Category: Commentary

Anyone who follows my blogs knows that my paternal grandmother, Minnie Bell Little was illiterate. It bothered her that she was unable to read or write but she nonetheless possessed a world of folk knowledge and good sense in her head. She cooked without recipes, knowing exactly how much of this and that to measure to create the most wonderful dishes. She was able to identify birds, animals and plants and speak of their habitats and habits with authority. She understood the natural world around her through observation and practice. 

One of the things that she had noticed is the connection between family members and their health problems. For that reason she warned me when I was only a child of the importance of knowing that “all of our kin die from gut troubles.” She had seen relatives writhing in pain on their deathbeds no doubt from gastrointestinal problems. She noted that members of her family seemed to have chronic heartburn and an affinity for drinking vinegar.

While such meanderings sometimes stunned me when I heard my grandmother mentioning them, I never forgot how earnestly she wanted me to know about them. It was not too surprising when she was diagnosed with colon cancer that required a colostomy and ultimately was the very thing that killed her. Years later when eating became difficult for me and heartburn blighted my days, I found myself telling my doctor what my grandmother had revealed to me. He applauded her intelligence in understanding the connections that we have with our ancestors in medical issues. 

I was diagnosed with GERD and given a prescription that mostly keeps my acid reflux under control. Now again I have an horrific flareup that awakens me in the middle of the night with excruciating pain. I have learned the value of ingesting apple cider vinegar as a quick fix that eliminates the horrific sensation that someone has poured battery acid down my throat. I think of my Grandma Minnie Bell each time this kind of thing happens. 

The origins of our individual health issues can so often be traced to some kind of familial trait. The members of my mother’s family had a preponderance of heart disease and so too did she. That trendecy has not affected me but the prevalence of osteoporosis in all three of my aunts has followed me and my bones. I have kept the worst aspects of that disorder under semi-control with medications, exercise and biannual injections. My hope is that I will be able to avoid becoming wheelchair bound as they eventually were. Ironically my mother never developed the problem but those genes most assuredly jumped over to me. 

Grandma Minnie had a noticeable hump in her back and not so surprisingly so do I. Perhaps if people had paid closer attention to family medical histories someone would have been watching to see if I would develop scoliosis which I now know that I have. When I was younger my mother was unaware of such things so she was always telling me to stand up straight. I kept insisting that I was standing as best I was able. She had me loop my arms around a broomstick hoping that walking around in that manner would realign the curvature in my back. Nowadays school nurses check for such things and children’s back are corrected which will save them from a lifetime of back pain.

My father died in a car accident but I suspect that if he had lived his ultimate demise might have been like that of his mother. At the age of thirty three he was already having pronounced trouble with his gut. In fact he had joined the army during World War Ii but he did not last long. He developed ulcers so severe spent most of his time in the hospital. As a child I remember him being admitted the the VA hospital multiple times with digestive difficulties and pain that had continued into his twenties and thirties. 

My primary care physician has always been keenly aware of the connections between one person’s health and the family history of various ailments and diseases. I had to fill out a lengthy document outlining everything that every medical condition that my parents had and that my brothers have endured. So far the things his diagnoses of me seem to branch from Grandma Minnie Bell’s side of the family tree. I find that somehow appropriate given that she seemed so sure that I was much like her when I was still not quite ten.

Our family’s medical mystery lies with my brothers who have both been recently diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. None of my four grandparents or their children had this but a cousin on my mother’s side of the family was diagnosed with this fairly early in his life and ultimately died from it in his eighties. If there is indeed a genetic connection it has to be from somewhere in my mother’s family but I suppose that we will never know for sure. 

Being a medical detective is so interesting to me. At one time I considered becoming a nurse or a doctor but ultimately felt called to be a teacher. Now I spend a great deal of time studying human anatomy and the diseases that attack us. I keep my ultimate care with my doctors and follow their learned advice because I want the advice of learned professionals, not pseudoscience determining my fate. Still, I sometimes think back to my grandmother and feel a sense of awe that she was so smart to warn me of what might come in my future. So far she has kept me feeling better than I might otherwise have been because my doctors have heard what she predicted and used it to chart a medical plan built just for me. I think that would make Grandma quite happy.

Have you ever thought about all of the millions of things that had to happen over time in order for you to be wherever you are right now? it’s pretty amazing when you get right down to analyzing it. One tiny change might have altered everything and the world would be without you. 

I think of my parents meeting each other at a small company called Reed Roller Bit when they were both quite young. My mother was doing secretarial work and my father was there for the summer as a draftsman earning money for his college tuition. My mother first noticed him when they were both waiting for the same bus to arrive each afternoon at the end of the work day. Initially they said nothing to each other but my mother was intrigued by the young man who would was so much younger that the other guys who worked there. She did some digging and learned that he was an engineering student at Texas A&M which caught her fancy even more. With her sparkling personality she decided to get to know him. 

One afternoon as they were both walking to the bus stop she flirtatiously called out to him, saying that if he waited up they might sit together on the ride home. He turned in amazement as he saw the beautiful girl who was inviting herself into his life and instantly stopped in his tracks. Of course the rest is history because they began dating and fell in love and got married and by 1948 I was born. In truth however so much more had to happen for their destinies to collide in the summer of 1946. 

My paternal grandparents were from Virginia and Texas. The odds of their meeting were slim and it did not happen until they were both in their forties when my grandfather was staying in a boarding house in Oklahoma where he was working. As fate would have it my grandmother was the cook for the borders and one evening Grandpa asked to meet whoever was concocting such delicious meals. When Grandma came out of the kitchen she stole his heart and before long his single days were over. 

Of course they had to get to Houston for my father to be working there. They travelled to many places each time that my grandfather heard about a new construction job. Eventually their journey took them to Texas and finally to Houston were they lived in a lovely home on Arlington St., my father’s destination from work each evening. 

I have no idea how my maternal grandparents met. I only knew that they were both from Czechoslovakia and that my grandfather immigrated to Galveston, Texas in 1912. From there he found his way to Houston where he lived in a boarding house until he had enough funds to send for my grandmother in 1913. Once she joined him they also moved about but soon settled in Houston on North Adams Street where my mother was going each evening when her shift as a secretary was done. 

What had to happen before my grandparents were born is so interesting to me. While my the ancestors from my paternal grandmother were in what is now the United States long before the American Revolution, I have little idea about those who came before my paternal grandfather. I know that he was born in North Carolina but the genealogical trail ends for him with his parents.

My paternal ancestors from my grandmother came to America from Great Britain. They came from Irish and Scottish stock and I have tracked their story all the way back to Normans and Vikings. My maternal grandparents both had parents and grandparents who were from Czechoslovakia but it would be unlikely that the family was always in that part of the world. After my great great maternal grandparents the trial ends.

I remember watching a television special called Roots when I was a young adult. It was a fascinating story about a man who was able to retrace his family all the way back to Africa. I suppose that each of ushave a yearning to know how we got to where we are now. It is in our natures to want to understand more of who we are and where our people have been. It provides us with a better idea of how we came to be. It also shows us how so many little things had to fall exactly into place to become a very specific member of the human race. 

I enjoy hearing the stories of people. I find that while they might differ enormously there are also so many commonalities that we all share. We all too often believe that our differences make us unable to truly understand each other but revealing the stories of our lives almost always demonstrates how alike we humans ultimately are. What is always the many things that had to take place to create the unique and wonderful person each of us is. It’s pretty wonderful and amazing when you think about it. Every human is the compilation of a million little miracles.

I recently spent some time in the Texas Hill Country watching my granddogs. I had an incredibly peaceful time just sitting with the pups who are both very well behaved collies. They were little or no trouble and so I had many hours of quiet and relaxation. Taking care of sweet puppies is so much easier that keeping things going for humans. There was no laundry to do, no meals to cook, no housework or errands to keep me rushing around. It was just me and my two companions who asked for little or nothing and seemed more engaged in taking care of me than I had to do to make sure they were okay. 

It was incredibly hot so I did most of my meditating and gazing at the lovely world around me from the window of the house. I watched deer walking leisurely along the front lawn. I saw hawks soaring overhead. I had fun “talking” back and forth with an owl who seemed to enjoy my attempts at sounding like him when I was sitting on the back porch while the dogs exercised in the yard. I reveled in the silence that felt like being in heaven. My body and my mind were uplifted by feeling as one with the nature that was all around me. I found a kind of peace that had been eluding me for some time. 

I might have read the book that I had brought to occupy my hours but somehow I found myself preferring to just be part of the scenery while silently watching the butterflies and the bees and marveling at how wonderful our earth can be without the distractions that are so much a part of daily life. I wondered if my grandparents had enjoyed the same kind of contentment when they were children living far away from the hustle and bustle of city life. Of course I did have air conditioning to keep me from sweltering in the summer heat. I found food and drink in the refrigerator and I used the lights at night to make my way around the house. I had to admit that there are some things that most of us modern day folk would be loathe to give up.

One of my favorite past times was sitting outside staring at the stars. There were so many of them that they took my breath away. They were brighter and seemed closer thanat my home. I was reminded of camping trips that I took with my family to places like Montana where it felt as though we were the only people on earth along with the animals that walked through our campsite without fear. We saw moose and deer and eagles and hoped that we would not encounter bears. We cooked on a campfire and slept on the floor of a tent big enough for the four of us. Those were some of the happiest times of our lives when we did not imagine growing older and encountering problems that had never crossed our minds. 

These days my joints remind me constantly that I am aging. I feel the pangs of arthritis that my grandmother used to call her “rhumatis.” If I were to lie down on the floor of a tent I’m not sure that I would be able to get upright again without some assistance. I dislike how my body is slowly losing its resilience but at least my mind appears to still be be going strong. My foray into nature with the dogs provided me with much needed contentment that chased away my worries even if only for a time. It was good to take a breath and just enjoy the simple aspects of living. 

I remember thinking that my grandmother was ancient when she was my age. She was a tiny thing with wrinkles defining her face. She had a set of false teeth that she kept in a jar at night. I recall being frightened the first time that I saw them. She was a feisty woman who even as she grew older appeared to be unafraid of anyone or anything. I once thought her life had always been simple but when I became an adult i realized how many challenges she had endured. 

Grandma lost her first husband in 1918. I always wondered if he may have had the Spanish flu, He was young and so was Grandma. Now I feel certain that it was difficult to watch him die at an age when he should have had more time. Ironically she never spoke of him and I never thought to ask about him. When she was eighty years old my father died and I remember her insisting that losing parents and a spouse were difficult but losing a son was horrific. I never truly understood what she meant until I gew older and thought about how unimaginable it would be to lose one of my children. Now I am looking like and feeling more and more like my grandmother and better understanding what an amazing woman she was. In the quiet of my dog sitting stay I have felt incredibly close to her. 

I think I should come this way again the next time that I feel a bit frazzled from the daily grind. It is rather healing just blending into the scenery and watching nature spin its magic. I recommend such a time for anyone who needs a respite from the world. 

The tress are about to show us how lovely it is to let go. —Unknown

I suppose that I have mostly held my emotions at bay for most of my life. It is not as though they do not exist. It is only that I have tried not to show them. I have a strong tendency to keep them close to my chest. I somehow believed from the time that my father died that I had to be a good daughter, a stoic who simply went with the flow of life no matter what happened. I felt compelled to take care of my mother who was shattered when my father died and I felt responsible for my brothers who were so young and innocent.

Some people think of me as a rock because I have always been available in times of need. I am one of those people who rises to the occasion when others are hurting. I am always ready to console, to listen, to care for anyone who is in need of a solace. Sadly, I never learned how to allow my own emotions to surface and while I seem to have done well masking them I found myself feeling more and more anxious, more and more on the verge of exploding as I grew older. 

I suspect that it has been unhealthy for me to keep my worries and concerns to myself. I am as human as anyone and if the truth be told I was shattered when my father died but I learned how to climb a tree and talk to the air when I was feeling especially upset. When my mother first showed signs of her mental illness I would drive around in my car sobbing and cursing whatever was causing her to suffer once again. Sometimes I would drive to a quiet spot like a park and let my feelings out like a mad woman. I wonder how many people I frightened when I did such things. Someone must have wondered who the strange woman screaming at the heavens might have been. 

It was not until a few years ago that I finally learned how to allow myself to grieve and emote in public. Sharon, a dear friend, had died and I gathered with others who loved her as much as I did. Ironically she had been a gifted counselor and was one of the few people who had seen through my facade of courage. She had urged me to learn how to let go of my true feelings. She and I had talked so easily about topics that were difficult for me to discuss with others and suddenly she was gone. 

The other ladies were weeping openly and expressing their feelings while I sat dry eyed  with a bomb going off inside my chest. All of the angst in my heart was roiling inside, trying to get out and yet I was unable to allow it to seep beyond my inner self. It hurt physically to be that way and it was only after I left the gathering that I became the woman crying in her car once again. I suppose that in that moment I knew that covering my emotions was not only wrong but was harmful. Somehow I heard my Sharon’s voice urging me to let go, to be a genuine version of myself. 

I am still working on becoming the person she counseled me to be but I am doing better. I no longer have to express my thoughts with only my writing. I am speaking out a bit more and more each day. The only problem that I have encountered is that some people feel uncomfortable with the new me who is sometimes bluntly truthful about feelings that sometimes sound ugly to them. They try to convince me to cheer up, to be my old strong self. While I understand why they would be that way I want to be free to be the real me. I have learned rather belatedly that those who truly care about me will not turn on me if I become human. I don’t have to be calm and cool and collected all of the time. I now have moments when I let people know that I am not doing well and why that is so. I let the tears come from my eyes in the company of others. It is such a wonderful feeling to be truly authentic. 

My daughters allow me to vent just as I do with them. We don’t force each other to agree on all things. We live and let live in a continual state of love. We can be angry or happy or sad with each other in ways that are healing. Now I am learning that it is okay to be that way with others. In many regards I think that people are more comfortable with me when I am not a robot operating without emotion. They see that I too have feet of clay and moments when life becomes too much. 

I realize now that the people that I have most admired are the ones who were always honest with the world about how they were feeling I suppose that I secretly longed to be like them. Now, like my gone too soon friend, Sharon, they advise me on the joys of being exactly who I am. Like the trees I have reached the autumn of my life and I see how lovely it is to let go. 

The National Assessment of Education Progress scores came out recently and showed that student assessments in science, reading and mathematics had dropped by three points from the previous year. In fact, scores are ten points lower than when the test was first administered in 1969. The questions about what is causing this are swirling and while I can’t make too many comments without studying all of the data over time, I have a few ideas.

I graduated from high school in 1966, so I have a fairly good understanding about what different subjects were like back in that time. I went to a private school and took all advanced classes. Nonetheless Pre-Advanced Placement and Advanced Placement studies were yet to come for students. Back then most high schools offered Algebra I in the ninth grade even for gifted math students. That course was followed by Geometry, Algebra II and an amalgam of Trigonometry and Pre-Calculus. Regular students only needed three years of mathematics and they were done. Many students who struggled in math first took a course called the Money of Math, fondly known as MOM. and then continued with Algebra I and Geometry. 

Over time most states adopted a requirement of four years of mathematics in high school beginning with Algebra I. Advanced students often took Algebra I in the eight grade and began their high school years with Geometry. Highly exceptional students sometimes took Algebra I in the seventh grade and Geometry in the eighth grade but they were definitely outliers. 

The top math students would learn Geometry, Algebra I, Pre-Calculus and Calculus A/B in high school. The most exceptional students would advance through Algebra II, Pre-Calculus, Calculus, A/B and Calculus B/C. All other students would take Algebra I, Geometry, Algebra II, and either Pre-Calculus or some kind of hybrid class that was less difficult than Pre-Calculus. 

The faster pace worked well for the top students but often became a stumbling block for those who were unprepared. The general pacing for learning new knowledge and skills was faster for everyone than it had at one time been. Students went from one concept to another at a rapid pace that often felt like sprinting through a marathon. It became more and more difficult to keep reviewing what had already been presented to insure that students kept that information readily intact. 

Then came nationwide interruptions like Covid when many students spent months or even entire years learning remotely. This lead to more and more use of computer generated homework and tests where students either chose answer from multiple choices or simply posted an answer without the work that was needed to arrive at the solution. It was difficult for teachers to know student strengths and weaknesses without watching them process the information in a classroom. Of course gaps began to form, sometimes even with the best of the best. 

I have been doing a great deal of math tutoring of late and I have noted schools’ continued reliance on computer generated practice and testing. More often than not the teacher never sees the the students’ work which is critical in determining why mistakes are happening. A wrong answer might come from dozens of places like copying the problem incorrectly or making an addition error in one of the steps or even not having a clue about what to do. Students are sometimes simply guessing rather than putting in the labor to get an answer. The ones I work with seem not to understand that there are ways of checking answers and understanding when a computation is way off from where it should be. Such things were the meat of the past with teachers like me insisting on seeing all of the work and then pouring over the calculations line line by line to determine what is missing in each student’s understanding. 

I was trained to look back at previous standardized tests that my students had taken looking for patterns. I would find students who had not mastered division or had to rely on counting their fingers to multiply. I saw those who did not understand the relationships between decimal, fractions and percents. I had to clear up those difficulties while also presenting new material. I had to do my best to make the processes make sense for them. I even sometimes gave them a problem with an answer that was wrong and had them study the student’s work to determine where the errors were. 

I spent five nights a week pouring over every aspect of my students’ work. I created reviews constantly and tried to show them why processes worked. I wonder if enough of that kind of thing is being done right now. I also worry that we are moving our less capable students too quickly. Just as with babies learning to walk we humans progress through learning at differing paces. Our one size fits all approach that is demanded by state tests is forcing kids to move on before they truly understand mathematical material. Once they are discouraged the gaps only grow. It’s fine to challenge someone but when they are not quite ready we have to show them how slow and steady will also win the race. 

It would be easy to blame lower scores on lazy students or bad teaching but the journey through mathematics is much more complex than that and simply judging the whole system by a yearly number is not enough. We have to ask ourselves if we are pushing curriculum to boast or if we are tailoring what we teach to the individual needs of our students. I have learned that taking the time to build confidence by showing students exactly where their problems lie and then fixing those areas leads to enthusiasm in math that might otherwise have ended in defeat and fear. Let’s start using those tests and those scores as a way to understand each and every student rather than ranking them and making them believe that they are flawed. When we get to the heart of the matter we avoid creating adults who forever hate the very idea of math.