Month: August 2022

A dear friend of mine stopped over to visit with me on her way to Fort Davis, Texas recently. When she spoke of her excitement about going there I thought of my own visits to the little known place. It is a tiny but enchanting town with an interesting history associated with the fort that once served as an outpost as settlers moved west. What really impresses me about the area is the wide open sky that fills with stars on cloudless nights. It is quite a site for anyone who lives in a crowded city with so many lights that most of the stars become invisible to the eye. We often forget that they are there whether we are able to see them or not.

In Fort Davis the stars seems to fill every inch of the nighttime sky. It is a breathtaking sight for anyone, but especially for city folk. We have forgotten, or perhaps never even seen such splendor. Watching the heavens is a spiritual undertaking. It’s difficult to feel anything but awe and to gain a sense of one’s place in the universe out at Fort Davis. Somehow the grandeur of it all is a humbling experience. 

Fort Davis is fittingly quiet. It has a few restaurants and hotels for tourists who, like me, tend to be desolation freaks. There is a beauty in the wildness and solitude of the area. There is something philosophical and comforting about just quietly enjoying the sounds of nothing more than the wind or the crooning of birds. Then night comes and the sky lights up with stars.

There is an annual event called the Texas Star Party that occurs every year. People come from all over the world with their campers and tents and telescopes to partake in a love fest of the heavens. My brother and sister-in-law have spent almost every May of their married lives among to amateur and professional astronomers who go there. Only Covid had enough pull to keep them home. 

One year they took my grandson, Ian, with them. He became an overnight convert to studying the heavens. He has never forgotten what he learned, the people he met, or the passion he felt for being part of something bigger than just our little planet. He’s off for his first year of studying Aerospace Engineering at the University of Notre Dame. I suspect that he wants to help develop ways of exploring the universe to unlock more and more of its secrets.

Near Fort Davis is the University of Texas MacDonald Observatory that is perched high on a hill. The drive to the top is lovely in itself, but seeing the huge telescope seemingly in the middle of nowhere is rather amazing. There are tours there as well as educational offerings. I always have an other-worldly feeling whenever I am there. As with every other place in the area there is a kind of reverential quietness about the place.

Not far from Fort Davis is a town that has become a haven for artists of all varieties. Marfa, Texas is the perfect kind of place for developing creative projects and meeting kindred spirits. In addition the town is known for sightings of strange lights. Orbs of sometimes blue, sometimes red, sometimes white randomly appear in the night sky. They have often been called “ghost lights” and at other time they have been attributed to encounters with something from outer space. For the most part they remain a bit of an unsolved mystery that scientists attempt to explain with various conjectures. For tourists and locals it seems to be more fun to think of them as something paranormal.

Another quaint town within driving distance of Fort Davis is Alpine, Texas which is nestled in the Davis Mountains. We had an adventure there in the long ago when Jimmy Carter was President and gasoline was scarce. We had been driving in the desert for hours and were running low on gas. We drove for what seemed an eternity without encountering a gas station. As we nervously watched our gas tank creep slowly toward empty we rejoiced at the twinkling light of Alpine. 

We coasted down the mountain road on fumes wondering if there would even be a service station open that late at night. Luckily we found one before we were completely out of fuel. Then we searched for a hotel. It was very late, but one of the signs was flashing that it had a vacancy. We secured a huge and very clean room for a ridiculously low price. Before long we understood why it was still available when a long train zoomed no more than five feet away from the wall on which our bed stood. It was the first of many trains that busted through town all night long. 

I love far west Texas where people are few and the heavens are the major attraction. It is a very special place where nothing much matters but quiet and the serenity of the stars. It is a place that puts the rest of the world into perspective. It’s worth a trip there for peace of mind. While you’re there you might want to also make a wish upon a star. You have many from which to choose.

I am a rather uncomplicated person. If you think you know me, it’s a good bet that you probably do. I am quite open about who I am and how my life has unfolded. I don’t keep deep dark secrets. If I have a flaw, it might me that I am a bit too honest about myself. I have found that trait to be a somewhat off-putting to many people. I have nothing to hide, so I don’t mind admitting to mistakes that I have made or owning up to my foibles. I don’t have to worry about being caught in a lie, because I don’t make things up. I own up to my indiscretions and do my best to work being better. 

Sometimes I’m known to blurt out what I am thinking before taking the time to reconsider my words. I don’t ever intentionally set out to hurt anyone and I never quite recover when I realize that I have done so. I feel very guilty if I think that I have inadvertently made someone unhappy. I do my best to apologize and make up for such transgressions because I understand that words can sometimes come across as weapons. 

I used to hide the sorrowful aspects of my life, but along the way I learned that it was alright to admit to being weak at times. I have found that asking for help is often the most courageous thing that I might do. I also know that there is always someone who benefits from my story of survival. I use my life as a teaching moment. 

I’m mostly optimistic but there are certain things that make me anxious. I worry about the divisions in our country and the fact that we aren’t as good at allowing different opinions as we once were. I fret over the health and safety of my family and friends a bit too much. If I have an obsession it is wanting the people that I love to always be free of pain and suffering which I know is totally unrealistic.

I have a different relationship with God than many folks. I think of Him or Her as my spiritual confidante. I talk to God the way I would my most trusted friend. I have found great solace in the meditations that I spend in the presence of God’s love and wisdom. I can’t possibly see God as vengeful or only willing to help those of a particular religion. Somehow I sense that God loves us all, no matter how awful we may appear to be to ourselves or others. 

I only stole something once when I was about six years old and I atoned for that sin for decades until someone finally told me to just accept that God had forgiven me many times over. I pay my bills and my taxes on time even when it hurts. The IRS is free to audit me at any time and I will not be afraid. I have absolutely nothing to hide.

I love a good laugh and I admit to chuckling over raunchy humor. What I don’t like is making fun of someone. I’ve never found that kind of joke to be anything but verbal abuse. I see each person as a lovely gift to all of us. Nobody deserves to be made to feel bad about themselves because of immature insults or bullying. There is nothing funny about that.

I love to learn and enjoy sharing my knowledge with others. I worry about folks who are unwilling to accept scientific facts or clear evidence. I can’t really understand why so many prefer to cling to conspiracy theories rather than truth. It saddens me to see that sort of thing and makes me wonder how we teachers have failed so many. 

I love family and would give up everything I own for any member of my great big clan. Things and money are of no importance to me other than for the purpose of feeding and housing me. No object has the value of a single individual. I can’t understand people who are selfish and unwilling to share what they have. 

I suppose that to many people I am incredibly naive because I truly believe in all people. I don’t leave my doors wide open at night to tempt a thief, but I tend to think that those who do evil are either very mentally ill or have somehow been treated so horribly in their lives that they are filled with rage and don’t know how to behave. Perhaps they are simply desperate. I know that some people do such horrific things that we have no alternative than to punish them somehow, but I also believe that while they are incarcerated we should spend time and effort attempting to rehabilitate them when possible. Even better is to find such souls and work with them before they go as far as to ruin theirs and the lives of others.

I suppose that the truth is that I am a rather boring person. I just rock quietly along hoping that I am making a difference to someone. My greatest desire is for the people I know to understand that I love them and that I am here for them. They don’t ever have to worry that they are bothering me or asking too much from me. I will honestly let them know when they are asking too much of me. I hope that they know that I enjoy them just the way they are.

For me, life is really good!

I don’t know exactly how old I was when I accompanied my mother and father on a shopping trip to choose new furniture for their first home. I could not have been very old because I don’t think that either of my brothers had yet been born. I have vague memories of walking through furniture stores and feeling a bit bored. Then there is a remembrance that is as clear as if it had happened yesterday. 

We were searching for a bedroom set for my parents. Suddenly they seemed to have found exactly what they wanted, a mahogany four poster bed with a tall chest with drawers. Alongside the set was a lady’s dressing table with a mirror and chair. After my parents had seemingly agreed on the bed and the chest I vividly recall my father walking over to the dressing table. He ran his had across the smooth almost glassy top and then began examining the drawers. He pulled them in and out, smiling as he commented that they were very well made. Then I remember him turning to my mother and with an impish grin as he said, “I want to get this for you as well.” 

My parents were still in their twenties at the time and very much in the early grip of love. Soon the furniture would arrive at our home and I thought it was so beautiful that even royalty would find it worthy of owning. My mother found a lovely rose colored silk bedspread to set off the gleaming dark wood. She put her combs and brushes and lotions and powder inside the drawers of the dressing table. Each week she would carefully dust and sometimes polish the wood. 

When my mother was only thirty years old my father died. His last gift to her would be a set of small lamps to place on her dressing table. They were adorned with tiny rosebuds that picked up the color of the bedspread that Mama had chosen. She would place them lovingly on the dressing table where they would remain until she too had died over fifty years later. 

Over time the bedroom set showed the scars of time and wear and tear. When my mother died none of us had room in our homes for the bedroom set that had been such a treasure to my parents. One of my brothers put them in a storage unit where they languished for a time. Then one day my brother announced that he was letting the storage unit go. He said that he was going to trash anything left inside that nobody wanted. 

My eldest daughter immediately claimed the dressing table. She said that she had lovely memories of sitting on the chair and styling her hair while her Grammy smiled at her. She suggested that she might one day restore it to its former glory. In the meantime she would store it in her garage until she found the time to make it lovely once again. 

As the years went by the dressing table sat in a corner of her garage, looking dreary and unloved. My daughter would often insist that she had not forgotten her hidden treasure, but her busy schedule had consumed her time. She assured us all that one day she would take on the task of making it beautiful again. 

With all of her sons either working are off at college she suddenly had an empty house and a bit more time to take on projects. Finally she put down a tarp and began the process of removing the old finish and carefully sanding the surfaces of the dressing table. She repaired broken sections and took her time with each step of the process. She decided to modernize the piece by sanding and restaining the dark mahogany top, but painting the bottom of the structure with a cream color. The results were stunning.

When she sent me a photo of how the work was progressing I was amazed at how beautiful the old battered dressing table now looked. I found myself remembering that trip with my parents when my father impulsively decided to buy the piece for my mother. I thought of how he had moved the drawer in and out, in and out, until he was satisfied that the craftsmanship would last a lifetime. 

As my daughter was describing the long process that she had used, she mentioned how well made the dressing table was. She was particularly impressed with the fact that the drawers still moved in and out without sticking or showing signs of being warped. I cried when I heard this. I thought of my father being so very careful to purchase something that would last. I imagined him and my mother in heaven being very pleased. 

My daughter is taking her time. She is letting the paint on the drawers dry for a very long time before she puts them back in place. She does not want to be too anxious and create problems with sticking. She still has to repair the mirror and the chair, but she has made a magnificent start to creating an heirloom that hopefully will remain in the family for years. 

We hear stories of young people giving away old furniture and trinkets because it is not their style. I wonder if they would feel the same way if they heard the stories and the histories associated with certain things. Something may look like just stuff, but sometimes special pieces contain beautiful memories that everyone can understand. I’m happy that my mother’s dressing table has a new life. It was so much a part of who she and my father were. Love resides there and now my daughter can pass it down.

And here it is with the drawers. The mirror is still in progress…

Two events that occurred twelve years apart shattered my world and tested my vulnerability. The first is well known among my family members and my closest friends. It was the sunny summer day of long ago when I awoke to learn that my young father had died. I was only eight years old and knew little about suffering or sorrow. I had heard whispers about my favorite uncle’s death three years before, but I never told any of the adults that I understood what was happening and that felt quite sad. I suspected that because they did not engage me in discussions of death that it was somehow a taboo topic, and so even after my father had died I kept my feelings to myself. I even learned how not to cry to give away the pain and vulnerability that was lodged in my heart.

Decades laters some of my friends were stunned to know that I had mostly grown up without a father. I had shielded myself well against their inquiries. I rarely mentioned that I was living in a home where the mother was also the father. When filling out first day of school forms asking for information about my parents I leaned over the paper and created a visual barrier with my left hand as I wrote the word “deceased.” Somehow I thought that the people around me expected me to be strong and to carry on without asking for sympathy. 

I suppose that to some I seemed emotionless. I had learned how to control my tears in public. When others cried I held my upper lip stiffly in place. Eventually I had practiced such skills so well that being dry eyed even at funerals became easy. I would wait until the dark of night inside the privacy of my bedroom to let my emotions loose. I was determined to be the strong person that I believed everyone wanted me to be.

Twelve years after my father’s death my mother had a frightening mental breakdown. She became so deeply depressed that she kept her home darkened with drapes firmly closed against the sunlight. She was also paranoid, believing that forces were gathering to accuse her and her family of criminal deeds. She refused to turn on the one air conditioner that she had inside her home, nor would she open the windows and run the attic fan. It was so stiflingly hot inside that I was afraid that she would fall ill from the heat. No amount of cajoling convinced her that nobody was waiting outside to take her away to prison. She refused to believe that the food that her sisters brought to her home was edible and devoid of poisons. 

Once again I went into action with my strength and lack of public tears I would cry and rage when alone in my car, but smile as though I was just fine when in the presence of other people. I did not divulge how frightened I was or how anxious I felt to anyone but my husband. At least for once I felt comfortable enough to depend on him as an ally and confidante. I don’t think that I would have had the courage to get my mother the care that she needed without being able to collapse at day’s end into his arms sobbing until I fell asleep.

Still, for many years I hid the reality that my mother was chronically mentally ill. I spoke of it only to a small number of people in whom I had total trust. Mostly I pretended that my absences from work to take her for therapy were because of my own illnesses. I had learned that speaking of mental illness was taboo in most instances. People would squirm uncomfortably at the mere mention of the subject. I simply kept up a public persona that hid how truly vulnerable I was feeling. 

It was probably around thirty years after my mother’s first cycle of bipolar disorder that I broke down spontaneously in front of a coworker in a fit of tears that I was unable to control. Nothing like that had ever before happened to me, but my mother’s condition was the most frightening that I had seen. Fortunately this kind man understood my fears and my pain because he too had a family member who suffered from mental illness. He comforted me with all the right words. He demonstrated so much kindness and told me that I needed to stop holding all of my feelings inside. He assured me that I would find many exceedingly compassionate people willing to provide me with a listening ear. 

I suppose that is when I changed. I began to tell people about my father’s death and how much it had affected me. I spoke of my mother’s mental illness as though I was talking about someone with diabetes or heart trouble. I quickly learned when it was safe to keep revealing my story and when it was time to simply change the subject. I found loving and caring friends and acquaintances who walked with me through my troubles. 

Sadly, I have never yet learned how to cry in public. I suppose that my mind is only willing to go so far in showing my vulnerability. I am still the one dry eyed person at a funeral. I don’t cry during sad movies unless I am alone with my husband. I know that I do have real feelings and that I can cry a bucket of tears, but never when others are around. That is the one disturbing skill that I mastered in trying to be the strong little girl when my father died and the competent woman when my mother needed help. I’m working on letting my emotions run free. I wish that I had learned as a child that it really is okay to be vulnerable at times. I know that I don’t have to carry the weight of the world. Luckily I have people who love me enough to understand how I am the way I am.

All of us are vulnerable and that’s okay. This is a lesson that we would be wise to teach our children. Emotional education is just as important as academics. Our journeys through life will be a mix of joys and sorrows. We should demonstrate to our children how to navigate both with their rational minds and their emotional instincts. Balancing those things leads to healthy ways of living. It really is okay to cry.   

When I was in high school I was certain that I should be a nurse or even a doctor. To that end I joined the Medical Careers Club and faithfully attended the meetings for years. I even held offices in my junior and senior years. By the time of my graduation I was not as certain that medicine was the right field of endeavor for me, so when I reached the university I tried all sorts of majors in a short space of time. Business classes did not work. Engineering felt tedious. I even considered journalism. I fought the idea of being a teacher because everyone around me seemed to believe that I should do more with my life. Eventually I gave in to my always returning fascination with the idea of being an educator. 

I spent over two decades working with students at different grade levels and while I found that I enjoyed every single day of work, I was drowning under the weight of sending my daughters to college. I felt that there must be a more profitable way of earning a living even if I did not enjoy it as much as teaching. I returned to the university to earn an advanced degree in Human Resources Management with an eye to becoming a corporate trainer. I supposed that I would still be teaching with the only difference being that I would be working with adults. It sounded like a fun challenge and so I enjoyed all of my courses. 

I found that I had a knack for making presentations to the adults in my classes. My favorite course was one that focused on Labor Law. I sparkled in the Training and Development class using all of my knowledge of pedagogy with the adults who were very engaged in my presentations. I learned about working with teams and had my eyes opened by a benefits and compensation class. Then came a course called Futures which I had thought would just be little more than an easy way to fulfill my hours and earn my master’s degree. 

The Futures course was perfect for me because it involved mostly writing. While others groaned at the assignments, I felt that I was in my element. I didn’t mind at all that each of the topics were somewhat personal, providing a kind of psychological look into who I am as a person. I delighted in providing a kind of autobiography of how I had come to that moment in life. I had little idea of the impact that my meanderings would have on my professor and eventually on me. 

On the final day of classes as I was literally completing my very last test before graduation when the professor asked to to talk with him before I left. I was a bit worried about what he might have to say because he looked very serious as he whispered his request. I nonetheless sailed through the exam and them waited patiently outside of the classroom until he was free to speak to me. That is when he laid an unexpected bombshell on me.

He hemmed and hawed for a time explaining his reluctance to tell me what he was about to say. He insisted that he had only my interests in mind and that he knew he had to say something before I left. Finally he got to the point. He said that he had enjoyed reading all of my papers, but that the same theme had jumped out of each page over and over again. He realized that I didn’t really want to leave teaching. He insisted that I seemed to be wedded to my profession by a sense of purpose that brought me great joy. He suggested that instead of leaving my job, I find a way to use my new degree to advance my career in education and perhaps my pay as well. 

I was quite stunned and silent during his persuasive speech. I stood there thinking that I had just spent two years, countless dollars, and most of my evenings and weekends earning my master’s degree and now someone was attempting to talk me out of the move that I had looked forward to making. I thanked him for his honestly but never once believed that I would change the direction that I had chosen for the remainder of my work years. I sent applications to companies all over my city and waited for responses.

I received several calls and most of my interviews were over the phone. I was accustomed to that kind of preliminary process and as usual I received a number of next level call backs. Each and every time I found myself saying things to the interviewer that I knew wouldn’t bode well. It was as though I was unconsciously ruining my chances of landing the job. I made silly excuses as to why I did not think I was a good fit for the various positions. I found myself feeling sick at the idea of working in the corporate arena. Finally I decided to simply return to the classroom for one more year until I might sort out my feelings. 

Not long after that my principal told me that he was planning to create a brand new position that would involve being a kind of teacher facilitator and trainer. Without missing a beat I told him that he need look no further than me. I showed him my certifications and my degrees and he immediately insisted that he could not spare me from the classroom. I came back with the argument that someone had probably once said the same thing about him. He laughed, but said nothing more. The following day he offered me the job. 

I spent the next many years as a Dean of Faculty, serving as a trainer and facilitator for the teachers in my building. I hired new teachers, managed the testing program, provided inservice education for both new hires and established teachers and generally served as the liaison between the members of the faculty and the principal. At the same time I kept in close contact with the students, acting as an advisor and team leader. It was a fabulous job with the kind of pay that I had hoped to get in the private sector while still allowing me to have my hand in education. 

I suppose that I have always known that my purpose in life was to be an educator. It was my dream as a young girl and no matter how many times I attempted to deny it, the desire to teach always came back. The classroom and even the board room was my happy place. To this very day I continue to tutor and teach small groups of students. It is not just in my blood. It seems to be my life blood. I suppose that it has been a blessing to find the perfect fit for my life’s work. I am so glad that somehow I always found my way back into the profession that seems to be my destiny.