymore.  I just can’t. I can’t take it.  It’s breaking my heart.” she explained in a loud whisper.

“So……………what do you need me to do?” I whispered back.

“Can you come and get your girl today?  Give her a ride home instead of me putting her on the bus?” she asked as she explained her conspiracy.

“Sure.  I can do that.” I answered.

“Good.  You hang back and talk talk talk at me.  Like you usually do.  Be the last to leave.  I’ll hand you a bag.  You throw it into your trunk.  Take it out tonight and have your girl try it on.  It’ll be huge on her.  Make some remark about not knowing where the receipt is.  That sort of thing.” she said.

“Why am I involving my daughter in this?” I asked.

“Because!  She can’t know!  I’m not asking a little kid to keep a secret like this.” she answered.

“Oh, okay.  Got it.” I said.

“Then tomorrow morning you bring in your daughter and the bag.  You just tell me in normal conversation at the desk that you have this snowsuit and boots.  You can’t return them.  You hope that I know someone that can use them.  And, then I’ll take it from there.” she finished.

We pulled that one off nicely.  Though………….I don’t think we fooled my daughter for an instant.  She’s a smart one.  And, a kind one.  She never said a word to that other little girl I’m sure.

Towards the end of the school year the phone rang again.

I recognized the whisper right away.

“Okay.  Here we go again.” said the teacher.  “I need a big favor.  What are you doing about one o’clock tomorrow afternoon?”

“I don’t know.  What am I doing about one o’clock tomorrow afternoon.” I asked in my best spy voice.

“You’re going to the bakery in town.  You’re going to pick up a big tray of cupcakes.  They won’t be in boxes.  I asked them to make it look like a tray of cupcakes made by a mom.  You’re going to deliver them to my classroom.  You were just in the mood to bake and didn’t know what to do with all these cupcakes.” she confided in me.

“Oh, I always know what to do with cupcakes.” I laughed.

“Darlene.  Cut the crap.  I’m on my break here.  I only have three more minutes before that bell rings.” she begged.

“Okay.  Crap cut.  Sorry.” I answered.

“This little girl…………well her kindergarten teacher told me that she was the only one last year ………….whose Mom didn’t bring something in for her birthday to share.  The woman works three jobs.  So, you are going to be in the mood to bake.  Got it?  One o’clock.  Bakery.”

“Got it.” I said.

“Good.” she said as she hung up.

 

 

 

 

 

 

My First Valentine

You remember Valentine’s Day in grammar school.

Teacher sent home a list with all the children’s names listed in alphabetical order.  Mom bought you a box of Valentines with their tiny little envelopes.  An evening was spent writing out these cards and addressing the envelopes.  There was a rule.  A Valentine for everyone.  Whether you liked them or not.

I always thought that rule defeated the idea behind Valentine’s Day.  But, grammar school was a democracy.

I would sit at the kitchen table and separate the cards out.  The “Be Mine” cards would be given to kids that I actually cared for.  My mother took to buying me two boxes of cards.  She knew my history of crossing words out.  Or adding them.

I might change a card that said “You’re the Best” to “You’re the Best One Day A Year.” “My Heart Belongs To You” would have “Not In A Million Years” added to it.  I wasn’t allowed to put anything into a sealed envelope that she hadn’t checked.

I had a boyfriend in second grade.  Yes, I started early.  It was his idea not mine.  Taylor was my desk mate.  We sat two by two in that classroom.  I don’t know how we were paired up.  When it came to reading …………Taylor was glad I sat next to him.  When it came to math……..I was very glad to have him at my side.

Taylor must have discussed having a girlfriend with his mother.  She must have told him to keep his lips and his hands to himself.  She must have told him to use his words.  Never a day went by where he didn’t tell me how pretty I looked.  He took to pulling my chair out for me in the classroom.  Teacher found this amusing.  She hid her smiles behind her hand.

Teacher changed it up once in a while.  She moved people around.  But, she never split up the couple that was Darlene and Taylor.  I suppose she didn’t want us to look longingly across the room for each other instead of listening to her in class.  Smart woman.

Taylor invited me to his birthday party.  I was dropped off at his house.  It was a huge Victorian with many entrances.  My mother rang the doorbell and handed me off to a pretty lady.

This was a family birthday party.  Taylor had brothers and sisters.  I seemed to be the only one there without his last name.  We ate pizza and cake and then we were left to our own devices.  A very long game of hide and seek took up the rest of the afternoon.

I lived in a small house so playing hide and seek in such a huge place was special.  I suppose that’s why I remember it so well.  I also remember it because of the scare that Taylor gave me.

He had me hide in a downstairs closet full of coats and boots.  He told me he’d be back in a minute.  I was starting to feel a little claustrophobic when I heard my name being whispered over my head.  It was a spooky little voice.

I looked up and a face hung down over my head.  It was illuminated with a flash light.  I jumped a foot and squeaked out a little scream.  Then I heard Taylor laughing and telling me not to be afraid.  It seems one or two floor boards were loose in that over head closet.  He hung down and said Boo a half a dozen times.  I gave him a little scream each time.  We both ended up laughing it up.  His mother had by this time opened the closet door to “save me”.  I told her it was alright and she closed it up again.

Valentine’s Day rolled around.  None of these little scraps of cardboard were deemed good enough for Taylor.  My father brought me to the Hallmark store where he helped me pick out a card.  He kept me away from cards that were a little too romantic.  He kept me away from cards with silhouettes of couples walking on the beach.  I seem to remember a brown puppy inside of a big heart.  Daddy did good.

On Valentine’s morning I found a bag on the kitchen table.  Inside were a bunch of brand new erasers.  My parents had bought me erasers instead of candy.  I think this must have had something to do with the last dentist bill.  I put the largest eraser aside.  It was in the shape of a heart.  This one would be for Taylor.

Taylor had only one bad habit that I remember.  We used soft pencils in second grade. Instead of using an eraser……..he would wet his forefinger and scrub away at his mistakes.  His papers weren’t usually a big old mess.  He didn’t make that many mistakes.  But, when he did?  The papers he turned in were a smudged up mess.

On Valentine’s Day we made the rounds with our cards.  Taylor gave me a regular boxed Valentine.  But, he also gave me a big sugar cookie in the shape of a heart.  I split it with him.

He seemed to like his new eraser quite a bit.  He liked it so much he wouldn’t use it.  He didn’t want to wear the edges off of it.  He didn’t want to get it dirty.  He sat his new eraser on the corner of his desk where he would just pet it once in a while.  His papers continued to be a smudged up mess.

The end of the school year eventually came.  We shook hands and said see you in September.  That wasn’t to be.  The next year I couldn’t find him anywhere.  He wasn’t in my class.  I didn’t see him in the hallways.  He was no where to be found in the cafeteria.

I told my mother that I couldn’t find Taylor anywhere.  She must have called the school.  She told me a few days later that Taylor and his family had moved.  She thought they had gone to East Hartford.

I thought he should have at least said good-bye.  I hated East Hartford.  And all the little girls that lived there.

Ten years went by.

My girlfriends dragged me to a football game up at the high school.  I wasn’t a fan of the game or sitting around on bleachers freezing my butt off.  My group ended up walking around just to keep warm.  I ignored little bottles of peppermint schnappes and brandy that came out of pockets.

I was counting down the minutes until we could get out of there.

A girlfriend nudged me.

“That boy over there keeps staring at you.” she told me.

“Where?  Who?” I asked.

We played the “don’t look now” game for a few minutes.  She finally said “Okay, look now.  He’s wearing a blue coat.  He’s tall with blonde hair.  There’s a girl hanging all over him.  Look now.”

So, I looked.  And, I looked.  He wasn’t familiar to me.  But, he was.  I looked too long I suppose trying to figure out where I knew him from.  The girl that was draped across him glared at me.  That’s when he looked over at me.  He smiled.  And, he smiled some more.

The girl punched him in the arm.

He unwrapped himself from the girl.  He spoke a few words to her.  I think he actually pointed to the ground and told her to “Stay!”

I turned around and stared at the football game that I had no interest in.  I shook my head in disgust.  Some girls.  No self respect.  You’ll never find me throwing myself all over a boy like that.  Even when they are that good looking.  Even when it’s this cold outside.

I felt someone standing next to me.  I looked up into the boy’s handsome face.

“Hello.  Darlene?”  he said as he looked down at me.

Boy, was he tall.  I could see the girl bouncing around on the balls of her feet back there.  She was cold without her man.  She glared at me.  And, glared some more.  If looks could kill I’d be dead.

“Hi.” I said.  “I don’t know who you are……….but I hope you can keep that girl friend of yours under control.  Do you think it’s a good idea to even say hello to a strange girl at a football game with that one on your arm?  She looks lethal.”

Then it occurred to me that he knew my name.

“Sorry, do we know each other?” I asked.

” I can’t stay long.  For obvious reasons.  I just wanted to say that I’m sorry that I never got a chance to say goodbye.  And, that you’re as pretty as I remember you.” said the boy. “I missed you for a very long time. I still have that eraser.”

“Taylor?” I asked.

I threw my arms around him and we did a long dancing hug.  He spun me around.  He picked me up in the air as he laughed.  He kissed me on the forehead.

Boy, could that girl move fast.

A Promise Kept

I had a great English teacher in my senior year of high school.  He was a tiny little man.  He was full of enthusiasm and he had boundless energy.  The man had a difficult time sitting at a desk.  He raced around the room encouraging his students.  A fit-bit would have told him to slow down by noon.

We did a lot of reading during the first half of the year.  I was introduced to literature that I wouldn’t normally have chosen for myself.  Some of it I enjoyed.  Some of it I didn’t.  I was introduced to symbolism.  The worksheets he handed out had me delving into stories looking for the hidden surprises.

Some days I enjoyed this.  Some days I didn’t.

“What are you thinking right now, my bright star?” he would say as I read quietly in the corner of the room.  I was probably making a face as I filled out part of one of his work sheets.

“I’m thinking that sometimes a lace curtain moving in the breeze of a window is just that.  A curtain in a window.” I said.

“Well, then write that down my little kitten.” he said as he danced up to another student.

Half way through the year he asked eight of his students to stay behind.  Just for a minute.  He wanted to have a “wee” chat.

He told us that we were wonderful.  He took each of us by the hands and he told us what he liked best about our writing.  We weren’t used to this.  In grammar school we might expect a gold star affixed to a paper we had worked hard on.

This man put it into words.  He made us all late for lunch but we didn’t care.

“You!  The girl that makes me laugh and think at the same time.  You raise me up!  My wife loves your writing.  I have to take all your short stories home for her to read.  She wants me to invite you over for dinner but I told her that would be frowned upon.  You are special.  I will never ever forget you.” he said to me as his held my hands and looked deeply into my eyes.

I know!  Right?  How many times does something like this happen in high school?

“All of you are now my apprentices.  You all have an A for the rest of the year.  We will now be doing our lessons in groups of six.  There will be two of my brightest firmaments in the sky at  each table.  I have split you into teams.  You will help your classmates rise.  They will listen to you.  You will catch their imaginations with your own spirits.  Together we will bring literature into their lives!” he crowed as he bounced on the balls of his feet.

Alright…………………….

The next class has us sitting at tables of six students.  My team member was a quiet boy.  He was scholarly and did all the assigned reading.  This method forced him to interact with us.  Well, mostly me.  Usually we were the only two that actually did the reading the night before.

The two of us discussed the stories we were reading.  The rest listened or they didn’t.  Once in a while I asked one of the others what they thought.  I got a lot of shrugs in return.  They filled out their worksheets  though.  They weren’t reading but they were obviously listening.  They expected to earn their good grades off of their team leaders.

I found this to be a bit aggravating.

I told the teacher as much.

“The two of us do the work.  The other four can’t be bothered to do any of the reading.  They listen and write down answers after only two of us discuss things.  Why am I sharing my A with people that can’t be bothered?”I asked the little man with the bright blue eyes.

“Oh, my Jane Austen.  My little Emily Bronte!  You are teaching them so much.  No longer do they have to spend all their money on Cliff Notes.  They listen to you far more than they listened to me.  And………………..you are not sharing your A with them.  Little do they know.  25% of their grade comes from participation.  I know who is participating.  Never fear my dear girl.  You do not share your grade with them.  Only your hard work.  Your point of view!  And, two of your group may not do the reading……………but they now have their own point of view.  That’s nothing to sneeze at dear heart.” he said in a serious tone.

I left the room shaking my head.

We were split into groups of two for the final assignment of the year.  I was asked to come up with the title for a magazine that I’d like to read.  I came up with the idea of a magazine for teenage girls entitled “Be Proud.  Be Yourself.”

I was teamed with a girl that hadn’t read a page all year.

We had to come up with six full length articles.  They could be taken from other publications.  We were just the “editors”.  The magazine had to have photos or illustrations.  And, a letter from the editor as if it was the launching of a new publication.

I stared across the desk at the girl.

“Are you alright with the title of the magazine I came up with?  I suppose you are as you’ve been assigned to be my “art editor”. I said to her.

“Fine.” she said.

“Do you get what I’m going for here?” I asked.

“Yup.” she said.

“We have a week.  Do you have magazines you can cut up at home?  We’re going to need a front cover and pictures to go with the articles I pick out.” I told her.  I was used to taking the lead in this classroom.  She didn’t seem to care one way or the other.

Up until this point that is.

“I won’t be cutting up any magazines.” she said.

Oh, great.  I was going to have to drag this one though this process by the hair.

“I’ll be drawing the illustrations myself.” she added.  She plopped a sketch pad down in front of me.  She flipped through the pages.  She stopped and put an ink drawing of our teacher down on the desk.

“Oh, wow!” is all I could say.  I was silenced by her great talent.

“Okay.  Tonight you can work on a full art cover.  Fill up the whole page.  I’m imagining a teenage girl standing in front of a full length mirror.  She’s looking at herself.  I want her to like what she sees.” I said.

“Cool.” she said with a smile.  “I’ve always wanted to do a self portrait in the mirror.  Sort of like Rockwell’s.  I can sketch it out tonight.  But, all the details won’t be there by tomorrow.” she said  She had a pencil in her hand and she was already making sweeping motions.

“That’s fine.  Don’t give us a lot of detail on the top.  We need to put the title of the magazine there.  And, give me room at the bottom two corners for smaller illustrations for two of the articles inside.  Just make us two blank squares at both bottom corners for now.  I’ll let you know tomorrow what those articles will be about.” I said.

I was so excited to have a project partner that was actually going to do something.

That magazine came out great.  I wrote a letter from the Editor.  It was about ignoring the fluffy you aren’t good enough articles in other rags.  I wanted girls to look in the mirror and say out loud “I am enough.”

The illustrations were so beautiful they gave me chills.

The teacher clutched that magazine to his chest the day he handed our projects back to us.  He put it down on his lectern.  He ran his hands over it in reverence.

“Before I hand this back…………I want you all to come and look at this.  Look at the beautiful illustrations.  We had no idea!  No idea that there is an artist in our midst.  I see these drawings in my sleep………….they are so perfect.  I can’t look at this front cover without my eyes filling up with tears.  Please, students.  Form a line.  Look at what your friend has made!” he crowed.

We both received A’s for that project.  I could tell by that girl’s face……….it was probably the first A she had ever gotten in a high school English class.  I let her keep the finished project when the teacher handed it back to us.

That was the day she knew she was special.  She was an artist.

The end of senior year came.

The teacher found time to talk to all of us.

He found me in the cafeteria.  He sat at the table with me.  He put his face in his hands and he just smiled across the table.  All other students vacated the table within seconds of his appearance.

“Tell me what’s in store for you.  No, don’t say anything.  Let me guess.  You are going off to college.  You are going to become a great teacher.  No.  I can tell by your face that I’ve got it all wrong.  A writer.  You will tell stories.  You will describe a curtain in a window and you will give it meaning.  You will touch hearts.  You will hold a pencil and you will soar!” he said as he made a big wide sweeping motion over his head.

I laughed at his antics.  I told him that I was off to college to major in Journalism.

He became quiet.

“If you must.” he said to me.

“But, promise me something.  When your life is quiet enough………..when the time is right……….you will tell your own stories.  Telling someone else’s story will not feed your soul.  You must find the time to share yourself with the world.  Promise me!” he said in deadly earnest.

“I promise.” I told him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Playground Incident

“Oh, my God!  I just realized it.  That woman had it in for me!” I said at dinner tonight.

My husband threw back his head and roared with laughter.

“Yeah!  I’d say so.  And, this is surprising?  You just figured this out?” he hooted out as he  cackled some more.

We had been discussing a story I had just written about my first grade teacher.  I had sent some stories to my niece.  She is a teacher and she’s getting a kick out of my school days stories.  There is one about kindergarten.  Fifth grade.  Sixth.  Seventh.

I looked over the rim of my wine glass and admitted that I don’t remember one single thing about third grade.  Classroom?  Nope.  Teacher?  Nope.  Classmates?  Nah.  Not a thing.  I didn’t skip a grade so it must be there hidden in my memory.

It’s not important enough to consider hypnosis or something.  I’ll let it go.

I mentioned that I did remember second grade.  My second grade memories are what he was having a good chuckle about.

Columbus Street was a five minute walk to the school.  I usually cut it pretty close.  I ran and jumped onto my chair while the late bell was ringing quite often.  Teachers were used to it.  Kids getting off of a school bus were too early.  Walkers were almost always two minutes late.  The closer a kid lived to the school?  The later they were.

My second grade teacher was a nice woman.  She’d been at it a while.  She had taught other grades.  She moved to whatever classroom needed a teacher.  She was teaching second grade when I ran into her classroom two minutes late every day.

She wore her lipstick in Lucille Ball fashion.  It was bright red or orange.  She drew in the lips that she wish she had.  Her hair was in a bun at the top of her head.  By the end of the day half of it was hanging down.  Take one look at her hair at two pm?  You could tell what kind of day she’d had.

She wore reading glasses and she was always misplacing them.  The class would be working quietly on something at our desks.  We’d hear her pushing everything around on the large flat surface of her oak teacher desk.  We knew what was coming.

“Class!  Does anyone see what I’ve done with my reading glasses?” she’d ask.

The answer usually was “They’re on the top of your head, teacher.”

I wasn’t a fan of vegetables when I was a little kid.  This meant that once a week I’d get a terrific stomach ache and disappear into the bathroom for a half an hour.  My family got used to it.  Teachers never did.

We’d only been in second grade for about two weeks.  We were all out on the big playground for our afternoon recess.  The teachers all stood together in a group ignoring us.  They seemed to be very good friends.  One or other of them would come running if they’d hear a certain kind of scream.  You know the scream.  The one that means blood and Bandaids. Otherwise, they left us to our games.

We were in the middle of a game of kick ball.  I felt the twinges coming.  I was about to get a stomach ache.  I was about to feel pretty sick and pitiful.  I knew I was going to want my mother to rub my back.  I just cut out of there.  I walked across the long blacktop and headed home.

I didn’t say a thing to any of my friends.  I didn’t think to mention this to my teacher.  I just walked home.

My mother was surprised to see me coming through the kitchen door.  I went into the bathroom and shut the door.  Mom stood outside the door with her million questions.

“What are you doing here?  Are you alright?  Do you have one of your belly aches?  Did the teacher send you home?  Did the school nurse send you home?  Why didn’t they call me?  I would have come up there to get you!  Darlene.  Answer me.” she ranted from the other side of the door.

The phone rang.

She grabbed the receiver.  I heard her clearly.

“Yes, she’s here.  She just walked through the door.  Oh, I see.  Yes, she’s not feeling well.  Of course I will.  I’ll tell her that she can’t just walk out of the school like that.  Tell her teacher that I’m very sorry.  She must be a wreck.  Since it’s almost the end of the day I’ll just send her in tomorrow. Thanks.” she said in the kitchen.

I came out of the bathroom a few minutes later white and shaky.  My mother put me on the couch and covered me up with a blanket.  She sat down on my feet.

“You just walked out.  You.  Can.  Not.  Do.  That!  Where was your teacher when you just decided to up and walk home?” she asked.

“On the playground.” I answered.  “She was busy talking to her teacher friends.  So, I just came home.  I wanted to come home.”

“Hoo Boy.” my mother said to the room.

“Hoo Boy?  What?” I asked.

“I’m not going to give her grief over this.  But, she was in the Principal’s office when the Principal called here.  So, was the nurse.  I’m thinking your teacher is getting into some deep trouble right now.  A student walked away from her on the playground and she didn’t realize it at all.  Hoo Boy!” she whispered to herself.

“Am I in trouble?” I moaned as I pulled the blanket over my head.

“No.  Your teacher is though.” she replied.  “Well, that’s not your problem.  Just don’t do that again.  You feel sick?  You tell your teacher.  She will call the nurse.  The nurse will call me.” she said. She made me repeat it back to her three times.

The next day I went back to school.  I got there five minutes early.  I stood to the side of Teacher’s desk.  She ignored me for two minutes.  But, I didn’t budge.

“Are you feeling better today, Darlene?” she finally asked as she swiveled her chair towards me.

I noticed her hair was already a mess.

“Yes.  I am.  I had a bad belly ache.  I wanted to say I’m sorry.  I didn’t know I’d get you in trouble walking home like I did.  I won’t do that again.” I said.

“I expected to see your mother this morning.  Is she here?” she asked as she tried to pull her hair into a bun.

“No.  My mother isn’t coming.  She said yesterday that she wasn’t going to give you any grief.  She told me that I was in the wrong.  That I must have scared you.” I explained.

Teacher breathed out slowly in relief.

“Thank you for apologizing.  Take your seat.” she said.

That day at recess we all noticed something different.  The teachers weren’t standing in a huddle laughing and talking.  Each teacher was on the playground with their class.  Teachers were pitching for kick ball games.  Teachers were explaining the rules of Four Squares.  Teachers were running relay games out on the grass.

Hoo Boy!  I now know that was all because of me.

Our second grade classroom had a large artist’s easel in the back of the room.  It was a two sided easel with large pads of paper attached.  Each side had a tray with jars of poster paints and long artist brushes.  Students took turns.  Two a day.  They got to be artists wearing smocks while Teacher read a book out loud.

I was usually the reader.  After the playground incident?  I was a listener for about two weeks.  My turn at the easel kept getting skipped over. All year long I itched to paint.  I never got a chance.   I was never given the rubber ball by Teacher on the playground.  Not once.

That woman never warmed up to me again after the belly ache incident.  She was deeply kind.  She was a fair woman.  She was beloved by all the other teachers.  She drank tea with the Principal every day in the corner of the cafeteria.

But, I had gotten her into horrible trouble.  And, she could never fully forgive me.  I’m sure that caused her more distress than I felt.  Because, really.  She was a wonderful woman.

I just figured this all out over dinner tonight.  She was that good at hiding her aggravation with me.  At hiding her aggravation with herself.

I figured it out all these years later.

“Do you think she skipped me at the easel on purpose?  She never let me have the red rubber ball once.  On purpose?  That was payback for walking off the playground without telling her?  I suppose those ten minutes when they couldn’t find me must have been the worst ten minutes of her teaching career.  But, really?  She paid me back with stuff like no easel.  No rubber ball?”  I said to my husband as it dawned on me all these years later.

“You think?” he screeched as he laughed at the stunned expression on my face.

Hoo Boy!

 

 

 

 

 

First Grade: Breaking Rules

I was just instant messaging with my niece.  She’s a teacher now.  She mentioned that she did an internship at the grammar school I attended in Manchester.  She interned there about fifteen years ago.  She was in their 50th Anniversary photo.  She pointed out that her father (my oldest brother) was in the first graduating class there.

I went to a great school.  I hope it still is.  It was a big school for a little girl.  I realize now that it was small enough that every one knew each other.  Teachers had us kids in common from Kindergarten through 6th Grade.

I’ve already written a story about my year in Kindergarten.  Yes, really.  I remembered enough about Kindergarten to write a story.  You can look it up by searching my blog.  It’s entitled Kindergarten. Smelling Paste and Loving It.

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I’ve always been a rule follower.  But.  But.  Yes, this is a big but.  Only when the rules make sense to me.

I was five years old in 1st Grade.  I remember being impressed with myself when I walked in a different door than the kindergarten kids did.

I had hit the big times. I was all grown up now.

I found my new classroom with no problem.  The teacher was attractive in a pearl earring kind of way.  She even had a pretty last name.  I won’t use her real name of course.  Let’s call her Mrs. Tired of Teaching.

Mrs. Tired spent a lot of time looking at the clock.  She loved Art Class even more than I did.  Another teacher taught us Art.  She loved Music Class.  Another teacher taught us Music.  Her favorite period of the day was lunch.

I might be being a teensy bit unfair.  This is deep long hindsight after all.  Perhaps she wasn’t tired of teaching.  Perhaps she liked teaching quite a bit.  She just didn’t like me at first.

I know!  Right?  I’m very likeable!

Mrs. Tired had a strict “No Chewing Gum” rule.  I didn’t have a hard time following that one.  My parents didn’t buy me gum.  A group of us were sitting around the reading table.  I may have looked a little bored.  I could read already.  I may have rolled my eyes once or twice while she stopped to show us all the pictures of the Teddy Bear’s Picnic.

I was sitting there thinking she should put some oomph into her reading.  Give it some pizazz!  Do different voices for the characters at least.  What a snooze fest.  I was thinking that this was going to be a very very long year when she called me out.

“Are you chewing gum, Miss Anderson?”  she asked.  “That is strictly forbidden.”

What?  I wasn’t chewing gum.  My chin was in my hand.  I was so bored by her reading skills I was holding my head up with my hand.

“No, Mrs. Tired.  I am not chewing gum.” I replied.

“Open your mouth and show me!” she insisted.

Now, this bothered me.  I felt this was an invasion of my personal space.  But, I did as I was told.  I opened my mouth wide.  I stuck my tongue out at her and said Ahhhh! for good effect.  The doctor seemed to like it when I visited him.  She didn’t seem to like it at all.

She couldn’t find any gum.

“I seem to be boring Miss Anderson, children.  She hasn’t yawned in our faces yet.  But, she will.  Perhaps Miss Anderson thinks she can read this book better than I can.  Shall we give her a chance?” she asked.

Those bored kids were up for anything.  “Yeah!” they cheered.

Teacher wanted to see me fail I think. To teach me a lesson in humility. The kids didn’t care one way or the other.  Just entertain us for five minutes their faces said.

So, I got up and took the book from her hands.

I stood at the end of the table.  I was a showman.  I had been acting out plays from between the slats of my crib when I was a baby.  I sang songs since before I knew what words were.

“First of all, I will pass this book around so every one can feel the bears.  See the front cover?  The bears are actually fuzzy.  Feel it with your hand and pass it around.” I said to the group.

They did.

I started reading.  The teddy bears were gathering in the park for a picnic.  Things were going wrong and then they went right.  I gave them high voices.  Low voices.  When the teddy bears sang a little song I put the words to a made up tune.  Come on.  This is not hard.

This book was on a first grade level.  There wasn’t much to the story.  So, I held the illustrations out and had them searching for the picnic basket in the woods.  Find the little bear’s lost red hat.

Kids ate it up.  Teacher did not seem to be amused.

That’s when she decided I had been chewing gum after all.  She handed me something that looked like a plastic spatula.  She told me to get under the reading table and scrape off any lumps of gum I should find.

I stared the teacher in the eye.  My eyes narrowed.  I put the spatula down and told her that “I’m not here to clean tables.  I’m here to learn.  I wasn’t chewing gum.  Call my mother.” as I sat down at my own desk.

I didn’t clean gum off the underside of that table.  She didn’t call my mother.

We were asked to bring in piles of old magazines from home.  We were then instructed to fill up a piece of paper with things that started with the letter A.  The next day it was B. and so forth.  I decided on my own that this exercise was useless for me since I could already read.

Gosh, I was a little shit.

I always had a library book on my person.  While the rest of the class got busy with their safety scissors, paste and magazines I sat at my desk in the back reading.

Teacher noticed this on the day the rest of the class was on letter G.  I looked up from my book to see her looming over me.

“Show me your pages, please.  Letters A through G.” she said in an intent voice.

“I can’t.  I haven’t done them.  I know how to read and cutting out pictures from a magazine is a waste of my time.  I’ve been reading this book instead.” I answered.

She blinked at me.

“Show me your pages for letter A though G.” she said again.

“I can’t.  Because they don’t exist.” I answered.

“Get up and stand against the lockers.” she hissed in my direction.

In a cartoon…. steam would have been coming out of her ears.

I did as she asked.  I stood against the lockers.  She picked up my desk until it was almost over her head.  She was so angry with me she was very strong.  She dumped the contents of my desk all over the floor.  She kicked at all the stuff with one of her feet.  She banged the desk back down.

“Go to the back arts and crafts table and sit down.” she said in deadly quiet.

I did.

She banged two huge piles of magazines down in front of me.  She dropped a pile of clean sheets of paper next to it.  A jar of paste.  She set the scissors down very gently.  She was controlling herself.  She probably wanted to stab me with their little round edges by that time.

“A through G.  You will not be joining the rest of the class in anything until you complete them.  Get a move on girl.  Because tomorrow will be H.  And the day after I and so on and so on until you draw a picture of a Zebra.” she said within an inch of my face.

“Kind of hard to find pictures of things that start in Z, huh?  I’m thinking X and Y are going to be pretty hard too.” I said.  “Especially since these magazines are all pretty cut up already.”

“Let me worry about X, Y and Z.” she said as she walked away from me.

Okay, something to look forward to.

At the end of the day she called me to her desk.

“I am not going to call your parents about this.  Instead, tonight at dinner you’re going to tell them all about this yourself.  Do you understand me?  We have parent/teacher night coming up soon.  So, I will know if you did or not.” she said in a triumphant voice.

“Do you want me to tell them all about this from my point of view?  Or yours?” I asked in all seriousness.

I was a rule follower after all.  I just found some of her rules to be totally stupid.

Now it was teacher’s turn to roll her eyes.

“What do you know about point of view?  What are you?  Five years old?”  she asked.  She wasn’t being snotty.  I think she was starting to understand that I was just a tiny bit different from most first graders.

I seemed to have woken her up.  Because, I wasn’t alone.  She had to dump three desks that day when she was searching for her alphabet pages.

“How about you tell your parents exactly what happened.” she said.  “You’d have a hard time telling them my point of view because why?

“Because I’m not you.” I answered.

“Got it the first time out you smart little thing.  Now, get out of my sight.  I’ll see you tomorrow.” she said as she shooed me out of her classroom.

That night at dinner I got dramatic.  I told my parents that I hadn’t done what the teacher had asked.  Because, I already knew how to read.  A is for apple.  B is for bear was just a plain waste of my time.  I thought I did an impressive imitation of the teacher holding my desk over her head.

My parents just stared at me in silence.

Then they both started talking at the same time.  My mother of course was aghast that I had not followed a teacher’s instructions.  She was a rule follower and I made her nervous her whole life.  My father wanted to know how close I was to this desk being held over someone’s head.  He was picturing an out of control teacher sending me to the emergency room with her wildness.

By the end of dinner they had calmed down.  My father explained that a room full of children learned at different rates.  I seemed to be able to read since I could hold a book.  But, I wasn’t great at numbers.  Others might be far ahead of me in that regard.  I was told to do my school work.  I was not to pick and choose what I thought was worth my time.

“How about we leave that for third grade.” he added with a chuckle.

My mother said “Oh, this parent/teacher night is going to be a nightmare.” in a defeated tone of voice.

I went back to school the next day.  I stopped by the teacher’s desk to inform her that my parents were “So looking forward to meeting you after our talk at dinner last night.”

This seemed to make her a little nervous.  I don’t know why.

That afternoon I had difficulty understanding the math lesson.  Something about if Johnny had one apple and Susie had two and Johnny lost an apple……………………oh, my goodness.  That kind of stuff just left my brain scrambled.

I give the woman credit.  She worked hard on that lesson.  She gave me extra attention.  She didn’t want to see any kid left behind that day.

We had library time after lunch.  Teacher usually spent that time in the teacher’s lounge I suppose.  That day she accompanied us.  She followed me around.  She wanted to see what section I ended up in.

I took a book by my current favorite author to a table.  I have no memory of what the book was.  But, it had long juicy chapters.  The book wasn’t full of illustrations.  There was only one small drawing at the beginning of every chapter.

“Why are you starting on Chapter Six, Darlene?” the teacher asked as she stood behind me.

“Because, I finished Chapter Five last week.” I said.  “I looked for this book at the Mary Cheney Library but they don’t have it.”

First graders didn’t take books out of the school library.  They read them there.

“That book is far, far beyond first grade reading level.  Do you understand what you’re reading?” she asked.

“Yes, I understand it.” I replied.  “Why would I read a book I can’t understand?”

“Perhaps, to show off?” she responded kindly.

I just glared at her while my finger held my place in the book.  I only had a half an hour here.  I wanted her to go away.

Instead she sat down next to me.

“Read me that first paragraph.  Read the start of Chapter Six.” she said.

“Shouldn’t I read to you from page one?” I asked in all seriousness.

“No, from right where you left off reading last time is just fine.” she said

So, I did.  I read more than a paragraph.  I read many pages to her in the quiet back corner of that library.  I read out loud until our library time was over.

She stood up and said “Well, there’s a first time for everything.  I’ll go and check this book out for you.” My classmates lined up at the door to go back to our room.

During afternoon quiet time Teacher graded papers.  That day she announced to the classroom that during quiet time I would be reading them a chapter a day from books that I would choose from the library.

I read to the class every day until the end of that year.  My second grade teacher somehow asked me to do the same thing.  And, my third……………..

It was the last day of first grade and Teacher awarded me a special certificate.  I believe it said Achievement in Reading or some such thing on it.  She had covered it in multicolored star stickers. She knew I loved those.

She handed it to me as we were headed out the door on the final day.

“I will make a prediction.” she said as she placed it in my hands.  “I think that someday you may become an actress.  Or, perhaps you will write books of your own.  We shall see.  But, I still think you were chewing gum on that first day of school.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Age Difference

I was wandering around the internet last night.  I came across a photo of an older man and a younger woman.  The photo was supposed to entice me into reading the article.  The topic was about couples with huge differences in their ages.  I didn’t click on it to read.  These types of articles just tend to freeze up my computer as I click onto the next photo.

And, to tell you the truth.  I don’t care all that much.

Older men with younger women.  Older women with younger men.  Who cares?  Go for it.  You’re both adults.  Living in this world at the same time.

When we’re very young….. and attracted to another person…….a few years can make a difference.  A senior in high school interested in a freshman probably won’t pursue it.  The older would just have to take too much crap from their friends.

I have a brother that is four years older.  By the time I was fourteen I became interested in boys.  Not fourteen year old boys.  I’d known them since kindergarten.  I remembered who used to eat paste.  I remembered whose boots in the locker used to stink up the second grade class room.  I remembered who used to cry at the drop of a hat.

I needed an older man.  At least sixteen.

I thought having an older brother would come in handy in this situation.  I’d point out a nice looking boy in church.  My brother would glare at me.

“He’s my age.  That is SOOO not going to happen.  Let’s put it this way.  Over my dead frigging body.” my brother said as everyone lined up to go to communion.

The good looking boy nodded at my brother.  He gave me a big smile and a wink.

I wondered what it would feel like to have to step over my brother’s dead body to get to this good looking guy.

After church I sat in the car with my brother.  He told me to buckle up.  I went to grab the seat belt and a head appeared at my window.

Well, hello there good looking! I thought.

“Hi friend!  And who is this lovely lady sitting next to you?  A girlfriend perhaps?  Aren’t you going to introduce us?” asked the nice looking older boy.

“This is not my girlfriend and you know it.  Could any girl look more like me than this one here?  Get your head out of my car and forget it.  It’s not going to happen.  She doesn’t have a name.  She doesn’t exist.  Do you get it you little shit?” said my brother in a conversational tone.

The boy got a big grin on his face.  He threw his hands up and backed away from the car.

My brother left the church parking lot much too quickly.

“Was that really necessary?” I asked on the way home.

“You bet it was.” he said.  “I think he got the message.  If he ever bothers you let me know.  I’ll kick his butt all the way down Main Street.”

“Why?  I liked the looks of him.” I complained.

“You liked the looks of him? Oh, great!” my brother said as he slowed down the car.  “Any guy my age interested in a fourteen year old girl is just looking for trouble.  I mean it, Darlene.  They’re up to no good.  He’s not the first guy to ask me about you.  I tell them all the same thing.  Go for it.  I’ll kill you when you least expect it.”

Okay, brother dear was not going to be any help in the dating game.

That summer the family went to Vermont for our two weeks as usual.  The camp opposite ours had a family in it that we’d never seen before.  Three teenage girls took to sunning themselves in the gravel driveway.  They’d get out the baby oil and lay on a blanket facing our screen door.

They ignored a lake.  They ignored a beach.  They ignored canoes and row boats.  To sit and glisten ten feet away from our front door.

I tried to say hello and make friends.  They weren’t interested in me.  They wanted to meet my brother.

I told him as much.  He got a big grin on his face.  He checked himself out in the mirror and changed his shirt.  He grabbed four cans of cold beer and headed towards the door.

“Um…….put away the beer.  Those girls are too young to drink.  You can have my Tab instead.  But, you have to replace it next time we’re in town, Romeo.” I said to him before he could get to the door.

He went out with my soda to make friends.

The girl in the middle did most of the talking.  She tossed her hair around.  She posed.  She laughed at everything he said.  He was intrigued.  He was smitten.  He was a goner.

I reminded him that night that guys his age are only up to no good.  He told me that this was different.  He was different.  But, that I shouldn’t get any bright ideas.  Any older guy asking me out would still have to deal with him.

Guess how old she was?  Yup.  Barely fifteen.  My brother had to wait six years to marry that girl.

Not Saying Goodbye To Columbus Street

It’s hard to say goodbye to your childhood home.

I was born at Manchester Memorial Hospital in 1957.

I lived in a little cape cod house on Columbus Street until I was twenty.  I left the house to get married.  It continued to be “home” because my parents remained in that house for many years.

Mom died in 1998 and my father joined her just a few years ago.  The house was cleaned out and sold pretty quickly.

A little too quickly for me.  I didn’t get a chance to walk through and say goodbye to the walls and the views out the windows.

My niece took her kids to play in the Lutz Children’s Museum in Manchester this past Sunday.  She sent me a little video taken on her phone of the kids playing in a little mini Main Street.  I chuckled to see the awning that said Marlowes on it.  I messaged back that she should pick up an ugly one piece gym suit while she was there.

I suggested that she take a spin past the house on Columbus Street.  She could show her little boys where Aunt Darlene lived when she was a little girl.  I think talking about Great Grandparents that they’ve never known might be a bit over their heads at their ages.

She wrote that night to tell me that they stayed at the museum until closing time at 5 pm.  They hadn’t gone past my parent’s house because by then it was dark out.

I wasn’t disappointed.  I was kind of glad. I know she would have taken a few photos on her phone for me.  It’s been a few years but I don’t think I’m prepared to see other people’s cars in the driveway.  I’m not ready even now to see the windows full of blinds instead of sheer crisscrossed curtains.

I helped my brother empty that house out when my father went into the nursing home.  I was there when the dumpster filled up with stuff that two “depression kids” had collected.  I helped decide who got what.  What had to be sold.  I piled things in the garage for a weekend sale.

I drove away from the house thinking I’d be back.  I was going to help with the yard sale.  I received a phone call that I wasn’t needed after all.  They were going to pile the stuff into their cars and have the sale at their own place.  There was more traffic out that way.

Then the house sold.

I never walked through knowing that it would be the last time.  I think I’m kind of grateful for that.  Every room held memories and it would have been tremendously hard to say goodbye to that house.

I’ve done that walk through in my mind however.  I can stop when it hurts too much.

I start in the little kitchen.  I see my mother standing at the stove.  As usual she has a dish towel in her hand or over her shoulder.  In my mind she’s wearing an apron like she did when I was very little.  She had a lot of them and they were all very pretty.  The newer stove is replaced by the wide one that came with the kitchen when the house was new.  It had big metal drawers to keep her pots and pans in.  She would bang them around and make one heck of a racket when she was irked by something or someone at dinner time.

My chair was nearest the stove. My job was to jump up and grab a saucepan when someone wanted seconds.

The little maple table sat five comfortably.  I picture the little kitchen full of Aunties and Uncles and cousins.  They’re all tripping over each other to get to the food.  We had wonderful times in that tiny little kitchen.

Then I’m standing at the door looking into the small bathroom.  The house only had one of them.  I shake my head remembering back to five people with one bathroom to share.  My husband asked me how that had worked out once.

“Well, there were some uncomfortable moments.” I explained.  “I’d be in there and couldn’t leave…………if you know what I mean.  And, my brother would be banging on the door.  He had to run out to the the back yard so many times……….well, let’s just say that I thought forsythia bushes were yellow from getting peed on when I was a little girl.  My hair was dried in my room.  It was curled in my room.  Makeup was put on in my room.  The bathroom was for business only.”

He got a chuckle out of that one.

Then I’d be in my parent’s bedroom down the hall.  It always had too much furniture in it.  I can see in my mind’s eye the dramatic biblical painting on the wall.  The statue of the Virgin Mary on the dresser.  She’s straining to hold all the sets of rosary beads hung around her neck.  The smell of the candles my mother would light when she said her prayers.  The bed is made up with the knobby candlewick bedspread she loved.  Her jewelry box is on top of the other dresser.  The one that had the bottom drawer full of our art, school work and report cards from over the years.

The living room is just around the corner.  I smile when I remember the lamp that sat on the table in the window.  I had broken it when I was ten years old.  I blamed it on the cat.  My mother had pretended to believe me as she picked up the broken glass.

The corner where the Christmas tree went every year.  I can hear our squeals on Christmas morning when the floor was covered with gifts.  I smell the oranges and walnuts that filled the toes of our stockings.

Then onto the “junky room”.  I was surprised as a teenager that this term wasn’t used in every house.  Other people called this room a “den”.  My mother called it the junky room because she didn’t care if you ate and spilled in there while you watched television.  The living room was for company.  The older furniture in the junky room could withstand kids jumping on it.  Sick kids stuffing Kleenex in the cushions.  Chicken and Stars soup spilled on a TV tray.

I wouldn’t spend as much time in the upstairs bedrooms.  There would be so many memories.  My brothers had lived in these rooms.  Then they both became mine when they moved out.  I would however spend a minute standing in the cedar lined closet.  I would remember handing my father each and every nail while he was building it.  I would take a deep sniff and that’s where I would have my first little weep.

I would stare at the still glowing wooden floors.  Four year old Darlene had handed each of those nails to my father also.  He said he couldn’t have done those floors without his “helper girl.”  Then I would have laughed at the memory of how deadly waxed my mother had kept them with her buffer.  You couldn’t walk around in socks up there without falling on your butt.  The stairs had been just as deadly before my father had put carpet treads on them.

Onto the basement.  Oh, there were lots of memories there too.  When we were little it was pretty barren.  It was terrific to go round and round in circles on my brother’s orange go cart that Santa had brought him.  We’d push each other from behind for fast rides.

The furnace where we put our snow encrusted mittens and hats to dry.  My father’s work bench where he had constructed furniture for me.  My mother’s big coin jar on top of the dryer.

Mom’s piano.  I’m sure that piano was purchased second hand.  It had been lowered down into the basement before the hatchway stairs were built.  I wondered who they had bought it from?  Was it a housewarming gift?  I’ll never know.  There is no one I can ask.

It would have been hard saying goodbye to the piano that would stay with the house.  My mother played by ear and her favorite style was Boogie Woogie.  She taught me to sing on that piano.  She taught my daughter to sing there too.  My mother filled that little house with music from down there.  Didn’t every house have a mother playing a half hour concert from the basement on Christmas Eve?

I would have walked around the yard.  My eyes would of course have been drawn back to the house over and over again.  I would remember helping hang clothes when I was little.  Bringing in half frozen towels for my mother.  Playing in the sand box and the little collapsible pool. Running through the sprinkler.  Climbing the apple tree.  Collecting apples and pears with my father.  Helping Daddy with the leaves and the burn barrel in the Autumn.

The covered patio that was summer home for sleep outs.  Weekend long card and Monopoly games.  Bags of penny candy.  Then onto bridal showers and baby showers that were held out there with streamers and balloons hanging over head.

But, hardest of all would have been saying goodbye to the Dollhouse.  The annex on the garage had been mine for a long time.  My father had moved his paint cans and his tools and built me shelves and counters.  My dolls and all their equipment had been installed.  My play kitchen had taken up the whole short wall.  The dolls had eventually given way to a couch and a little TV for teenage sleepovers.  The paint cans and tools didn’t take over again until I had gone away to college.

My parents had given me a great gift when they had fitted out that dollhouse for me.  As a kid I figured every little girl had one.  That wasn’t true.  I had my own space and the freedom to let my imagination go out there.  I shared it with my friends.  I bet they remember the dollhouse with a lot of fondness too.

Shutting the door to the dollhouse for the last time would have had me in deep, wracking sobs.  I know this.

I didn’t have to do that last walk through.  I was once sad that I didn’t get that chance. But, in hindsight I think it was a gift.

Instead, I will always remember it the way it was.  A little house that felt too little quite often.  A little house that felt much too big and empty after my parent’s left it.  A house that was built for us and filled with love.

I couldn’t say goodbye to that dear little house and all the memories in it.  That is why I write stories about Growing Up On Columbus Street.

 

 

 

 

Things I’ve Noticed This Weekend

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I noticed that my Christmas tree looks very nice decorated for Valentine’s Day.  The warm glow from the red lights don’t blind me when I’m watching television.  The cat is very glad that the tree is still there.  It’s where she loves to sleep and where she deposits hair balls.  Visitors don’t even think I’m weird anymore.  One adult said “Very pretty.  Are the roses a new addition this year?” A young adult commented “Cool.  I dig it.”  The tree will become an Easter Tree by the end of February.  By then I will have removed the Santa from the door.  I don’t want to cause confusion

I noticed that I can now depend on Facebook for all the political news I can handle.  CNN has nothing on the Facebook faithful.  There are kitties and puppies and pot bellied pigs all over this nation that are missing all the attention.  They’re probably tweeting about it but no one is answering.  All is quiet today.  The man with the orange face must be taking a day off.  I’ve come across the video cam of eagles in their nest five times in as many hours.  The nest looks empty.  I’m thinking the birds are out protesting.  “A Little Privacy Please” is what is printed on their little placards.

I noticed that I can get worked up over politics like I never knew I could.  The above statement doesn’t mean that I don’t appreciate the updates.  The above statement doesn’t mean that I think protests aren’t important.  But, I can tell by my own tone of voice…………………..I  need a little teensy break.  I will go and look at the puppy and the owl kissing video a few more times today.  It soothes my soul.

I noticed that people dressed in pajamas and slippers at the convenience store are almost always buying salsa and chips.  Oh, and beer.  Don’t forget the beer.  Some people really know how to relax.  I’m all for not getting dressed today.  I don’t mean to sound judging.  I just don’t like salsa very much.  I like pajamas, slippers and beer just fine.

I noticed that a lunch in an old inn with logs burning in the fireplace is a nice place to be on a Friday afternoon.  I sat facing the fireplace on purpose.  It would inhibit my people watching.  I wanted to pay attention to my companion.  My companion is my best friend and she is beautiful.  The only one that doesn’t seem to know it is her.  I find this sad and frustrating and kind of sweet all at the same time.  She had just finished saying “I’d like to be able to see myself the way my friends see me.” when I noticed the waiter gazing at her adoringly.  I pointed this out to her.  Of course she didn’t believe me.  Until the bill came.  It seems that ‘beautiful women that don’t know it’ don’t get charged for most of what they eat.  She’ll smack me when she reads this.  I can take it.

I noticed that I got charged for every thing I ate and drank.

I noticed that our new president wants women to dress like women.  I wonder if that decree came in a memo. I’d love to see the wording on that memo.  I’ve heard of work place dress codes before.  They usually just mention things like Safety Helmets and Steel Toed Boots.   My personal decree is that women should dress for the weather.  If you slip and fall on the ice because you’re wearing stiletto heels ………….well, that’s just plain stupid.  There is no beauty in that.

I noticed that I can spot people on a first date in a restaurant.  They are overly attentive to one another.  They sit on the edge of their seats.  They pretend that everything coming out of the other person’s mouth is fascinating.  I’m an old married lady.  I like gazing into the fire and murmuring “Oh, you!” once in a while. And, then stealing all of my husband’s chocolate cake because I didn’t want any.

I noticed that women on first dates got the memo to dress like a woman.  Today I saw a woman wearing a thick woolen sweater.  Good for her. It’s 20 degrees out today.  Except, the shoulders of this thick prickly sweater had been cut out.  I guess it’s the modern version of First Date Wear.  The sweater is up to the earlobes.  But, aren’t my naked shoulders sexy?  This is just a preview of what you’ll see come spring if you stick around.  That’s what that sweater was saying.  God!  I’m glad that I have a husband.  And, that he would take one look at that sweater and laugh until he peed his thermal lined jeans.  Yes, this I’m thankful for.

I noticed that my kitchen trash can is always full.

I noticed that when I eat canned soup advertised as “1/2 the Salt!”………….I miss the salt.

I noticed that my wineglass is always almost empty.

I noticed that I just need a bigger glass.

 

Blankies

You don’t mess with someone’s pillow.  Hands off another person’s favorite blanket.

At least that’s the way I feel about it.

I had a favorite pink blanket when I was a tiny little girl.  It wasn’t much to look at.  It was old and knobby.  It had started as a full sized covering for someone’s bed.  It was ripped and torn and my mother kept little pieces of it.  I can’t imagine why.

My blankie started out about 3×3 feet.  It shrunk the longer I used it.  It was my pacifier blanket in the crib.  Pieces got cut off the uglier it got.

I couldn’t sleep without my blankie.  I’d hold a corner of it in my fist and stick my thumb into my mouth.  The pink blanket would then be rubbed back and forth across my nose.  Off to sleep I’d go.

The house would get quiet.  Everyone slumbered.  And, then?  I’d wake up in my crib without my blankie in my hand.

All hell would break loose.

My parents would stumble around in the dark trying to locate the scruff of pink.  It may have been under me.  It may have fallen onto the floor from between the crib slats.

I’d often wake up with my brother sleeping next to me in the crib.  My mother thought he was regressing because he was sad not to be the baby anymore.  That wasn’t the case.

She had a talk with him.  He wasn’t a baby anymore.  He was a big brother now.  There’s nothing wrong with being a middle child she told him.

He didn’t take the time to explain to my mother that he was just trying to get some sleep.  If he was in the crib with me he could plug my face with my blankie the minute I missed it.  He realized that exhausted parents could sleep through the first five minutes of my “Where is my blankie?” tirade.  He could not.

My mother would sneak that blanket into the wash about once a week.  Once a week I’d give her the silent treatment.  I was a toddler that did not appreciate all the good smells being washed out of my security blanket.

Perhaps I didn’t appreciate the perfumed fabric softener she used.  Not on my blankie.

My mother tried to separate me from my blankie too soon.  It became a battle.  The scruff of pink in my fist was always accompanied by thumb sucking.  I suppose she was envisioning a pretty teenage Darlene with a mouth full of horribly buck teeth.

Again, all hell broke loose.

My father got involved.  “Dear God Woman!  I have got to get some sleep tonight!  Where is her blankie?  Give it to her for goodness sake!  She’s been crying for hours! ” my father would beg.

“No!” my mother would reply. “Let her cry.  She’ll get used to it.  That little girl is not the boss of me.”

“Where is it?  And, what is your problem?  I’m starting to think you’re jealous of a scrap of pink blanket!” he hissed across the kitchen table.

“Jealous of a blanket?  Do you even hear yourself, Ralph?  Let her cry.  I am not going to have that girl ruin her teeth sucking on her thumb.  She only sucks her thumb when she has that blanket.  I read an article.  Continuous thumb sucking will give her buck teeth.” she said with authority.

“She sucks her thumb for five minutes and then falls asleep.  That is not going to ruin her teeth.  I’ll save up for the orthodontist now.  Where is that blanket?  I can’t take this anymore!” yelled my father.

He tore the house apart.  He was starting to hyperventilate at the thought that Mom had actually thrown it away.  That’s when he found it folded up into a little square and residing in Mom’s hope chest.  It had a little tag pinned to it.  “Darlene’s blankie.  Age 1-3”.

He gave it back to me.  I did not appreciate the smell of cedar on my blankie.  But, I gave them a break and quit crying.

It went back into the hope chest about a year later.  The tag then said Age 1-4.  It’s still in the hope chest which belongs to me now.

My own two kids had their blankie stage.  My daughter called hers Wee-oo for some reason.  It was green with a satin edge and it traveled every where with us.  It was eventually replaced by a Cabbage Patch Doll named Suzie that got dragged around by her pigtail.

We left our little girl with my cousin and her boyfriend for a weekend.  My husband and I spent that weekend at a hotel for some “alone time.”  Chrissy was being taken care of in our own house.  We left a number where we could be reached in case of an emergency.

We arrived home after our relaxing weekend to find two exhausted adults.

We walked through the door and they both said in unison “What the hell is a Wee-oo?”

Oops.  Should have given them that information before leaving. They should have called.  I considered two days without Wee-oo to be an emergency.

My son called his sleeping blankie “Wom-bot”.  He wasn’t at all picky.  It didn’t matter the color.  It had to a  crib sized blanket with satin edging.  He wasn’t particular about how often it got washed.  He just needed satin to rub between his fingers to fall asleep.  They say the second child is easier.  He was in this respect.

The Queen of England could ask to borrow my son’s pillow, however.  The answer would be a resounding “No!” He’s just that way.  About his pillow.

This Christmas I asked for a new comforter for our bed.  I picked it out myself.  I shared the online link with my husband.  I threw coupons at him.

On Christmas morning I found two large square packages with my name on them under the tree.

My son and my husband glared at each other a little bit.  It was obvious they both had the same idea for my gift this year.

I opened my son’s gift first.  He got downright honest with me before I even started to tear into the Christmas wrapping that enshrouded the gift.

“So, I was thinking that a lot of the blankets in this house are getting a little ratty.  You should know that I bought this for you……………….but it’s really for me.” he said with glee as he rubbed his hands together.

I unwrapped the thickest, fluffiest, almost like velvet maroon blanket.  I unzipped the plastic case that it came in.  My son stuck his face into it and sighed with contentment.

I just laughed.  I knew I’d never get that blanket away from him.  It reminded me of all those birthdays and Christmases when I was growing up.  My brother would give me record albums by recording artists I’d never heard of.  To be played on his stereo system that I wasn’t allowed to touch.

I always figured that my kids got their proprietary stance about their blankets and pillows from me.

Until the last time my husband got sick.  He had a rotten cold and the moaning commenced.  I moved him from the couch to our bedroom.  I gave him tissues and a trash can.  I provided him with a book and a reading lamp.  I kept his water glass full of ice.  I ran out for orange Popsicles and chicken soup.

I went up the stairs to offer him something to eat or drink.  I went into the room quietly in case he was asleep.  I paused at the door to listen.  I could hear a strange scuffling scratchy noise.  I tilted my head and listened even more intently.

A mouse in the wall?  The cat stuck in a closet scratching to get out?

Instead; the noise came from my almost asleep husband.  He had a fist full of the satin trim of the extra blanket that I had thrown over the bed to keep him warm.  He was rubbing the satin back and forth over the stubble on his unshaven chin.

I backed out of the room.  I went down the stairs and smiled.  I guess the kids take after the both of us.

…