My daughter, who is in her first year of college in Salem, Oregon, is having Thanksgiving with lovely relatives on her father's side in Portland. She called a while ago and sounded like she was having a sweet time. One of the little girls in the family she's staying with was hanging around her while she was talking on the phone with me, and the piping background voice of little girl fascinated by grownup girl quite melted my heart.
My daughter and I had a decent run of Thanksgivings together. According to our parenting agreement, her father and I were supposed to swap her back and forth on alternating years, but the arrangement didn't stick. This was a strange, hard emblem of discord. I wanted my daughter to be loved and wanted by her father and his new wife, but I also wanted her with me over Thanksgiving. It's a sweet holiday - there aren't many rules, it's kind of slow-moving, a time out of time. The first year it was announced that Laura would be staying home with me for Thanksgiving, I was very dismayed, but I also was thankful.
We were on our own for that holiday - we had invitations to go to several friends' family celebrations, but Laura had been developing a fascination with cooking, via the Food Network, and she voted that we would stay home so she could cook. Hers was the only vote. She researched recipes and we made a shopping list. We tried things I would never have considered - such as our main dish, Cornish hens. I remember a long day of working through unfamiliar recipes. Laura was the rookie chef and I was the coach. At one point we thought dinner was ready, but then we had to put the birds back in the oven for a while. In the end, we had a tasty meal, if unevenly cooked and (re)heated.
That day was a learning experience we both remember - we have talked about it quite a few times over the years. We never did Thanksgiving all by ourselves again, so it stands out in memory.
Other Thanksgivings stand out as well, none so much as the first holiday after my mother died. My mother roasted a turkey every Thanksgiving of my childhood that I can recall. My lifetime favorite food, still to this day, is bread sage stuffing roasted inside the bird. My mom never did anything very fancy to make this rapturously delicious food. She stockpiled stale bread in the freezer and thawed it out the day before. She tore up the bread and left it to dry out on top of the frig all night in a big pan where the dog and cat couldn't get to it. In the morning, she made stock by boiling the neck and gizzards from the turkey, and she sauteed onions in margarine. (Butter was too expensive.) She moistened the stale bread with the stock and onions and more melted margarine, adding salt and pepper and lots of sage. Then she packed the bird with every scrap she could fit inside. Nothing in the entire world tastes better than this kind of stuffing. (Feel free to use butter, and you have my blessing if you like a little celery - saute it along with the onion.) By the way, I can't call it "dressing" - it's stuffing. Stuff the bird. That's the whole point.
My mom died in 1988, when I was in my late 20s, so I had had ten years or so since childhood to experience and experiment with other ideas about Thanksgiving - in the coops at Oberlin, where nobody went home for Thanksgiving (we had classes on Friday), and with friends and then with the family of my first husband and future father of Laura. His sister, Emily, is my friend from college, and we have done lots of Thanksgivings in different configurations. Rolling up her sleeves after dinner, Emily always says, "Many hands make light work," and she is the kind of person who has the turkey carcass boiling in the stock pot even as she's masterminding the cleanup. If I got to choose someone to do the dishes with on any given day, I'd choose Emily every time.
The year my mom died, Emily and my mother-in-law came to our rescue at Thanksgiving. I was grief stricken - I could barely imagine getting through the holidays without losing my mind. My husband was doing a wonderful job of hanging in there with me, but I was a mess. We had to go back to Knoxville for Thanksgiving, to the house where I grew up, where my mother lived until her death. My brother Mark still lived there. We were going. Somehow, and this was a wonderful distraction, we came up with the idea of surprising my mother-in-law by making the type of turkey stuffing that was her specialty, with matzoh meal and slivered almonds. (My brother Mark, who had to do all the shopping for this, had quite a time finding matzoh meal in Knoxville. One store tried to sell him Malt-O-Meal.)
The stuffing turned out well, and I remember how we enjoyed the look on my mother-in-law's face when she took a bite and realized what we had done, but what I remember most is the gratitude I felt, that I still feel, for those who helped me get through that time - my husband and Emily and their mother, and many others.
This year at Thanksgiving, I feel the ghosts of the harder years at my shoulder. I am grateful to be in an easier time in my own life, able to repay some of the gifts of love that brought me through.
Thursday, November 22, 2012
Monday, December 6, 2010
The Gift of Al
On Saturday, I spoke at the memorial service for Allen R. Krueger in Oberlin, Ohio. Al was married to my mother's sister, Aunt Sue. It was a later marriage for both of them, so it was not really an issue that they were actually first cousins - and it made for an interesting and often very lovely interweaving of families. I was touched and honored that Al's daughters (my second cousins) asked me to speak at the service.
~~~~~
I have not known Al all my life, as many of you have. But I know the many gifts he brought to my beloved Aunt Sue. His love, of course, which we could all see. His company and the many experiences they shared with so much joy and appreciation. The art and opera, the walking trips, travel around the world, the time with family.
Many of Al's gifts were things I know my aunt wanted very deeply. Some things maybe she didn't want quite so much - but with someone like Al, you have to take it all, and it all is a gift.
Al's gift to me above all was his welcome, in the warm and beautiful home he and Sue made together. He also brought my daughter Laura and me the gift of extending our family. Cousins we we barely knew we had are now friends.
And we have objects large and small in our home that he made for us. The largest is our kitchen pantry, an open shelving unit with pullout drawers and adjustable shelves that he designed especially for us. He built it to fit in a particular spot in the apartment that Laura and I moved into when I separated from my ex-husband. Aunt Sue brought it to Oak Park in her daughter Kathy's mini-van. We unloaded it and bolted it together, and it was perfect. It was Al's blessing for the heart of our new home. And it is a marvel of design and function.
So Al, thank you for all the marvels. We will miss you, and it will be our joy to remember you.
~~~~~
I have not known Al all my life, as many of you have. But I know the many gifts he brought to my beloved Aunt Sue. His love, of course, which we could all see. His company and the many experiences they shared with so much joy and appreciation. The art and opera, the walking trips, travel around the world, the time with family.
Many of Al's gifts were things I know my aunt wanted very deeply. Some things maybe she didn't want quite so much - but with someone like Al, you have to take it all, and it all is a gift.
Al's gift to me above all was his welcome, in the warm and beautiful home he and Sue made together. He also brought my daughter Laura and me the gift of extending our family. Cousins we we barely knew we had are now friends.
And we have objects large and small in our home that he made for us. The largest is our kitchen pantry, an open shelving unit with pullout drawers and adjustable shelves that he designed especially for us. He built it to fit in a particular spot in the apartment that Laura and I moved into when I separated from my ex-husband. Aunt Sue brought it to Oak Park in her daughter Kathy's mini-van. We unloaded it and bolted it together, and it was perfect. It was Al's blessing for the heart of our new home. And it is a marvel of design and function.
So Al, thank you for all the marvels. We will miss you, and it will be our joy to remember you.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Snow Boots
Laura called me on her cell phone from a shop right down the street where she had stopped in because she needed winter boots. She knew... she knew... she knew she was in over her head - she knew I was going to be uncomfortable with the boots the lovely ladies were showing her... cute fashion boots that really have nothing to do with snow, slush, or warm feet. So I invaded this adorably cozy retail environment with my practical-mom energy, and one lady actually tried to look up some cute little boots on the manufacturer's web site to see if they were waterproof.... Sure they are waterproof, lovely lady, kind of like your head is waterproof... it will dry, but you'll walk around with wet hair for quite a while.
I struggled to handle it right, to not completely humiliate my poor teenage daughter, who would like to vaporize in a huffle-puff of Harry-Potteresque magical mist in moments like these. I could see that these lovely ladies wanted to help my daughter. And I like this shop - I have been in there before, and they carry very nice shoes that are meant for women to have fun and be comfortable and feel good, and you know I'm all about that.
Finally, completely blundering, at some point I loudly blurted out the obvious : "But you need SNOW boots!!"
Abracadabra: I had said the magic words. (Huh??) A lovely lady instantly said, "We have snow boots!", and produced - yes, actual snow boots, made of sturdy practical materials, insulated, and - actually, incredibly - kind of cute. There were two versions. Laura tried them on. She liked them. The style she liked better, they had in her size. The lovely lady gave me a 10% discount. I think she was trying to make up for the misunderstanding.
When in doubt, Mom, just make sure you have really asked for the thing you really need.
~~~~~
Monday, September 27, 2010
The Mom-ment
I'd like to coin a new word. It's a play on the word moment, combined with Mom. The meaning is "a moment of experience, particularly a small victory or sign of hope, made possible by having or being a Mom." It's pronounced MAH-ment.
Here is the example that made me think of it.
Laura recently took her driver's permit test and did extremely well even though she did not really study. So I teased her that she must have been listening during all the impromptu driving lectures I have been giving her whenever we are in the car together - I have been pointing out all kinds of issues about traffic, decision-making, technical issues about turns and lanes, etc.
To my surprise and pleasure, she said, "Mom, I really have been listening!!" and proceeded to give me a very accurate explanation of how she answered a question about hydroplaning correctly - based on a lesson I gave her last summer as we drove through sheets of rain in the mountains in Kentucky.
It was a Mom-ment.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Summer Reading 2010
A lot of people ask me for book recommendations. My taste is very idiosyncratic, but here you go.
The Help, by Kathryn Stockett. This book is getting a LOT of well-deserved attention. It's so popular that I probably don't even have to tell you about it at all, but I definitely recommend this page-turner historical novel about the parallel worlds of privileged white women and their black maids in Mississippi during the civil rights movement.
Consenting Adult, by Laura Z. Hobson. This is a fascinating window into social and personal change. The novel is set at the time when homosexuality was just starting to be a topic of public discussion in the U.S. and psychiatrists were debating whether it should be un-classified as a mental illness. The story is told from the point of view of a mother, socially progressive and introspective, whose teenage son comes out to her. Hobson openly admits in her memoirs that she relies almost completely on her own life for the topics of her fiction, and this novel painstakingly and honestly documents the way that people struggle to come to terms with things that change them forever. It's a little hard to get into at first because it seems so dated, but it's really a rewarding book.
Triangle, by Katharine Weber. I found this on a "staff picks" shelf at the public library and remembered reading reviews of it a few years ago. The topic is very memorable - the plot revolves around the reconstructed memories of a survivor of the Triangle fire. There is a long-held secret, a historian who is trying to work out the truth, and sympathetic and textured portraits of a granddaughter and her husband who are the only remaining family. Definitely worth reading, with two caveats. First, you may guess the secret much too soon, as I did. Second, the historian character, who is meant to be annoying, is not as well written as the others - maybe the author had a personal vendetta against someone like her!
The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, by Anne Bronte. I had never read this before. A fine moralistic Victorian read, including mysterious pasts, rakish drunken villains, repentance and reconciliation. Interesting genre-mixing of first person epistolary and journal writing. As predicted, I was inspired by my first book of the summer, the Sheila Kohler novel about Charlotte, to read more of the Brontes' novels.
Untold Millions, by Laura Z. Hobson. This rather old-fashioned, very readable novel is set in the 1920s world of advertising and copywriters. It was published in 1982 but I wonder if the author had written much or all of it earlier in her life, since it reads like something written in the 40s, at least to me. If you are one of the people who loves the Mad Men TV series, you will recognize some of the same themes/motifs although the time period is earlier. The novel focuses on the love affair between a young woman and a married man whose wife is living overseas. Hobson was a very progressive novelist/essayist/commentator who is not very well known anymore but well worth exploring. Now I want to read more about her. I have read several other of her novels: Gentleman's Agreement is her best known, probably, but Tenth Month is also a really good read.
This Body of Death, by Elizabeth George. I used to be completely addicted to mystery novels, and I had to give them up since they consumed months of my time. I kept only this one author. I love her characters. They develop so slowly over the course of the novels - you know them, and they are somewhat predictable because you know them, but you never know quite how she will take them to their next place. The plots are intricate and include good social commentary. Satisfyingly big long fat novels.
One Fifth Avenue by Candace Bushnell. This is the Sex and the City author. Fun gossipy story, interesting characters - particularly the women. Not very flattering to either gender, some satisfying plot twists, art theft subplot, one subtly shocking "accident" - this was a terrific choice of audio book for a long car trip!
The Center Cannot Hold: My Journey Through Madness, by Elyn R. Saks. An amazing, moving, and educational memoir of a woman who has schizophrenia and has been able to build a successful life with the help of medication and therapy. She has a career as a law professor and has published extensively on the law and mental illness, and she is married. I could not put this book down - I read it in two days.
Becoming Jane Eyre, by Sheila Kohler - my first book of summer reading, very good. It's fiction but clearly based on a lot of research on the Brontes. Don't read it unless you are willing to be tempted to go check a bunch of Bronte novels out of the library! Just in case you don't know, Charlotte's real masterpiece, Villette, is even better than Jane Eyre - which is saying a lot.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
gathering strength
My daughter has been given a list of nutritional recommendations by her acupuncturist. Good luck to me in working to help a teenager change entrenched behaviors. Especially behaviors about food, and factoring in an eating disorder, and years of obesity and despair and pain.
This morning I walked through a doorway - literally, from the kitchen where I was making food according to the recommendations, to the dining room where the lists were spread out on the table - and I suddenly, piercingly, felt the presence of my mother and grandmother, and I instantly burst into tears. They are here, somehow. They are going to help me, I feel. Some mother-wisdom from the other side is going to toughen me up for this. I feel my determination taking form. I am preparing myself for a conversation with my daughter.
This is not just about food. This is about many interconnected things. First of all it's about her taking responsibility for herself, learning how to be healthy so she can take care of herself on her own as she matures. It's about her learning how satisfying it feels to not run excuses, to show up and step up instead of running away and hiding, not just about food but in all the ways she needs to take care of herself. It's about keeping the commitment she made to work with this practitioner, and honoring herself in that - and it's about allowing me to work with her and support her in that. She has to meet me. She doesn't get to just complain that she doesn't like oatmeal - she's gonna help me come with something she likes better.
I am going to tell her that it's her job to work with me cheerfully and creatively. It's my job to listen to her and remind her of her commitments. It's both our jobs to make it as much fun as we can, play music, share the good food, be there for each other. We can do this.
This morning I walked through a doorway - literally, from the kitchen where I was making food according to the recommendations, to the dining room where the lists were spread out on the table - and I suddenly, piercingly, felt the presence of my mother and grandmother, and I instantly burst into tears. They are here, somehow. They are going to help me, I feel. Some mother-wisdom from the other side is going to toughen me up for this. I feel my determination taking form. I am preparing myself for a conversation with my daughter.
This is not just about food. This is about many interconnected things. First of all it's about her taking responsibility for herself, learning how to be healthy so she can take care of herself on her own as she matures. It's about her learning how satisfying it feels to not run excuses, to show up and step up instead of running away and hiding, not just about food but in all the ways she needs to take care of herself. It's about keeping the commitment she made to work with this practitioner, and honoring herself in that - and it's about allowing me to work with her and support her in that. She has to meet me. She doesn't get to just complain that she doesn't like oatmeal - she's gonna help me come with something she likes better.
I am going to tell her that it's her job to work with me cheerfully and creatively. It's my job to listen to her and remind her of her commitments. It's both our jobs to make it as much fun as we can, play music, share the good food, be there for each other. We can do this.
Monday, January 4, 2010
One for the money
During the holidays I often think about what it means to have enough money. I have enough money. I pay my bills every month. There is food in my fridge, gas in my car, clothing in my closet, and cash in my checking account. I have some investments. I have a pension (unless the state of IL goes so deeply bankrupt it defaults on the pension system).
This is not because I am particularly talented with money or because of any virtue on my part. I am just lucky. Born into the middle class and other lucky turns along the way. I suppose I could have ruined myself in any number of crazy or stupid ways, but overall I have just muddled along with what I've been given and managed not to screw things up too badly. One of the key bits of luck was that I happened to want to do graduate work in a field where people get good jobs. So I have a good job. It won't make me rich, but it makes me comfortable.
I know quite a few people who in the past decade have used the expression "when I(we) used to have money." Mostly these people have meant this a bit lightly. They had had high-flying jobs in the dot-com bubble, let's say, and their company went under or their stock options lost all their value. These people went from living in a world of inflated expectations and absurd corporate overspending, back to what is everyday reality for people like me. Modest vacations, realistic homes, jeans from Old Navy, a small car. Nothing wrong with that. It's a very nice reality. You pick and choose your luxuries. You don't expect to have everything, but you can have somethings. I have a gym membership. I love the gym. I would love to have a big fat digital cable TV subscription too, but I don't.
And really, most people I know are doing fine. Maybe they are making changes to reduce their debt or their discretionary spending, but probably they are working, and like me, they can see that they have enough. It seems like one of the blessings of the holidays is the opportunity to think about this a little bit more. So it wasn't a hugely extravagant Christmas. So what?? What did we really need, that we don't already have? Nuthin.
I made a donation to the local food pantry the week before Christmas and bought very modest gifts for my family. One of my brothers happened to decide to do the same sort of thing as well. It's nice to have some presents to open, to carry on the rituals of giving and receiving. It's sweet to think of small things that people I love might enjoy--a book, an unusual ornament for the tree, a bottle of wine. Maybe one of the things that makes me really lucky is that the rest of my family all seemed to think this was a fine way to do Christmas. The children did not seem to notice any difference. My own daughter is remarkably ungreedy about gifts and has been all her life: she loves whatever people give her and never seems to notice what she doesn't get.
May we who have enough remember this Recession Christmas for how it gently reminded us that we have enough. May we keep giving to charities like the food pantries on behalf of those who truly do not have enough. I think I will sign up to give a monthly donation. Maybe about the same amount that my gym membership costs, just to remind me.
This is not because I am particularly talented with money or because of any virtue on my part. I am just lucky. Born into the middle class and other lucky turns along the way. I suppose I could have ruined myself in any number of crazy or stupid ways, but overall I have just muddled along with what I've been given and managed not to screw things up too badly. One of the key bits of luck was that I happened to want to do graduate work in a field where people get good jobs. So I have a good job. It won't make me rich, but it makes me comfortable.
I know quite a few people who in the past decade have used the expression "when I(we) used to have money." Mostly these people have meant this a bit lightly. They had had high-flying jobs in the dot-com bubble, let's say, and their company went under or their stock options lost all their value. These people went from living in a world of inflated expectations and absurd corporate overspending, back to what is everyday reality for people like me. Modest vacations, realistic homes, jeans from Old Navy, a small car. Nothing wrong with that. It's a very nice reality. You pick and choose your luxuries. You don't expect to have everything, but you can have somethings. I have a gym membership. I love the gym. I would love to have a big fat digital cable TV subscription too, but I don't.
And really, most people I know are doing fine. Maybe they are making changes to reduce their debt or their discretionary spending, but probably they are working, and like me, they can see that they have enough. It seems like one of the blessings of the holidays is the opportunity to think about this a little bit more. So it wasn't a hugely extravagant Christmas. So what?? What did we really need, that we don't already have? Nuthin.
I made a donation to the local food pantry the week before Christmas and bought very modest gifts for my family. One of my brothers happened to decide to do the same sort of thing as well. It's nice to have some presents to open, to carry on the rituals of giving and receiving. It's sweet to think of small things that people I love might enjoy--a book, an unusual ornament for the tree, a bottle of wine. Maybe one of the things that makes me really lucky is that the rest of my family all seemed to think this was a fine way to do Christmas. The children did not seem to notice any difference. My own daughter is remarkably ungreedy about gifts and has been all her life: she loves whatever people give her and never seems to notice what she doesn't get.
May we who have enough remember this Recession Christmas for how it gently reminded us that we have enough. May we keep giving to charities like the food pantries on behalf of those who truly do not have enough. I think I will sign up to give a monthly donation. Maybe about the same amount that my gym membership costs, just to remind me.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Writing Facebook
Facebook is a dream come true for someone like me. All my life, I have been kind of narrating myself in my head. I have one friend who confessed to me once that she does this too. I suppose it’s a writer thing, although I’m pretty sure that not all writers do it. But now we have a program that encourages us to share this self-narration with everyone we know! An audience--for all the little pieces of writing that constantly float through my head--wow. Who could ask for anything more??
When Aunt Maggie, also a writer, was dying, I sent what I didn’t know at the time would be my last email to her. In it, I mentioned Facebook. I said that I found myself crafting the status messages like little poems. I’m sure I am not the only literary-minded Facebooker who sometimes deletes her own content because it’s not well written enough. I love status messages. Even when they’re not really poetry, they often are interesting little snatches of life as we know it. (Go to your own profile page and read back through some of your old ones, and see what comes back to you.... Notice what you noticed at the time, and what you notice now... if you dare.)
Maybe our images of ourselves through Facebook are impossibly distorted. I think about all the different levels of privacy and self-disclosure that people are comfortable with. But I wonder, does our Fb behavior pretty much mirror how we are anyway? I am careful with my Fb postings--I do have a sense of privacy, and I don’t really want to embarrass others (well, occasionally I give in to the temptation to embarrass Laura, but that is just so damn easy). I am also careful not to “friend” just anybody who comes along. Even people I really do know, never mind the fake ones. I like Facebook because it really does connect me with people I care about. Writing has always done that for me, although like lots of people, I have always written letters and even emails in fits and starts, long broken-up lines of communication with old friends, extended family--always feeling the struggle to keep up with everyone I do truly care about.
I’m not sayin’ that Facebook is perfect, and I have perfect sympathy for all my friends who say “NO WAY”--as well as for the ones (like my brother Tim and his wife, hey I miss you on there!) who start and then drop off. It can be a time suck. I admit it. There are days when I like it too much. But all in all, in the balance, as I look at my life as the New Year approaches, I think that Facebook has enriched my life. As a writer, as a friend--even as a mother. And hell, it’s FUN. We could all use more of that, right?
I spent today in airports and planes en route to Vermont, in a state of Internet deprivation, still narrating my life in my head as I have always done, but now I have the reflex of crafting status messages out of this mundane material. I can see why people post messages from their mobile phones. (Uh-oh.) Have fun out there, and happy new year.
P.S. Oh by the way--the first free airport wifi I found all day was here in Burlington. Vermont ROCKS.
When Aunt Maggie, also a writer, was dying, I sent what I didn’t know at the time would be my last email to her. In it, I mentioned Facebook. I said that I found myself crafting the status messages like little poems. I’m sure I am not the only literary-minded Facebooker who sometimes deletes her own content because it’s not well written enough. I love status messages. Even when they’re not really poetry, they often are interesting little snatches of life as we know it. (Go to your own profile page and read back through some of your old ones, and see what comes back to you.... Notice what you noticed at the time, and what you notice now... if you dare.)
Maybe our images of ourselves through Facebook are impossibly distorted. I think about all the different levels of privacy and self-disclosure that people are comfortable with. But I wonder, does our Fb behavior pretty much mirror how we are anyway? I am careful with my Fb postings--I do have a sense of privacy, and I don’t really want to embarrass others (well, occasionally I give in to the temptation to embarrass Laura, but that is just so damn easy). I am also careful not to “friend” just anybody who comes along. Even people I really do know, never mind the fake ones. I like Facebook because it really does connect me with people I care about. Writing has always done that for me, although like lots of people, I have always written letters and even emails in fits and starts, long broken-up lines of communication with old friends, extended family--always feeling the struggle to keep up with everyone I do truly care about.
I’m not sayin’ that Facebook is perfect, and I have perfect sympathy for all my friends who say “NO WAY”--as well as for the ones (like my brother Tim and his wife, hey I miss you on there!) who start and then drop off. It can be a time suck. I admit it. There are days when I like it too much. But all in all, in the balance, as I look at my life as the New Year approaches, I think that Facebook has enriched my life. As a writer, as a friend--even as a mother. And hell, it’s FUN. We could all use more of that, right?
I spent today in airports and planes en route to Vermont, in a state of Internet deprivation, still narrating my life in my head as I have always done, but now I have the reflex of crafting status messages out of this mundane material. I can see why people post messages from their mobile phones. (Uh-oh.) Have fun out there, and happy new year.
P.S. Oh by the way--the first free airport wifi I found all day was here in Burlington. Vermont ROCKS.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Soup (a seasonal poem)
soup:
broth
deep layers of flavor
edged with salt
sentiment at the surface
bright flakes of green parsley
scent of lemon
trick you into believing that you know
what is roasted in the bone underneath
and simmered long --
essences wrought for the tongue,
mysterious
and savory.
broth
deep layers of flavor
edged with salt
sentiment at the surface
bright flakes of green parsley
scent of lemon
trick you into believing that you know
what is roasted in the bone underneath
and simmered long --
essences wrought for the tongue,
mysterious
and savory.
Monday, December 21, 2009
A little bit about my mother's death
I wrote this piece about my mother's death in May 2007. It doesn't have anything in particular to do with Christmas or with my birthday, but today is my birthday, and tonight Laura and I decorated our Christmas tree, and I guess it's fair to say that everything is always about my mother, in some way or another - often poignantly, but not always.
~~~~~~~~
Let’s get this part over with right up front: my mother was killed in a car crash in August of 1988. It was a harsh way for her to leave the world. Her body was crushed. Her sister, who was in the car with her, survived and remained conscious throughout the aftermath. Imagine.
My mother drove a Honda Civic. This was in the days before air bags were standard. (I don’t think about how it might have turned out if her car had had air bags.) She was hit by a much larger vehicle; it might have been a Ford Explorer. It was something big enough to throw a Honda Civic right off the road.
The state trooper knew the driver of the big car: he had cited that man for reckless driving in the past. As I remember it now, the story went that this trooper had said to him on some previous occasion, “You’ll kill somebody one day if you keep on driving like that.” But he still had his license and insurance.
As these things go, my two brothers and I ended up being represented by a PI attorney in a lawsuit against the driver’s insurance company. The attorney was a nice man, even a classy man, not the ambulance-chaser type I associate with that type of legal practice. He said that he had never seen such an open-and-shut case with such clear evidence of fault. He did what lawyers do, very competently I am sure, and as a result my brothers and I received sums of money in exchange for our mother’s death.
It was a strange thing to receive payment in exchange for feeling like an enormous hole had been ripped through me.
My then-husband and I went to see an investment broker because we knew nothing about what to do with this money. We did not tell her exactly where the money came from—we must have said that it came from my family, something vague like that. She remarked how lucky we were to have received this money. I liked her, and I didn’t like her any less because she said that. She just didn’t know. She is still my broker, and I still like her.
Several years later my father (who had been divorced from my mother long before her death in a guilty, uncomfortable, unresolvable, and protracted process that no one was ever able to feel good about) made some casual remark about this money—perhaps it was a comment about being able to afford to buy a house—which prompted me to say, “I would give back every penny right this minute if it would bring her back.” He looked at me, horrified, because of course he knew that. I’m sorry, Dad, I knew that you knew that. I know you would bring her back yourself if you could. You would have done anything to bring her back.
My dad was the one who told me she was dead. I was traveling in Europe at the time, and he had a terrible time finding me. First a telegram went astray, and then one night in a London guesthouse I got a message to call home. At the age of 27 I was still unacquainted with the inevitable signs of tragedy, and I did not realize what this message surely had to mean. My dad had a hard time making me understand. My brothers were backpacking together in the Cascade mountains and they didn’t find out until they came off the trail and my uncle picked them up. He had to tell them himself.
My father and his brother, it makes me weep now to think of them and what they went through in those awful days. Maybe they were not the greatest communicators who ever lived, but they loved us, and they knew enough of life and enough of my mother and of us to comprehend what we had lost. I think now that they, along with my aunt who was in the accident, my other aunt who was my father’s brother’s wife, and my grandmother who had lost her daughter, must have absorbed huge amounts of our grief and carried it for us, because we knew nothing about this kind of losing. It took us years to process this loss. We are still processing this loss. Our mother and the loss of her are layered into who we are in every way, at every level of our being. I cannot go a day without thinking of her. I have never been good at remembering her birthday or the anniversary of her death, but I am good at remembering her every day. Now, as I am starting to approach the age at which she died, I see her sometimes when I look in the mirror.
I do not really know why I am writing this essay about my mother now. I started it two days ago, on Mother’s Day, after I went on a bike ride. As I rode home I was thinking of my mother, and then I wrote a posting to my bike club listserv about the ride, and I added a paragraph about how I had been thinking of my mother. I have been writing to this listserv fairly often, even through the winter even though I don’t ride much in the winter, because there is a man in the group who interests me and I like the idea that he reads my postings. I didn’t think my mother would mind that these things coincided—my thinking of her on mother’s day, and my eagerness to come up with something good for the listserv that this man might read and enjoy. So here is the paragraph:
"It was chillier than I expected, and more overcast, and as I rode home, properly clothed, with Kleenex in my pocket for my runny nose, I reflected on how fortunate I was in my choice of a mother. She and my dad took us camping and hiking and canoeing throughout the Southeast during my childhood. I am now certain that my mother was the original inventor of the idea of layered clothing. She had that down long before the sporting goods companies ever thought of it. She also kept a Kleenex in every pocket of every article of clothing she owned. She was way way ahead of her time in carrying water bottles, and she never went anywhere without a snack in her purse or her daypack. She could pee behind a bush, change her clothes in the car, make instant coffee with a little electric gizmo that she stuck into a mug of water, and drink her beer from the bottle (or the can). In short, she knew how to be ready to go with what she needed. She died in 1988, and I still miss her, but oh how lucky I was, and I think I even knew it before I lost her."
~~~~~~~~
Let’s get this part over with right up front: my mother was killed in a car crash in August of 1988. It was a harsh way for her to leave the world. Her body was crushed. Her sister, who was in the car with her, survived and remained conscious throughout the aftermath. Imagine.
My mother drove a Honda Civic. This was in the days before air bags were standard. (I don’t think about how it might have turned out if her car had had air bags.) She was hit by a much larger vehicle; it might have been a Ford Explorer. It was something big enough to throw a Honda Civic right off the road.
The state trooper knew the driver of the big car: he had cited that man for reckless driving in the past. As I remember it now, the story went that this trooper had said to him on some previous occasion, “You’ll kill somebody one day if you keep on driving like that.” But he still had his license and insurance.
As these things go, my two brothers and I ended up being represented by a PI attorney in a lawsuit against the driver’s insurance company. The attorney was a nice man, even a classy man, not the ambulance-chaser type I associate with that type of legal practice. He said that he had never seen such an open-and-shut case with such clear evidence of fault. He did what lawyers do, very competently I am sure, and as a result my brothers and I received sums of money in exchange for our mother’s death.
It was a strange thing to receive payment in exchange for feeling like an enormous hole had been ripped through me.
My then-husband and I went to see an investment broker because we knew nothing about what to do with this money. We did not tell her exactly where the money came from—we must have said that it came from my family, something vague like that. She remarked how lucky we were to have received this money. I liked her, and I didn’t like her any less because she said that. She just didn’t know. She is still my broker, and I still like her.
Several years later my father (who had been divorced from my mother long before her death in a guilty, uncomfortable, unresolvable, and protracted process that no one was ever able to feel good about) made some casual remark about this money—perhaps it was a comment about being able to afford to buy a house—which prompted me to say, “I would give back every penny right this minute if it would bring her back.” He looked at me, horrified, because of course he knew that. I’m sorry, Dad, I knew that you knew that. I know you would bring her back yourself if you could. You would have done anything to bring her back.
My dad was the one who told me she was dead. I was traveling in Europe at the time, and he had a terrible time finding me. First a telegram went astray, and then one night in a London guesthouse I got a message to call home. At the age of 27 I was still unacquainted with the inevitable signs of tragedy, and I did not realize what this message surely had to mean. My dad had a hard time making me understand. My brothers were backpacking together in the Cascade mountains and they didn’t find out until they came off the trail and my uncle picked them up. He had to tell them himself.
My father and his brother, it makes me weep now to think of them and what they went through in those awful days. Maybe they were not the greatest communicators who ever lived, but they loved us, and they knew enough of life and enough of my mother and of us to comprehend what we had lost. I think now that they, along with my aunt who was in the accident, my other aunt who was my father’s brother’s wife, and my grandmother who had lost her daughter, must have absorbed huge amounts of our grief and carried it for us, because we knew nothing about this kind of losing. It took us years to process this loss. We are still processing this loss. Our mother and the loss of her are layered into who we are in every way, at every level of our being. I cannot go a day without thinking of her. I have never been good at remembering her birthday or the anniversary of her death, but I am good at remembering her every day. Now, as I am starting to approach the age at which she died, I see her sometimes when I look in the mirror.
I do not really know why I am writing this essay about my mother now. I started it two days ago, on Mother’s Day, after I went on a bike ride. As I rode home I was thinking of my mother, and then I wrote a posting to my bike club listserv about the ride, and I added a paragraph about how I had been thinking of my mother. I have been writing to this listserv fairly often, even through the winter even though I don’t ride much in the winter, because there is a man in the group who interests me and I like the idea that he reads my postings. I didn’t think my mother would mind that these things coincided—my thinking of her on mother’s day, and my eagerness to come up with something good for the listserv that this man might read and enjoy. So here is the paragraph:
"It was chillier than I expected, and more overcast, and as I rode home, properly clothed, with Kleenex in my pocket for my runny nose, I reflected on how fortunate I was in my choice of a mother. She and my dad took us camping and hiking and canoeing throughout the Southeast during my childhood. I am now certain that my mother was the original inventor of the idea of layered clothing. She had that down long before the sporting goods companies ever thought of it. She also kept a Kleenex in every pocket of every article of clothing she owned. She was way way ahead of her time in carrying water bottles, and she never went anywhere without a snack in her purse or her daypack. She could pee behind a bush, change her clothes in the car, make instant coffee with a little electric gizmo that she stuck into a mug of water, and drink her beer from the bottle (or the can). In short, she knew how to be ready to go with what she needed. She died in 1988, and I still miss her, but oh how lucky I was, and I think I even knew it before I lost her."
Monday, November 23, 2009
so thankful, it's hard to know where to begin
I am having a hard time allowing myself to write about one thing I am thankful for because I have this odd (irrational) fear that all the other things I am thankful for will feel left out... and that somehow this will damage the spiritual connection my thankfulness could create. I am not sure this even makes sense, so probably I need to just get over it.
Last week I was struggling with something that seemed like it should be easy, but wasn't - making some travel arrangements to visit my family in Vermont at New Year's. Nothing seemed to come together - flights, timing, etc. I complained to Doug that I didn't even feel like going, that I couldn't see any reasonable way that he could come with me, that it was too much trouble for such a short trip, that I hate traveling during the holidays, that winter weather is too risky... yadda yadda yadda. The inner Grinch was stealing my winter vacation.
Raising his eyebrows slightly at this (he's always at the low-key end of the reaction spectrum), Doug spoke straight to the heart of the matter: If you don't go, you won't see your dad.
My dad is doing fine, but he is not young, and there are only so many chances left to visit him. I know this. Doug also knows it; his parents are not young either, and he too does not know how many chances are left. We count these visits with our parents like heartbeats. Thankfully, we are still able to enjoy them. Thankfully, they are still well. Thankfully, they are still independent, drive cars, feed themselves, accommodate guests. We know this: none of these things can be taken for granted.
So Doug started in. He does travel planning online, with many Firefox tabs churning all at once, comparing flights and prices and schedules and layovers, considering hotel options and driving distances. He looks at planes, trains, shuttles. He is creative. He tests ideas that seem crazy to me, he expands the field of possibilities, he thinks about what might be fun. This is all data, and problem solving, to him - and this is what he is good at. Not because it's easy, even for him; plainly it's difficult. There are dead ends and crappy flights and overpriced routes and disconnects everywhere. He takes it on. He has a sense of timing and he's patient. When nothing seems to work he lets it go for a while.
Fast-forward a few days. I have a ticket to Burlington on a flight that arrives within five minutes of my brother's flight. Doug has a ticket to Boston for the next day, and a rental car reservation. We both have tickets home from Boston. We have a notion of taking our x-c skis, of visiting Doug's son Willy. We have a room at the airport Hilton for one night. The Grinch is in thrall to Cindy Lou-Who and I am looking forward to our trip. Thank you thank you.
I am thankful for so much. Did I mention that I thought I had started out to write about just one thing, and ended up feeling grateful for my whole life?
Last week I was struggling with something that seemed like it should be easy, but wasn't - making some travel arrangements to visit my family in Vermont at New Year's. Nothing seemed to come together - flights, timing, etc. I complained to Doug that I didn't even feel like going, that I couldn't see any reasonable way that he could come with me, that it was too much trouble for such a short trip, that I hate traveling during the holidays, that winter weather is too risky... yadda yadda yadda. The inner Grinch was stealing my winter vacation.
Raising his eyebrows slightly at this (he's always at the low-key end of the reaction spectrum), Doug spoke straight to the heart of the matter: If you don't go, you won't see your dad.
My dad is doing fine, but he is not young, and there are only so many chances left to visit him. I know this. Doug also knows it; his parents are not young either, and he too does not know how many chances are left. We count these visits with our parents like heartbeats. Thankfully, we are still able to enjoy them. Thankfully, they are still well. Thankfully, they are still independent, drive cars, feed themselves, accommodate guests. We know this: none of these things can be taken for granted.
So Doug started in. He does travel planning online, with many Firefox tabs churning all at once, comparing flights and prices and schedules and layovers, considering hotel options and driving distances. He looks at planes, trains, shuttles. He is creative. He tests ideas that seem crazy to me, he expands the field of possibilities, he thinks about what might be fun. This is all data, and problem solving, to him - and this is what he is good at. Not because it's easy, even for him; plainly it's difficult. There are dead ends and crappy flights and overpriced routes and disconnects everywhere. He takes it on. He has a sense of timing and he's patient. When nothing seems to work he lets it go for a while.
Fast-forward a few days. I have a ticket to Burlington on a flight that arrives within five minutes of my brother's flight. Doug has a ticket to Boston for the next day, and a rental car reservation. We both have tickets home from Boston. We have a notion of taking our x-c skis, of visiting Doug's son Willy. We have a room at the airport Hilton for one night. The Grinch is in thrall to Cindy Lou-Who and I am looking forward to our trip. Thank you thank you.
I am thankful for so much. Did I mention that I thought I had started out to write about just one thing, and ended up feeling grateful for my whole life?
Friday, November 13, 2009
not easy being green
The suburbs are organized for people's cars. This point is driven home to me (pun intended) every single day I try to travel to work without my car.
The Metra train, just a few blocks from my apartment, gets me to a station three miles from where I work. The train runs on a very infrequent schedule and is often late. In theory, bicycles are allowed on the train (three miles is a pretty easy distance to cover on a bike), but also supposed to be limited to three bikes per car, and cyclists are completely at the mercy of conductors who can throw them off the train anywhere, or refuse to let them on at all. This sort of thing doesn't happen often, but I'm holding my breath for the day it happens to me on my way to work. "Hi, this is Karin, I have to cancel my morning class today because the Metra conductor wouldn't let me on the train with my bike, and it was an hour until the next train." I do not want to make that phone call.
I tried a folding bike as a way of combatting this problem, but I don't really like riding the folding bike. It feels kinda little and wobbly, and the adjustment points don't hold, so they have to be readjusted all the time. I like my old hybrid bike, Bessie, best for commuting - it's more comfortable and bigger and I feel more visible on it. So now that Daylight Savings is over, I have been riding Bessie instead.
But last night I wished I had had the folding bike - the Metra train was running on the center track and couldn't board passengers from the platforms. So they were boarding at the grade crossings, and everyone had to get on and off from the head car. This slowed the boarding process, and as I was waiting for the train, and waiting, and waiting, it gradually dawned on me that there were probably gonna be a lot of bikes in that one head car already - and very likely, the conductor was not going to let mine on - and, of course, the next train would be an hour later.
At the last minute, I hastily locked Bessie to the nearest railing and got on the train without her. I was right - the bike area was stuffed already and the conductors were commenting to each other that they couldn't take any more bikes.
So that's Metra. Late, unreliable, poor accommodations for bikes, unpredictable conductors, infrequent service.
Then there's Pace - the bus service. There's no real coordination that I can discover between any bus and train schedules, and the bus service is just as infrequent and unreliable as the train service. You can get a bus on any given route about once per hour, and it may or may not be on time. One of the drivers I have encountered most often drives like she's in Nascar, taking turns in ways that make people's unsecured belongings fly and roll all over the bus. She's scary and loud and insulting, too. And that's just the driver - I'll leave the passengers to your imagination.
If I leave my apartment at 7:45am and take the train and the bus and everything works just right, I can walk into my office at just about 9am. This is half an hour longer than it takes to drive, and about 10 minutes longer than it takes if I bike instead of bus.
In the afternoon, I can leave my office at 4:10, catch the bus, wait in downtown Glen Ellyn for the 5pm train, and if the train is on time, arrive home in Oak Park about 5:45. This is about 45 minutes longer than it takes to drive, and about 25 minutes longer than if I have my bike.
I can read, and sometimes I can do work, on the train and on the bus. But most of my real work requires a laptop and an internet connection, since I am trying to be "green" - that is, paperless - in collecting assignments from my students thru Blackboard. I also need access to Blackboard to post lesson plans and assignments, and I need to get to my email for most other kinds of faculty work. I don't exactly waste time on the train and bus, since napping and spacing out at least part of the time can be considered of great value in my busy life, but still, green commuting in the suburbs is really not at all efficient. It takes a lot of extra time and effort.
This does not mean I am giving up or quitting all of this. I am going to keep on mixing it up; some days I will drive, and other days I will ride and read. I'll be as green as I can without going around being pissed off about how difficult it is.
The Metra train, just a few blocks from my apartment, gets me to a station three miles from where I work. The train runs on a very infrequent schedule and is often late. In theory, bicycles are allowed on the train (three miles is a pretty easy distance to cover on a bike), but also supposed to be limited to three bikes per car, and cyclists are completely at the mercy of conductors who can throw them off the train anywhere, or refuse to let them on at all. This sort of thing doesn't happen often, but I'm holding my breath for the day it happens to me on my way to work. "Hi, this is Karin, I have to cancel my morning class today because the Metra conductor wouldn't let me on the train with my bike, and it was an hour until the next train." I do not want to make that phone call.
I tried a folding bike as a way of combatting this problem, but I don't really like riding the folding bike. It feels kinda little and wobbly, and the adjustment points don't hold, so they have to be readjusted all the time. I like my old hybrid bike, Bessie, best for commuting - it's more comfortable and bigger and I feel more visible on it. So now that Daylight Savings is over, I have been riding Bessie instead.
But last night I wished I had had the folding bike - the Metra train was running on the center track and couldn't board passengers from the platforms. So they were boarding at the grade crossings, and everyone had to get on and off from the head car. This slowed the boarding process, and as I was waiting for the train, and waiting, and waiting, it gradually dawned on me that there were probably gonna be a lot of bikes in that one head car already - and very likely, the conductor was not going to let mine on - and, of course, the next train would be an hour later.
At the last minute, I hastily locked Bessie to the nearest railing and got on the train without her. I was right - the bike area was stuffed already and the conductors were commenting to each other that they couldn't take any more bikes.
So that's Metra. Late, unreliable, poor accommodations for bikes, unpredictable conductors, infrequent service.
Then there's Pace - the bus service. There's no real coordination that I can discover between any bus and train schedules, and the bus service is just as infrequent and unreliable as the train service. You can get a bus on any given route about once per hour, and it may or may not be on time. One of the drivers I have encountered most often drives like she's in Nascar, taking turns in ways that make people's unsecured belongings fly and roll all over the bus. She's scary and loud and insulting, too. And that's just the driver - I'll leave the passengers to your imagination.
If I leave my apartment at 7:45am and take the train and the bus and everything works just right, I can walk into my office at just about 9am. This is half an hour longer than it takes to drive, and about 10 minutes longer than it takes if I bike instead of bus.
In the afternoon, I can leave my office at 4:10, catch the bus, wait in downtown Glen Ellyn for the 5pm train, and if the train is on time, arrive home in Oak Park about 5:45. This is about 45 minutes longer than it takes to drive, and about 25 minutes longer than if I have my bike.
I can read, and sometimes I can do work, on the train and on the bus. But most of my real work requires a laptop and an internet connection, since I am trying to be "green" - that is, paperless - in collecting assignments from my students thru Blackboard. I also need access to Blackboard to post lesson plans and assignments, and I need to get to my email for most other kinds of faculty work. I don't exactly waste time on the train and bus, since napping and spacing out at least part of the time can be considered of great value in my busy life, but still, green commuting in the suburbs is really not at all efficient. It takes a lot of extra time and effort.
This does not mean I am giving up or quitting all of this. I am going to keep on mixing it up; some days I will drive, and other days I will ride and read. I'll be as green as I can without going around being pissed off about how difficult it is.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
hospice, beautiful and sad
Nan had many visitors today. The end is coming and no one is pretending otherwise. This is so wise, so simple - and so rare that we are able to experience it in this gentle but raw, unprocessed way.
There is a woman in a hospital bed. She does not speak, but people speak to her - lovingly, teasingly, cheerfully, gently -and touch her and rub her hands and wash her face. She opens her eyes from time to time but there is not really any way to know for sure what she can see, hear, or understand. She is lovely, her face softened.
The room is small and light and cozy. There seems to be space enough for anyone who wants to be there. There are cards, posters, flowers, pictures. This is a space for love and goodbye, and you cannot be there without weeping, and I cannot write this without weeping, yet I am overcome more with love than grief, more with memory than loss.
Here is such beauty. In this room, Nan's presence is strong even as her spirit is letting go of her body. Her presence is alive in all the people who surround her now, and we all know, we know together as one, her death cannot change that.
~~~~~
Standing by is about Nan and her daughter.
There is a woman in a hospital bed. She does not speak, but people speak to her - lovingly, teasingly, cheerfully, gently -and touch her and rub her hands and wash her face. She opens her eyes from time to time but there is not really any way to know for sure what she can see, hear, or understand. She is lovely, her face softened.
The room is small and light and cozy. There seems to be space enough for anyone who wants to be there. There are cards, posters, flowers, pictures. This is a space for love and goodbye, and you cannot be there without weeping, and I cannot write this without weeping, yet I am overcome more with love than grief, more with memory than loss.
Here is such beauty. In this room, Nan's presence is strong even as her spirit is letting go of her body. Her presence is alive in all the people who surround her now, and we all know, we know together as one, her death cannot change that.
~~~~~
Standing by is about Nan and her daughter.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
A new "right" of passage
I am done taking my daughter on family vacations. By last summer, she already seemed too old at 15 to be told: this is where you're going and when and who you're going with. She's not quite at the age where she can manage her vacation planning and trips all by herself... but I guess this is the transitional time in which she will learn how. This year, I am going to Vermont for the family visit over New Year's, but she is not - she is going to Florida to visit her friend Olivia.
A related development is that Laura has told her dad she does not want to spend any of her winter holidays at his house. She wants to have a "normal" vacation at home in Oak Park for at least part of her two weeks off. I approve of this. She will see her father on Christmas, and they can visit back and forth as much as they like, but she shouldn't have to pack up for an extended stay out there, away from her friends, away from her room and her stuff, away from the nice perks we have here, like our health club two blocks from home. She's not portable like she was when she was 10. Her life is here, and she is old enough to claim her right to this life.
Last summer, I had interesting and thoughtful conversations with my family about Laura's need to choose for herself about family visits. My stepmother, who has a certain gift for honesty that I often can truly appreciate, commented that she and my dad do not really want the older teens to visit if they don't want to. I think this is wise. They know that the children love them (they do!), and the children know they are welcome and loved by their grandparents (they are!). The issue is whether the teenagers will enjoy a family holiday in rural Vermont, or whether they will actually be kind of drag to have around. My brother and his wife are sad to lose a playmate and helper for their two younger boys, but they are realistic and very understanding. We will all miss Laura, but we get it.
Strangely, the one who is most resistant to this new policy is my ex-husband, who tried to persuade Laura to go to Vermont this winter by offering her a free ticket to Florida for the week before Christmas, if she would also go to Vermont with me. He said that he is trying to reinforce the importance of family for Laura by doing this.
I wrote him an email to explain that I was not willing to take Laura to Vermont unless she wanted to go, and also that my family as a whole had already agreed on this. He responded oddly, I thought: "She knows that if she really wants to go to Florida then she will really be wanting to go to Vermont too." Hmmm. Maybe to him, her agreeing to go to Vermont in order to get a free ticket to Florida is the same as her wanting to go to Vermont. But not to me, and not to her.
It seems well worth it to contribute some money to Laura's ticket to Florida (Merry Christmas, Laura!), and very satisfying for Laura to be able to pay the rest herself from her babysitting jobs.
Autonomy: priceless.
A related development is that Laura has told her dad she does not want to spend any of her winter holidays at his house. She wants to have a "normal" vacation at home in Oak Park for at least part of her two weeks off. I approve of this. She will see her father on Christmas, and they can visit back and forth as much as they like, but she shouldn't have to pack up for an extended stay out there, away from her friends, away from her room and her stuff, away from the nice perks we have here, like our health club two blocks from home. She's not portable like she was when she was 10. Her life is here, and she is old enough to claim her right to this life.
Last summer, I had interesting and thoughtful conversations with my family about Laura's need to choose for herself about family visits. My stepmother, who has a certain gift for honesty that I often can truly appreciate, commented that she and my dad do not really want the older teens to visit if they don't want to. I think this is wise. They know that the children love them (they do!), and the children know they are welcome and loved by their grandparents (they are!). The issue is whether the teenagers will enjoy a family holiday in rural Vermont, or whether they will actually be kind of drag to have around. My brother and his wife are sad to lose a playmate and helper for their two younger boys, but they are realistic and very understanding. We will all miss Laura, but we get it.
Strangely, the one who is most resistant to this new policy is my ex-husband, who tried to persuade Laura to go to Vermont this winter by offering her a free ticket to Florida for the week before Christmas, if she would also go to Vermont with me. He said that he is trying to reinforce the importance of family for Laura by doing this.
I wrote him an email to explain that I was not willing to take Laura to Vermont unless she wanted to go, and also that my family as a whole had already agreed on this. He responded oddly, I thought: "She knows that if she really wants to go to Florida then she will really be wanting to go to Vermont too." Hmmm. Maybe to him, her agreeing to go to Vermont in order to get a free ticket to Florida is the same as her wanting to go to Vermont. But not to me, and not to her.
It seems well worth it to contribute some money to Laura's ticket to Florida (Merry Christmas, Laura!), and very satisfying for Laura to be able to pay the rest herself from her babysitting jobs.
Autonomy: priceless.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
What I wrote to my students this week
MIDTERM: THE CARROT AND THE STICK
Some students in my English 1102 classes start to feel confused at this point in the semester. It's just midterm, and we just about have a full draft of your long paper assigned. What's left that's going to take up the rest of the term, you might wonder.
What's left is the possibility of taking that essay to a much better place - and the learning that is possible for you in the process. If you have looked carefully at the grading rubric for the final essay, you may have begun to realize how many arts of writing are involved in getting a good grade. These arts take practice, effort, and focus. They can also have great payoffs in building your confidence as a writer and developing skills that you can use in the many writing projects you will face in the future.
If you bring the best possible essay draft that you can write on your own into the feedback process (which includes both peer reviews and an instructor conference), then you will be much more likely to get feedback you can really use. If we spend our time giving you feedback on basic stuff that you could have completed on your own if you had done more work sooner, you won't get the feedback you need to actually do better.
So that's the carrot: learning is available to you in this process if you work this process, do the assignments faithfully, read and review the textbook and apply what it says. You can improve your writing arts, and you can get a better grade that way.
(You know the carrot and stick metaphor, right??)
So here's the stick: I am going to grade your final essay really, really hard. If you want to know what I'll be looking for, study the rubric. By the end of the term, you will have had many weeks to try to do your best to achieve what it demands. There won't really be any excuses left that I'll be interested in at that point.
I always promise my students that I will do my best to be a good teacher. But I know, after many years of teaching, that students have to be full partners in their own education. Many of you are excellent partners, and it's my great pleasure to work with you.
If you are one who has not been doing your best up to now, please step up. It's not too late to go back and learn from assignments that you haven't done yet. It's not too late to meet with me and get extra help. It's not too late to become one of the students who asks questions in class, who does more research to fill the gaps, who suddenly realizes that doing better work is worth the personal satisfaction.
There's an ironic element of pride involved in working hard in a class like this. Often the students who work the hardest are not prideful during the process of developing big writing projects - they ask a lot of questions, they seem like they don't have a lot of confidence, they realize how much they don't know, they struggle to get things right. But in the end, when they get their good grade, and they know they did their best and they realize how much they learned, they are excited and filled with pride!
Every one of you still has the potential to be one of those students.
Some students in my English 1102 classes start to feel confused at this point in the semester. It's just midterm, and we just about have a full draft of your long paper assigned. What's left that's going to take up the rest of the term, you might wonder.
What's left is the possibility of taking that essay to a much better place - and the learning that is possible for you in the process. If you have looked carefully at the grading rubric for the final essay, you may have begun to realize how many arts of writing are involved in getting a good grade. These arts take practice, effort, and focus. They can also have great payoffs in building your confidence as a writer and developing skills that you can use in the many writing projects you will face in the future.
If you bring the best possible essay draft that you can write on your own into the feedback process (which includes both peer reviews and an instructor conference), then you will be much more likely to get feedback you can really use. If we spend our time giving you feedback on basic stuff that you could have completed on your own if you had done more work sooner, you won't get the feedback you need to actually do better.
So that's the carrot: learning is available to you in this process if you work this process, do the assignments faithfully, read and review the textbook and apply what it says. You can improve your writing arts, and you can get a better grade that way.
(You know the carrot and stick metaphor, right??)
So here's the stick: I am going to grade your final essay really, really hard. If you want to know what I'll be looking for, study the rubric. By the end of the term, you will have had many weeks to try to do your best to achieve what it demands. There won't really be any excuses left that I'll be interested in at that point.
I always promise my students that I will do my best to be a good teacher. But I know, after many years of teaching, that students have to be full partners in their own education. Many of you are excellent partners, and it's my great pleasure to work with you.
If you are one who has not been doing your best up to now, please step up. It's not too late to go back and learn from assignments that you haven't done yet. It's not too late to meet with me and get extra help. It's not too late to become one of the students who asks questions in class, who does more research to fill the gaps, who suddenly realizes that doing better work is worth the personal satisfaction.
There's an ironic element of pride involved in working hard in a class like this. Often the students who work the hardest are not prideful during the process of developing big writing projects - they ask a lot of questions, they seem like they don't have a lot of confidence, they realize how much they don't know, they struggle to get things right. But in the end, when they get their good grade, and they know they did their best and they realize how much they learned, they are excited and filled with pride!
Every one of you still has the potential to be one of those students.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Sick at home, alone
This week's rash of Facebook messages from friends who are at home with sick children reminds me sharply of the first time I left Laura home alone with the flu and went to work. She must have been about ten years old. Laura is pretty calm when she is sick, and she tends not to do very dramatic things like spike high fevers or go into spells of awesome vomiting - but still, the first time you drive off knowing your sick child is at home all alone is certainly memorable.
In those days, I was still getting used to being a single parent. I assumed that my ex-husband would help care for Laura when she was ill, as he always did when we lived together as a family. In the first months following our separation, I would ask him if she could spend sick days at his house if she had a cold, since he and his new partner often worked at home. Their house was on my way to the office, even after they moved out to Downers Grove, and we did that a few times, but it seemed like none of us really liked this arrangement.
Then she got the flu, and she was a lot more sick than just a cold. I spent one day at home with her. I probably could have figured out some way to stay home longer, but my job really is fairly demanding, and it's bad to cancel classes - students need to know they can count on their college teachers to show up and teach. There are only so many class meetings in a term, and we have to finish the course before the term ends, no matter what.
I thought hard about calling my ex and asking him to let Laura spend a couple of days on his sofa while I went to work. But what I could see, once I let myself see it, was that she would be more relaxed and more able to get well if she could stay home in her usual nest and not have the extra stress of being moved to her dad's. So I left her at home and crossed my fingers and hoped for the best. How strange it was to come to understand that she would be better off at home, on her own, than at her father's house with an adult present. But there was also liberation and a kind of peace in realizing that we would be fine without his help.
This week Laura has again been home with the flu, and I asked her if she could remember that long ago time. She does - but what she remembers is that she got to lie in my bed all day and watch TV. I'm glad.
In those days, I was still getting used to being a single parent. I assumed that my ex-husband would help care for Laura when she was ill, as he always did when we lived together as a family. In the first months following our separation, I would ask him if she could spend sick days at his house if she had a cold, since he and his new partner often worked at home. Their house was on my way to the office, even after they moved out to Downers Grove, and we did that a few times, but it seemed like none of us really liked this arrangement.
Then she got the flu, and she was a lot more sick than just a cold. I spent one day at home with her. I probably could have figured out some way to stay home longer, but my job really is fairly demanding, and it's bad to cancel classes - students need to know they can count on their college teachers to show up and teach. There are only so many class meetings in a term, and we have to finish the course before the term ends, no matter what.
I thought hard about calling my ex and asking him to let Laura spend a couple of days on his sofa while I went to work. But what I could see, once I let myself see it, was that she would be more relaxed and more able to get well if she could stay home in her usual nest and not have the extra stress of being moved to her dad's. So I left her at home and crossed my fingers and hoped for the best. How strange it was to come to understand that she would be better off at home, on her own, than at her father's house with an adult present. But there was also liberation and a kind of peace in realizing that we would be fine without his help.
This week Laura has again been home with the flu, and I asked her if she could remember that long ago time. She does - but what she remembers is that she got to lie in my bed all day and watch TV. I'm glad.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Standing by
Nan, a single mother with a daughter in college, in her early 50s, a cousin of my ex-husband, is going into hospice care. Treatments are over now. She is dying of cancer, and many people are standing by.
Nan's daughter is in the process of requesting of her college downstate that she be allowed to go home for her mother's last weeks and complete her courses online.
Nan's sister is staying for the duration as well - working from her laptop, somehow holding onto her job on the east coast.
Nan is not married, but her daughter's father has been present in their lives all these years, remaining close to Nan and her daughter. Last night a relative told me that lately he has been sleeping in Nan's hospital room.
Nan's aunt - the kind of aunt you grew up with who has long been divorced from the uncle who is actually your blood relative but somehow she never stops being your aunt - has been visiting several times a week.
Nan also has another sister here, a father and stepmother, a mother and mother's partner, not to mention layers of other friends and relatives. All standing by. All offering what we can offer, and all waiting - for release.
This is what I reckon, from my removed and partial view: Nan and her family are really preparing themselves for that release. They are tired and their good options are past. This is not to say that the letting go will not be deeply painful, sometimes agony. But I am glad for everyone's sake that they are preparing, not denying or fighting against what is coming.
I know that I am writing about this because of how much I am thinking of Nan's daughter. I think of her frequently, yet I do not want to try to enter into her experience. I really believe she has everything and everyone she needs right now.
She is five years older than my daughter; they have known each other for all of my daughter's life. I cannot help but think that my daughter will be much affected by all this, though she will not show it outwardly: here is another only daughter of a single mother, getting ready to lose her mother.
I know, though - from my own hard learning, from my own mother's death - that Nan's daughter cannot lose her mother. Nan will be with her always. We may be forced to let someone go from their life in the body, but we dwell together forever nonetheless.
As I write this, I hear Nan's voice in my memory, talking to our girls, as she would have on any given day when they were little. "You're missing a word," she would say with a teasing lilt in her voice if they didn't say please. On your birthday, at any age, Nan would proclaim, "Free paddlywhacks!" She always had ideas, advice. She knew the fastest way to drive from any point to any point around Chicago and the suburbs. She organized parties and gatherings. She offered food and conversation and plans and outings.
No one can take any of this away from Nan's daughter - and she has the added blessing of all these people standing by with her, people who know and love all that Nan is and has been, who know and love all that her daughter is and will become, into the future. We are standing by, many of us, in a thick circle that cannot be broken.
Nan's daughter is in the process of requesting of her college downstate that she be allowed to go home for her mother's last weeks and complete her courses online.
Nan's sister is staying for the duration as well - working from her laptop, somehow holding onto her job on the east coast.
Nan is not married, but her daughter's father has been present in their lives all these years, remaining close to Nan and her daughter. Last night a relative told me that lately he has been sleeping in Nan's hospital room.
Nan's aunt - the kind of aunt you grew up with who has long been divorced from the uncle who is actually your blood relative but somehow she never stops being your aunt - has been visiting several times a week.
Nan also has another sister here, a father and stepmother, a mother and mother's partner, not to mention layers of other friends and relatives. All standing by. All offering what we can offer, and all waiting - for release.
This is what I reckon, from my removed and partial view: Nan and her family are really preparing themselves for that release. They are tired and their good options are past. This is not to say that the letting go will not be deeply painful, sometimes agony. But I am glad for everyone's sake that they are preparing, not denying or fighting against what is coming.
I know that I am writing about this because of how much I am thinking of Nan's daughter. I think of her frequently, yet I do not want to try to enter into her experience. I really believe she has everything and everyone she needs right now.
She is five years older than my daughter; they have known each other for all of my daughter's life. I cannot help but think that my daughter will be much affected by all this, though she will not show it outwardly: here is another only daughter of a single mother, getting ready to lose her mother.
I know, though - from my own hard learning, from my own mother's death - that Nan's daughter cannot lose her mother. Nan will be with her always. We may be forced to let someone go from their life in the body, but we dwell together forever nonetheless.
As I write this, I hear Nan's voice in my memory, talking to our girls, as she would have on any given day when they were little. "You're missing a word," she would say with a teasing lilt in her voice if they didn't say please. On your birthday, at any age, Nan would proclaim, "Free paddlywhacks!" She always had ideas, advice. She knew the fastest way to drive from any point to any point around Chicago and the suburbs. She organized parties and gatherings. She offered food and conversation and plans and outings.
No one can take any of this away from Nan's daughter - and she has the added blessing of all these people standing by with her, people who know and love all that Nan is and has been, who know and love all that her daughter is and will become, into the future. We are standing by, many of us, in a thick circle that cannot be broken.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
"I don't cook - I purchase."
This is what I said to the dinner coordinator Thursday night when I delivered about 40 servings of fresh fruit to Laura's swim meet for the girls' dinner. I had washed all the grapes and apples, cut the grapes into bunches, and cut the bananas in half. All organic, all neatly presented in a couple of cartons that no one had to return to me - simplify, simplify. Next week I am bringing "salad" - which will consist of bags of salad greens, bags of prepped carrots, bottles of salad dressing, and perhaps one or two other toppings that require only the opening of a package.
I used to cook, and I'm not a particularly bad cook, and I even enjoy cooking when there is a little time for it. When I lived in a household with two adults, and there was more than one driver, more than one shopper, more than one cook, and more than one child supervisor, cooking seemed like a good idea. It made economic sense, and even though we both were busy working people, the fact that there were two of us made a difference, and we probably cooked dinner three or four nights a week.
But for over six years now, there's only one of me. Now I do all the driving, all the shopping, all the homework supervision, all the scheduling. I pay all the bills. I go to Curriculum Night and teacher conferences and sign permission slips and call the attendance office. I pack breakfasts, lunches, and snacks for days when Laura will be at school from 6am to 6pm with two swim practices. I arrange dentist and doctor and orthodontist and acupuncturist appointments. I do the "volunteer" work for church and school. I clean our apartment, take care of our cats, do laundry. I make lists. I remind Laura to do things and take stuff and take care of things. Sometimes I hound her a little. Sometimes she has to hound me a little, like reminding me over and over that her bathtub was clogged. It was hard to imagine how to find time to get someone in here to fix it. I found a lovely handyman who would come on Saturday morning, what a blessing.
Every once in a while something catches me up and I notice how amazing this really is. I made a homemade dinner one night this week, and we really enjoyed it. It may be a month before I make another one. But that's all right. When I say, "I don't cook - I purchase," I say it with happiness and without guilt, because I am loving my full and wonderful life. Laura won't be here very much longer, and she doesn't like my cooking all that much anyway! Our apartment, halfway between Penny's Noodles and Trader Joe's . . . well - as the saying goes, "there must be a reason." Or, as Laura and her friends say, "It's all good." Yes. It is.
I used to cook, and I'm not a particularly bad cook, and I even enjoy cooking when there is a little time for it. When I lived in a household with two adults, and there was more than one driver, more than one shopper, more than one cook, and more than one child supervisor, cooking seemed like a good idea. It made economic sense, and even though we both were busy working people, the fact that there were two of us made a difference, and we probably cooked dinner three or four nights a week.
But for over six years now, there's only one of me. Now I do all the driving, all the shopping, all the homework supervision, all the scheduling. I pay all the bills. I go to Curriculum Night and teacher conferences and sign permission slips and call the attendance office. I pack breakfasts, lunches, and snacks for days when Laura will be at school from 6am to 6pm with two swim practices. I arrange dentist and doctor and orthodontist and acupuncturist appointments. I do the "volunteer" work for church and school. I clean our apartment, take care of our cats, do laundry. I make lists. I remind Laura to do things and take stuff and take care of things. Sometimes I hound her a little. Sometimes she has to hound me a little, like reminding me over and over that her bathtub was clogged. It was hard to imagine how to find time to get someone in here to fix it. I found a lovely handyman who would come on Saturday morning, what a blessing.
Every once in a while something catches me up and I notice how amazing this really is. I made a homemade dinner one night this week, and we really enjoyed it. It may be a month before I make another one. But that's all right. When I say, "I don't cook - I purchase," I say it with happiness and without guilt, because I am loving my full and wonderful life. Laura won't be here very much longer, and she doesn't like my cooking all that much anyway! Our apartment, halfway between Penny's Noodles and Trader Joe's . . . well - as the saying goes, "there must be a reason." Or, as Laura and her friends say, "It's all good." Yes. It is.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
12 Stages of Disgust
A friend who is growing disenchanted with his job asked me if I could name the 12 levels of Disgust. This led to an earnest effort on our part to arrive at descriptors for 12 levels of Disgust, followed by a corresponding 12 levels of Catharsis. I kind of imagine that these lists might live in some hazy psycho-social universe between the Stages of Grief and the 12 Steps of Recovery. An English colleague mentioned that it made him think of Dante's Levels of Hell. Enjoy - and feel free to suggest amendments.
(Disclaimer: this is a free-floating vocabulary exercise, and any resemblance to any responsible theoretical or research framework is purely accidental.)
(Disclaimer: this is a free-floating vocabulary exercise, and any resemblance to any responsible theoretical or research framework is purely accidental.)
12 Levels of Disgust
- Mild Distaste
- Strong Distaste
- Medium Dislike
- Full Dislike
- Medium Aversion
- Strong Aversion
- Mild Disgust
- Strong Disgust
- Full Repulsion
- Overwhelming Revulsion
- Inability to be in the same room
- Urge to violence
- gentle exhale
- sigh
- mild gesture, such as a shake of the head
- stronger gesture, such as rolling the eyes, or the classic shrug of arms and shoulders together with the palms raising
- a polite but honest expression of disappointment
- a focused, articulate complaint
- a brief and controlled rant
- a full expression of frustration
- an actual repudiation
- a calm refusal to engage
- a forceful refusal to engage
- no longer having any awareness of the previously offending party or issue
Saturday, August 1, 2009
where's the box
This week my bike club listserv once again debated where and where not to ride on the west side of Chicago. The conversation started when a cyclist who's new in town asked for advice on how to ride between Oak Park and downtown Chicago.
This is an eternal topic for our bike club. We are often asked for route advice along these lines. I always urge caution about riding through Chicago's west side for the simple reason that there have been many real, dangerous, documented incidents in which cyclists, both men and women, have been attacked. Some have been quite seriously injured. I recently had a conversation with an Oak Park man who was beaten up on his ride home from the Loop - just because he happened to be there when someone's impulse to violence took over. Last year a young man was killed in an apparently random, opportunistic attack.
I am not a fearful rider, have never personally had a problem, and I do ride alone quite a bit. But I'm sure I look like an easy target. So I am careful about where and when I ride. I respect the choices that other cyclists make as well. If you know what the risks are, and you choose to ride where I would not go, I am glad you are braver than I am. I wish you well. Maybe your being there makes those neighborhoods safer somehow - I hope so.
The title of this post is "where's the box." I realized as I wrote my own response to the newcomer cyclist's query on our listserv that I have a mental map of Chicago with a box on it, outlined approximately by North Ave, Austin, the Ike, and Western Ave. I stay out of that box unless I am with experienced riders who are confident of the route.
This is an eternal topic for our bike club. We are often asked for route advice along these lines. I always urge caution about riding through Chicago's west side for the simple reason that there have been many real, dangerous, documented incidents in which cyclists, both men and women, have been attacked. Some have been quite seriously injured. I recently had a conversation with an Oak Park man who was beaten up on his ride home from the Loop - just because he happened to be there when someone's impulse to violence took over. Last year a young man was killed in an apparently random, opportunistic attack.
I am not a fearful rider, have never personally had a problem, and I do ride alone quite a bit. But I'm sure I look like an easy target. So I am careful about where and when I ride. I respect the choices that other cyclists make as well. If you know what the risks are, and you choose to ride where I would not go, I am glad you are braver than I am. I wish you well. Maybe your being there makes those neighborhoods safer somehow - I hope so.
The title of this post is "where's the box." I realized as I wrote my own response to the newcomer cyclist's query on our listserv that I have a mental map of Chicago with a box on it, outlined approximately by North Ave, Austin, the Ike, and Western Ave. I stay out of that box unless I am with experienced riders who are confident of the route.
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