Month: June 2021

It is wedding season, or at least it seems to be so. All of a sudden I am receiving invitations to a host of weddings but I am admittedly a bit uncertain that it is now safe to attend such events. Back in October when Covid-19 was still raging in the United States my nephew got married and my doctor advised me not to attend. I’m still saddened that I had to miss his very special day but I also know that I did the right thing. One of my daughters went with her husband and sons to represent the family. She said that it was outdoors and most of the people wore masks so she felt relatively safe but insisted that it still would not have been a good idea for me and her father to go. From what I hear he did everything right and it was a fun and memorable affair. I wish I had been there.

It’s been difficult turning down invitations given that I am usually one of the people most likely to show up for weddings. I check with doctor each time a new card arrives in the mail and thus far he continues to advise me to stay away at least for a bit longer. I sometimes wonder when he will finally decide that I am good to go once again. I truly miss being able to celebrate with special people even though I suspect that nobody would really notice that I am not there. I say this because I’ve actually attended such events in the past and then been shocked to realize that the bride and groom never knew that I had been there. 

I think it tends to be that way for most couples getting married. The wedding and reception ends up in a kind of haze. After all of the planning for a perfect day all the two can focus on is one another, which is exactly as it should be. In my own case I remember simply going through the motions of all of the wedding day traditions and wanting desperately for it all to just end so that I might get on with the rest of my life. I sometimes wonder why we spend so much time, energy and money on creating the perfect wedding because in truth they all feel somewhat alike and it’s difficult to actually remember anything about one wedding versus another. 

When I got married things were far more simple than today’s huge celebrations. Our reception took place in the Parish Hall and lasted less than a couple of hours. We greeted our guests and offered them cake, coffee, punch and some little sandwiches to munch on while everyone mingled for a time or sat on folding chairs waiting for my husband and I to depart. I may as well have been in a coma for all that I remember about that evening from the moment that I began my walk down the aisle to the time when we rushed to our car under a hail of rice. 

Since then I’ve been to wedding after wedding and they all seem to get just a bit bigger and more complex over time. Even the cakes are incredibly elaborate affairs but in truth their appearance is not nearly as important as the taste. That is what I really recall when I think of the most memorable slices of cake that I have tried. The best cakes are moist and almost melt in the mouth. Those with that rubbery frosting designed to resemble some object are not even worth the extra calories that they add to my daily diet. So it is with weddings and receptions that are over the top.

Weddings don’t have to be elaborate or expensive to be fun. My brother got married on the beach and his reception was at an outdoor pavilion where we munched on barbecue and toasted the bride and groom with margaritas. We danced in our sandals and flip flops and laughed reveled in the joy that filled the air. Instead of cake we ate apple pie and marvel to this day on how wonderful the whole affair had been. 

Destination weddings can be fabulous as well. A few years back an educator friend married in Cancun. The festivities began days before the actual ceremony with everyone who attended getting know each other better in a very relaxed atmosphere. The actual vows took place with the spectacular backdrop of the Caribbean and most of us waded through the sand to our seats in our bare feet. The reception was a happy affair focused on hearing the stories of how the two had found their way to each other and fallen in love. Then we danced the night away under the stars. It was heavenly.

My mother and father got married by a Justice of the Peace. Other than the needed witnesses I don’t think anyone else was there. Later they had a church ceremony at St. Mary’s  Catholic Church in College Station, just the two of them. Someone took a photo of them near the entrance of the church wearing simple clothing and earnest looks of delight on their faces. They were young and focused on their future together rather than a one day bash. There were no guests, no gifts, no dinners or cake. Somehow they did not appear to have missed having all of those frills. Eleven years later they were still giddily in love and no doubt would have made it for a much longer time had my father not suddenly died.

I’m not against big weddings and I know that they are quite important as a way of marking the start of a shared lifetime but perhaps much as we always do we have made them far more extravagant than they need to be. The bills for such affairs are often enough to pay for a car or a year of college or even the trip of a lifetime. I wonder how many actually recall the details of such excesses when all is said and done. Bigger is not always better and sometimes it is not even as wonderful as a more intimate and meaningful ceremony. Perhaps we have gone too far when we see people deferring their actual marriages for years just to save enough for an eye popping wedding. Somehow that seems to be rather backward when all that anyone needs is the pledge of those vows to love, honor and cherish. Everything else is just frosting and decoration on the cake.

2020-2021 was a long school year for teachers and their students. I only worked with ten young people three days a week teaching various levels of mathematics and I was exhausted by the end of May. Teaching remotely was a whole new experience for all of us and while it seemed to work well for some, it just did not jibe for others. I found myself worrying about my kids and wondering if they were actually learning as well as I hoped they were. It’s a teacher’s lot in life to get emotionally involved with students and feel a deep sense of responsibility for their well being. The work of teaching never really ends, even with retirement. I can attest to that. 

It seems like yesterday when I met my first group of students at St. Christopher’s Catholic School. The job was nothing like I had expected to do since my major had focused on English linguistics and literature. The principal of the school, Lesley McAvoy Baptiste, needed a mathematics teacher and when she reviewed my transcript she noted that I had taken almost as many math courses as those in the English department. She urged me to accept a position as the one and only middle school mathematics teacher in the small Catholic school. 

Since there just happened to be a glut of teachers in the Houston area that year due to economic disruptions I was willing to try anything just to have the assurance of finally launching my career. I felt confident enough with my mathematical abilities to take a chance so I accepted the offer and set about planning for the six different courses that I would teach. I was determined to set my students on fire and provide them with a foundation in mathematics that would serve them wherever their lives eventually took them. I was also admittedly a bit afraid that I might not be as good at my work as I wanted to be but I plowed ahead with abandon.

My students for that year were all quite sweet and well behaved. In that regard I was quite lucky because I did not have to worry too much about classroom management. I was a bit older than most rookie teachers since I had parceled out my college attendance in small spurts owing to having two children and feeling responsible for the care of my mother whose bipolar disorder often demanded my attention. By the time I stood in the front of a classroom for the first time I was already thirty years old so I was able to pretend that I was a veteran teacher with years of experience. 

I worked hard to perfect my lessons and to find the best ways to convey mathematical knowledge. I quickly learned that most of my students had passions for history or science or even English but very few were excited about mathematics. In fact a larger number of them had developed phobias about numbers over the years and I often heard comments from students about their innate lack of mathematical abilities. I realized that I had to build their confidence before I would be successful teaching them algorithms and theorems. I tried to make mathematics relevant and concrete for them, something that I would get better and better at doing over time. 

That first year was not without challenges. We had hardly begun the fall semester when a hurricane blew through Houston and damage from the storm kept the school shuttered for over a week. Later in the year the eighth grade history teacher would suddenly leave and all of the schedules had to be rearranged to accommodate the situation. I ended up with two groups of students in my classroom at the same time. One sat in the back of the room working on assignments while I taught the other. In a lovely twist of fate my regular eighth grade math students were soon participating in the Algebra I class and asking to get copies of the books so that they too might do the homework and take the tests. 

I really loved my students and would think of them forevermore even though I had not thought of how to keep in touch with them. I have little idea where they are or what happened to them but I suspect that they are doing rather well because they were quite wonderful. Happily I’m still friends with my principal on Facebook so I get to see glimpses of her life now and again. We also seem to share the same philosophies of life which does not surprise me at all. 

My students from that first year got an eager version of my teaching but not the one that kept improving with each passing year. I learned more about people and the threads that bind us together as I became more confident and relaxed in my work. I also realized that being humane and understanding toward my students was the most powerful tool for conveying knowledge. I learned how to meet them where they were and then uplift them to a place where they might feel courageous enough to try things that had once frightened them. I hope I also made them feel loved. 

As I read the many stories of teachers and their students I think of my first year of doing the work that has brought me so much joy. In the memory of my mind I see my first classroom filled with eager faces and I feel the dreams that beat in every heart. I hope that somehow they all know how much I cared and maybe even sense that I have never forgotten them or any of the thousands of others who followed them. My kids will always be my kids and my love for them is unconditional and forever.  

I suppose that turning twenty one is supposed to be some kind of right of passage, a milestone worthy of a bit more celebration than usual. In truth I can’t even remember my twenty first birthday. I may have done something special but if I did, I have no memory of it. I had been hurdled into adulthood the previous summer when it fell on my shoulders to get help for my mom when she first presented symptoms of what would later be diagnosed as bipolar disorder. Without warning I was tasked with finding a doctor for her and making sure that my younger brothers were okay while she was in the hospital. I said goodbye to my youthful naïveté and shouldered responsibilities that threatened to overwhelm me. Somehow I found the courage and strength to rise to the occasion so well that when my twenty first birthday came several months later it was an underwhelming moment. 

I have no idea what I might have wanted to do had I been able to enjoy a normal celebration of being officially a legal adult with all of the privileges of purchasing and enjoying a glass of wine. I’ve never been drawn to social drinking because it takes very little to get me so lightheaded that I almost fall asleep. The one and only time that I did drink too much I hated how I felt the next morning and resolved to never dishonor my body in that way again. While I enjoy an occasional glass of wine or a really good margarita I have never felt really compelled to imbibe. I’m one of those people who can honestly say that I would be willing to live without alcohol for the rest of my life if someone offered me ten million dollars to do so. 

I must have had some kind of party because until the day she died my mother never let my day of birth go by without showering me with gifts, a cake and some ice cream. No doubt she had some kind of surprise for me on that special occasion because she was feeling quite being treated for her illness. I know that she was busy looking for a job and would soon land the one that she would keep until retirement at the University of Texas Health Science Center. She had been so discouraged in her hunt for work but I think the good Lord was just waiting to help her find employment with people who would be incredibly understanding of her mental illness. 

I had just learned that I was pregnant only a few weeks before and I suspect that knowing that my first child was on the way was much more important than turning twenty one. Back then nobody seemed to know not to drink while pregnant so it’s a good think thing that I had no inclination to do so. I just know that I felt emotionally much older than the age indicated by my year of birth. My baby face not withstanding, I had become very mature rather quickly as had many of my friends from that era. Those were the Vietnam War years and the nightly news programs reminded us daily how many of our peers were dying in that strange war in a faraway land. Somehow the silliness of a twenty first birthday party did not seem that important. 

I suppose that if I had been in a position to do anything I wished I might have traveled to some exciting place like New York City, or even London or Paris. The only time I’d been on a plane was for my honeymoon and then we had gone to New Orleans. When I think of how I married before reaching the age of twenty one I am stunned that I did so well because as a bride I was still such a child. It took the events of my mother’s illness the following summer to shock me into becoming an adult. 

I may not have had the experience of living on my own at college but I became strong and independent just from living in the school of hard knocks. I learned that I was a much more capable person than I ever thought I was and I set aside my shyness so that I might become an advocate for my mom. Later I would be a protector of my daughter and students as well. I was unafraid to do whatever I needed to do to make the world a little bit better place. I am still amazed at myself because not even I knew I had it in me.

In all honesty I never thought about my twenty first birthday until a group was reliving their youthfulness with stories of that auspicious occasion. They were stunned to learn that I have no memory of that day whatsoever. I think they may even have felt sorry for me but I was being totally honest when I told them that it did not matter at all to me that such a day was so lacking that I cannot remember it. 

People often laugh at the way I seem to have vivid recollections of virtually every aspect of my life. As my cousin often says everything with me is a story. Turning twenty one was not one of those times. I was far too busy adulting to think about celebrating a moment that had already come for me. I suppose that in many ways I became an old soul early on but I’ve never allowed myself to act or feel old. Becoming an adult for me was always about accepting challenges and responsibilities and in truth I don’t think I missed a thing by jumping ahead in my development. All I really remember is how good I felt about helping my mom and my brothers. No adult beverage has ever been capable of bringing so much joy.

“No” is such a simple word, only two letters, one syllable, a common utterance from toddlers. Why is it often so difficult to say? I was taught to be kind and generous but not so much how to walk away from situations that feel toxic. During my lifetime I have more often than not been the peacemaker, the person who gives in to stubbornness. I try to get along and sometimes that has meant volunteering to take on projects which nobody else was willing to accept. I literally run from high pressure sales people because once they begin their spiels I am like a prisoner to them, unable to flee from their grasp. “No” is a word that I have had to literally practice using and even now it is one of the most uncomfortable utterances in my lexicon. 

I was an adult with two children and a great job as a teacher when I first learned how to really say, “No.” I was working with exceedingly troubled youngsters who had overwhelmed my mind with sorrow for the conditions that I saw them enduring. They were on my mind twenty four seven and I was doing everything possible to create positive change for them. I became so obsessed with my crusade to help them that I was exhausted and all too often emotionally fragile. It took my friends Pat and Bill Weimer to bring me to my senses and show me that sometimes saying, “No” was the best medicine for everyone. 

They showed up at my home one evening and commanded that I put on my shoes and go with them for a brief respite from my lesson planning and paper grading. Of course I did not know how to refuse even though I mentally considered how far behind I would be if I suddenly left my work. I meekly suggested that we just stay at my home where I might be able to do some tasks while still talking with them but they were adamant that I accompany them to a local restaurant and of course I did not yet know how to deal with adamant commands. 

After ordering margaritas and nachos they got down to business. They told me that they had watched me becoming so emotionally involved with my work that I appeared to be harming my own health. They worried that I was accepting too many responsibilities and getting too personally involved with the tragedies of my students. They urged me to back away just a bit both for my sake and that of my students and family. They reminded me that we give ourselves oxygen first in an emergency on a plane so that we will then be able to help others. If we reverse the order we may pass out and be of no use. 

Bill was a NASA engineer and he spoke of the crew members who had died on the Shuttle during take off. He asked me what I thought NASA would do about the loss of life and then bluntly informed me that every person with be replaced. He reminded me that if I made myself sick attempting to please everyone that someone would step in as a substitute for me. His words hit home in a profound way. 

We have to know our physical and mental limits, our personal situations. Sometimes that means having to turn down requests for our time, money or talents. We should no more stretch ourselves to the point of breaking than we would spend the baby’s milk money on something frivolous that a salesperson is urging us to purchase. Saying “No” can be the kindest thing we might do depending on the situation, particularly when it means being good to ourselves. If we are rested, relaxed and happy we are more likely to have the wherewithal to help others than if we are dragged down with too many responsibilities and worries. 

I’ve learned how to do my part in the ebb and flow of the world without running myself into the ditch. I’ve had to say “No” over and over again when my instincts told me that I was already doing more than enough. I learned to prioritize my time and talents based on the most immediate needs of those around me. Sometimes that meant having to choose where to place my energy and when to just walk away. 

I worked for a principal who literally changed my life by offering me incredible opportunities for growth in my career. He and I were an amazing team and the years that I worked for him were definitely my best. I would have walked over glass for him and I know that he would have gone to great lengths to support and defend me. Sadly we reached a point of going different ways because I knew that I had to say, “No” to one of his last requests of me.

My mother was in the throes of one of her all time worst cycles of bipolar disorder. My brothers and I had worried that she was so sick that we might lose the battle with her illness that we had waged for so many years. I was floundering at work and at home as I attempted to balance my responsibilities. Suddenly my boss asked me to move to a new school and new challenge with him. It would require a steep learning curve and lots of extra effort on my part at a moment when I barely had enough time to keep all of the balls in the air that I was juggling. My mother was in a psychotic state, a daughter was enduring some major physical problems and I was feeling as though the weight of the world was bearing down on me. 

I figuratively put on my oxygen mask and took a deep breath. Once the air filled my lungs I understood that it was not a good time for me to add a new and very different job to my resume. I turned town the principal’s plea that I follow him even as I saw that it hurt him. It was a “No” that I had to say but it was perhaps one of the most difficult decisions of my life. 

Ultimately it was the right thing to do. I had to put my family first and in doing so I ultimately had more and more time for my job. They became healthy again and so did I. If I had pushed myself to please the good man who had mentored me so well I suspect that I would have been ineffective in every phase of my life. I had finally learned the importance of that one little word that is often so powerful. 

We tell our children to just say “No” to temptations and toxic situations without admitting to them how difficult doing so can be. Perhaps in those moments when they are very little and exclaiming their unwillingness to do as they have been asked we might learn to give a little and find out what is making them reluctant. Teaching them how to listen to their instincts might one day save them just as my friends Pat and Bill did with me. “No” can sometimes be the kindest word that we ever use.   

I am officially a member of the first generation of children who had televisions in our lives. I vividly recall my fathering installing our family’s first t.v. in our home. He had purchased the typical version encased in a mahogany cabinet that he proudly set at one end of the room near a plug. My mother found two comfortable chairs for her and my father and I lay down on the floor on top of a soft rug. It was an amazing moment when the grainy black and white picture came into focus and we were able to both see and hear the sounds of entertainment in the privacy of our living room. Before that moment radio had been our source of music, comedies and mysteries that required us to imagine how the characters and performers looked. Now we suddenly had the thrill of using two of our senses at once and it was delightful. 

Back then the hours and variety of broadcasting were limited and most programs lasted no more than thirty minutes. Mornings often featured shows for children like Howdy Doody and Captain Kangaroo. My mother carefully screened my viewing habits and made sure that I rarely spent more than thirty minutes in front of the television before turning off the power and sending me to play. She herself rarely watched anything during the daytime hours. It was my father who seemed to rather quickly become addicted to this new technology. 

As soon as he came home each day Daddy liked to watch the evening news which was a quick thirty minute review of the day’s events featuring a reading of facts with virtually no commentary. After my father had learned about the happenings we would adjourn for dinner. My mother insisted that we eat at our kitchen table so we never indulged in eating frozen dinners from a tray while watching our favorite shows, a trend that slowly became popular as people become more and more enchanted with the entertainment. Once we had enjoyed some family time my father carefully selected mostly comedies to watch for an hour or so each evening. Depending on the content of the program I got to watch with him and my mother but not for too long because my mom did not want me to become obsessed with the new fangled invention like some of my uncles already had done. The viewing time ended for everyone each evening with the National Anthem followed by a stagnant test pattern that stayed on the screen until the following morning. 

The early televisions were built with all kinds of tubes that had a tendency to fail and so the job of t.v. repairman came into vogue. One of my father’s cousins made a small fortune traveling from home to home to fix screens that suddenly went black or began to flip continually. We had our own guy who came in a paneled truck filled with all of the parts that he might need to return a good picture to our television. My brothers and I enjoyed watching him do his magic as he examined the mysterious electronics of our machine to find burned out bulbs and loose wires. 

After my father died we were still watching programs on the model that he had purchased many years earlier but eventually that original could no longer be repaired so my mother purchased a new version with a much bigger screen. By that time programming was much more interesting than it had been in the early days. There were even shows that lasted an hour and the quality of the writing and acting had greatly improved. My mother had also become more and more willing to allow me and my brothers to spend more time watching our favorite programs as long as our homework and chores were done. She even made Saturday nights extra special by serving dinner and snacks as we watched shows until late in the evening. 

Some of our friends and relatives began to purchase televisions that featured color. It was a marvel that was as stunning as that first moment when my father brought television into our lives. It would be awhile before our family actually owned a color television but visits to my cousins’ homes were delightful because we got to see westerns and dramas with all the hues of the spectrum. I remember being so fascinated that I spent more time sitting next to my uncles than visiting and playing with the kids.

Of course we all know the rest of the story. Televisions are bigger and more reliable than ever before. There are hundreds of channels and streaming services that provide choices twenty four hours a day. There is never a moment when someone somewhere is not reporting the news, even in the middle of the night. Huge screens hang over our mantles like paintings and portraits once did. Sound systems give the feel of a movie theater. Many families gather around their favorite programs for dinner rather than conversing at a table. People lie in their beds watching shows late into the night. Children have their own televisions inside their rooms. The novelty and wonder of it all is gone. We take our televisions for granted as though they have always been an integral part of life. 

When I think back over time I remember the Saturday mornings when my brothers and I quietly went to the living room in our pajamas to watch shows designed just for us. I recall the joy I felt watching The Mickey Mouse Club with my friend Lynda each afternoon and then dreaming of becoming a Mouseketeer. I loved the old comedies like I Love Lucy and Red Skelton but mostly enjoyed the westerns and still love James Garner as Maverick. I felt a kinship with the Cartwright family on Bonanza and longed to be grown up enough to watch late night television. 

Eventually I would have my own family and our viewing habits would center on programs like The Carol Burnett Show, Little House on the Prairie, and The Waltons. Then came cable television and it felt as though our worldview changed with channels like CNN and MTV. In spite of all the possibilities I still most enjoy the kind of thirty minute comedies that I once watched with my father. I always feel a bit sad when my favorites run their course and go away. 

I suppose that as television has evolved over my lifetime so have I. That marvel has been both a blessing and a curse for society. I suspect that we have all too often allowed its influence to dominate and manipulate how we feel about things. I’ve had to turn it off much like my mother once did just to allow my thoughts to be my own. I have learned how to keep a balance and to understand that it is a business with an agenda that may or may not jibe with who I am and what I believe. As long as I view it as entertainment rather than truth I think I will be okay. If I want facts rather than soundbites I know that I have to do my own research but if I’m just looking for a great story and a bit of escape the wonders of television are at my fingertips and a whole world of imagination is waiting for me to enjoy on a big screen that would have made my father smile with delight.