Category: Seasons

On The Road Again

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

299756_thumb.jpgIn just a few more weeks the kids will be out of school for the summer and Americans will be hitting the road for vacations. Thanks to President Dwight Eisenhower we have a fairly decent interstate highway system that links us from one place to another. Traveling by car takes more time than flying, but it is a far more interesting way to go. Driving gives a real sense of geography, the changing landscape and the enormity of our nation. In some ways it is almost like a pilgrimage, a time for relaxation and reflection, a way of getting to know our landscape more intimately. It is on the hidden byways and along the main streets of tiny towns that I truly begin to understand the variety and diversity of the United States. Those long road trips are filled with unforgettable memories of places that I had no idea even existed. Long after I have returned home I picture them in my mind and almost feel as though I am there once again.

As we whiz past homes along the route I find myself wondering who lives in those edifices and how they came to settle in such places. Sometimes the houses are palatial and speak of money and success. Other times they are the size of small huts, filled with signs of poverty and neglect. Since I have no way of knowing the stories of the residents I create descriptions of them from my imagination. I pretend to know what the rooms are like and what the people within them may be doing. It occupies my mind when the miles stretch endlessly ahead.

I love the towns the most. I wonder what the citizens think of those of us who are only passersby. I try to get a sense of why some small places even exist. I begin to realize just how much of America is so different from the metropolis from which I come. I want to stop and tarry for a time but usually have to continue onward to the next place lest I never reach my ultimate destination.

Some of the most wonderful memories that I have are from unexpected places. I can still see the road to Mount Rushmore in South Dakota. It is late afternoon and a storm is brewing. The clouds are dark and foreboding. The people who live in the farmhouses are safely inside with the warm glow of lights radiating from the windows. Even the livestock have taken cover, having more sense than we do as we continue on as the wind whips our vehicle warning us that perhaps being outside is not particularly safe. Then we see a twister moving across a field traveling in our direction. We abruptly change our course as a torrential rain overtakes us. We race back to the tiny town from whence we have most recently come and hurry for cover along with others caught so unexpectedly by the angry forces of nature. As we settle inside I feel a rush of excitement and somehow know that I will never ever forget this experience.

There is another trip that returns to my recollections time and again. On this occasion we are in Utah heading toward Durango, Colorado. The sun bears down relentlessly on our car. Dust on the road coats the paint with a fine red mist. It is unbearably hot but somehow there is a beauty in the utter desolation of the road that we are following. I find myself thinking of the first people who settled in such a wilderness and marvel at their fortitude. While it is magnificent it is also forbidding. I try not to think of what our fate might be if we were to break down or become ill, for there is nobody around. It is as though we have become the only people left on the planet.

It is dark by the time we drive into Durango. We are exhausted and quite famished. We find a restaurant that features a dinner of rainbow trout. A chill has come over the dessert-like climate and so a fire is burning to warm the customers. It is cozy and welcoming and we are quite thankful to have serendipitously stumbled upon such a place. Our food proves to be more excellent than we had imagined it might be. We tarry in the hospitable atmosphere and somehow file away the moment in the part of our brains that holds thoughts of the most treasured times.

Road trips have taken us through Yellowstone National Park in the midst of a raging forest fire. They have shown us a glorious rainbow in Glacier National Park. They have made us laugh as we witnessed the ever present humor of our fellowmen in signs and silly yard displays. They took us along narrow mountain trails and through miles and miles of green corn fields. We have learned of the difficulties of driving through downtown New York City, and chided ourselves for the foolishness in the aftermath. We found old time tunnels through which our vehicle barely made it. We marveled at the manicured vineyards of wineries and the permanent ruts made by the wagons of long ago travelers. We might never have seen any of these wondrous things had we decided to travel by plane. We would have missed them as we flew high above the clouds. What a loss that would have been!

Later this summer we plan to travel to Wyoming in hopes of getting a glimpse at the once in a lifetime solar eclipse that is scheduled to take place in a swath along much of the northwest and midwestern states. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that the weather will cooperate and that we will be able to actually witness this phenomenon, but even if things don’t turn out as planned I am confident that our road trip will provide us with many wonderful surprises. We will see things that we had not expected. Just thinking of the possibilities is rather exciting.

Thank you, Henry Ford, for making the automobile accessible to the common man. Thank you, President Eisenhower, for insisting that we have a nation of good roads. Thank you to the little people everywhere who set up the gasoline stations, restaurants and places to rest for the night. Because of such innovations my world has been much more expansive than it might otherwise have been. I am a far different and better person for seeing so much of this wondrous country. I can’t wait to get on the road again with the strains of Willie Nelson filling the cabin of our car. Who knows what lies ahead?

Show Up

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

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Show up on time ready to work.

It’s graduation season. In the coming weeks kindergartners will be ready to move into the big time of elementary school. Eighth graders are excited about the prospect of going to high school. Seniors anticipate college life. Graduates of universities are hoping to join the work force. Emotions are running high as each of these milestones are met and transitions take place. It is the way we do things here in the United States of America and our national health is riding on how well our youngsters ultimately perform.

A hundred years ago few women made it past the eighth grade. My own grandmothers were both illiterate, unable to read or even write their own names. I’m not certain how far they went in school but it could not have been more than a few grades, if that much. My grandfathers attended school a bit longer, enabling them to become prolific readers who treasured books as something akin to gold. Still their educations were scant enough to keep them doing labor intensive jobs for all of their lives. Nonetheless, both men understood the concept of showing up on time ready to work and were valued for their attention to even the smallest details of their jobs.

Today more and more of our population gets to high school, but there are still too many who do not make it all the way through. There are now a higher number of women graduating from college than men, but they often still lag in terms of pay and position. Ours is not a perfect system but it is considerably better than the realities of the world in which my my grandparents lived. There has been progress but we continue to have plenty of room for improvement.

Some of what needs to happen to move closer and closer to a more perfect world lies not so much with government programs but within each individual. We still have far too many people who do not take advantage of the opportunities that exist. Every teacher knows of students who approach schooling as though it is a bitter pill rather than a grand experience that will open the doors of the world to them. They too often do not show up at all or they are late when they come, arriving unprepared to put in a full days work. They either have not learned or choose to ignore the most basic key to success which is encapsulated in the statement, “Show up on time ready to work.”

There is a man who has taken care of my yard for twelve years now. I know that he is as dependable as the rising sun. He has never failed to arrive with his crew weekend after weekend to turn my lawn into a landscaped showpiece. He does superb work each time that he comes, demonstrating great pride in a job well done. I am confident that he will not let me down. The money I pay him is well spent and I often find myself applauding his can do spirit. If every person along the continuum of life were to put as much effort into the tasks that they need to perform as he does, our society would be productive beyond imagination.

School is hard. Work is hard. Even the most joyful aspects of life have their mundane and stressful moments. Those who are successful at the things that they do have usually expended a great deal of effort. They are focused on the tasks at hand and have the patience to take one step at a time in pursuit of a goal. Sometimes there is an element of luck involved in achievement, but mostly it is individual sweat and determination that results in the fulfillment of dreams. The process of doing well begins by showing up on time. It builds momentum by being ready to work.

I saw a post from a former student a few days ago. He stood smiling in front of his place of employment looking quite professional. He said that he has “a dollar and a dream.” What I know of him is that he has built his budding career on a foundation of thousands of hours of studying and learning and working to do whatever is needed to create a niche for himself. I have little doubt that he will be a resounding success because he understands the power of determination and effort.

When I was still in the classroom I often had students who were known as high achievers. Some teachers would sniff that such kids did not really possess innate intellectual abilities but rather a willingness to work harder than their peers. They noted this as though there was something wrong with having such a personality. I on the other hand always defended such pupils, noting that in the long run it would be those willing to put forth the effort who would be most valued in society. Most of my students known as the worker bees have gone on to outstanding careers in medicine, engineering, law, business and education. They developed the habits of highly successful individuals early in life and they took those skills to work.

At the same time I also had a number of students who were capable of doing extremely well who gave up anytime they had even the smallest challenge. They complained that they did not like math or reading or whatever. They whined that school was just too hard. They played around rather than focusing and their grades became a dismal record of their unwillingness to even try. Such individuals always filled me with sadness, and my only hope was that one day they would realize that it was time to grow up. Luckily many of them did, but it has been more difficult for them than it had to be.

Those of us who have children or work with them have a responsibility to do our best to inculcate them with the attitudes and values that will serve them well in the everyday struggles of living. The sooner we teach them the importance of the simple act of showing up on time ready to work, the more likely will be their ultimate success. It may appear to be just a platitude but it is far deeper than just a one size fits all way of living. There will be times when the going gets very tough, but the persons with the willingness to work hard, be nice and take no shortcuts will be far ahead in the race. There is nothing worth striving for that does not take a great deal of sweat equity, so when giving advice to those young people who are moving to the next phase of their lives don’t forget to provide them with the one piece of advice that has never failed to produce results. Every day in every way they need to show up on time ready to work.

A Winter Tale

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

BM_Comfort476x290I vividly remember having the measles. It seemed to be the final insult in a year that had brought me nothing but grief. My father had died only months earlier leaving me confused and bereft as our family struggled to find its footing. We had moved into a house that was nothing like the ones we had been considering at the time of his death, but it had brought us great comfort in the short time that we had lived there. We had gone full circle, returning to the neighborhood and the school that we had left only a year before. The people who lived near us and those who attended our church had been welcoming and we had been gradually settling in to a new way of life without Daddy.

My mother’s selection of a home for us had been a very wise choice, but we were still navigating through a year of milestones that reminded us over and over again that the man who had been such an integral part of our lives was gone. Somehow we had made it through birthdays, Thanksgiving and Christmas, starting the new year with the realization that we were going to actually make it on our own. Still I was feeling those sudden bursts of grief that seem to come and go in the first year after a loved one’s death. I often felt sorry for myself and my family, silently hoping that our tragedy had only been a dream. As the months went by it had become more and more certain that our new reality would never again include our father, so when I felt the first symptoms of illness that winter I thought that I was just having another bout of sadness. I felt so tired that I uncharacteristically retired to bed early.

By the following morning I was raging with fever and my head felt as though it was going to explode. I felt so dizzy that I hesitated getting out of my bed so I called my mother for help. My throat felt dry and scratchy and it seemed as though every bone in my body ached. I had at times dramatically wished I were dead like my father, but that was just a way to garner attention from my overworked mom. Now I wondered if my bizarre request had somehow been granted because I truly felt as though I had one foot in the grave.

My mother took a quick look at me and asked me to lift the top of my pajamas. Underneath the soft flannel was a scarlet colored rash that caused her to shake her head and declare that I had the measles. She immediately went into action, calling our family doctor who agreed with her assessment and advised her over the phone rather than having me come to his office. He did not want me to expose the rest of his patients to my highly contagious disease, so he and my mother discussed how to best treat my illness.

It was a bitterly cold winter that year in keeping with the somber tone of our household. The heater seemed to whir away continuously and I was so happy that our neighbor, Mr. Sessums, had put it in fine working order for us. I felt quite snug under quilts that my grandmother had made and somewhat relieved that I did not have to go to school on that day. My teacher was a woman who terrified me and any time spent away from her was welcome in my mind. I willingly stayed in my bed and fell into a deep sleep.

When I awoke my room was quite dark and I wondered if I had slumbered all day. Mama informed me that I was not to look out my window, watch television or turn on the lamps in my room lest the lights damage my eyes. She explained that having measles was very serious and that I needed to follow her instructions to the letter so that I might recover quickly and without any long term side effects. Since my fever was still quite high I had little inclination to disobey her. For the most part movements of any kind sent my head into a tailspin and so I languished in my room listening to the sounds of my family going about its routine.

As my seemingly endless bad luck would have it, Houston had one of the biggest snows in its history only a day or so after I was afflicted with the measles. I could hear my friends and family celebrating the uncommon occasion up and down the street. My brothers had snowball fights and built a snowman with my mother. They breathlessly recounted how glorious their fun had been from the safety of the hallway. Their cheeks were tinged with a bright red glow of excitement and I wanted more than anything to experience the adventure that they described to me.

Mama reminded me again and again that I was not to even peek through the blinds to view the white stuff on the ground. She was a good nurse but I truly doubted that her extreme caution was necessary. When she and my brothers returned to the winter wonderland to make snow angels I saw my opportunity to find out for myself what a true snowy day looked life. I gingerly squinted through a tiny gap in the wooden slats of the blinds and saw a glorious sight unlike any I had ever experienced in my hometown. The yards were covered with a lovely white dusting of frozen precipitation. Snowmen smiled in front of every home and children were bundled up in winter wear that they hardly ever had occasion to use. The sound of laughter filled the air as the winter party delighted young and old alike, everyone it seemed but me.

My mother never knew that I had so blatantly disobeyed her. For a time I worried that as punishment for my transgression I would become permanently blind, but when that never happened I felt justified in seizing that daring moment. Soon enough I was back in school and forever immune from catching the measles, something that seemed to make my mother quite happy. I would not understand the full extent of what I had endured until later in life when I was pregnant with my own children. It was then that I was told of the dangers of catching the measles while carrying a baby in the womb. None of those fears would apply to me, and later when they were born my girls would receive an immunization that would insure that they would never have to worry about catching the measles as I had.

The World Health Organization has officially declared that measles have been eradicated in the United States. My childhood experience is a thing of the past, an historic event that no longer happens in our country. Much like my grandfather’s stories of smallpox, my recollection of having the measles is a curiosity that my children and grandchildren will never truly understand. Thank God for that.   

A Fevered Illness

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

seagull-flying-aroundI woke up one recent morning with an illness that has overtaken my body just a bit more with each passing day. There is no medication for what I have nor is there a reliable treatment. I can’t be immunized to prevent the recurrence of the symptoms because nobody has yet thought of a reliable way of preventing an epidemic. My only hope is that it will pass without inflicting too much damage. I’ve had bouts with the same disease now and again since I was a child. It always occurs at about the same time of year right alongside the allergies that cause me to sneeze incessantly and otherwise fill my eyes and ears with fluid draining from my sinuses. It is a debilitating sickness that has caused me at times to take off days from work while I wander lethargically around my home. I suspect, but am not certain, that it may be infectious because the people around me sometimes show symptoms similar to mine whenever I am down with a full blown fever. This year in particular I appear to have a real doozie of a case.

The signs that I have been infected are always the same. I’m an industrious person, someone who never really sits still. I can’t even hold a conversation without moving my hands or wiggling in my chair. I’m always on the go and measure the accomplishments of each day with precision, reflecting on how well I have done by calibrating the merits of each of my actions. When the sickness comes my productiveness slows down to a crawl. My home fills with dust bunnies while I sit quietly outdoors listening for the sounds of the birds and watching the antics of the squirrels that scamper in my garden. I lean back and gaze at the brilliant blue sky enjoying the cool breezes that brush across my face. I think back to the games that I might have played as a child and how wonderful the new grown grass felt on my bare feet when the days became warm enough for me to toss my shoes into the far recesses of my closet.

I imagine myself flying to the beach with the seagulls that squawk as they pass overhead. I suddenly long for the life of a gypsy, one in which I have no responsibilities and I go wherever my heart leads me. I pass my time without being aware of the hour. I toss dishes into the sink and look away from the pile of dirty clothes that grows ever larger. I have better things to do. I take long walks without saying a word or drive to lovely places that seem to be calling me to tarry for just a bit. I sleep longer in the morning and stay awake deep into the night. I eschew my usual habits and become quite lazy, a person so unlike myself that I might worry if I were in a normal state of mind and body. But I am not, and so I just let the illness run its course for I have learned that if I simply go with its flow it will soon enough pass.

There is indeed a name for my affliction. It goes by the seasonal label of spring fever. it has been stalking me for as long as I am able to remember. In some years it passes over me with hardly a notice but in others it attacks me with a vengeance and I become a hopeless victim of its control. This seems to be an especially toxic year for me. The start of it came without warning and thinking that it would soon be gone I did little to steel myself against its effects. Unfortunately my symptoms have grown almost out of control as my usual routines have been neglected to the point of absurdity. While the fact that I am retired makes the impact of my idleness matter less, there are still things that must occur to keep my little world running smoothly but I can’t yet get myself fully back into the groove. I use any excuse to dally and to dream.

If I were able I would begin a long journey on foot and just keep going like Forrest Gump until I finally felt as though I was done. I would soak in the world and its creatures like a gigantic sponge. I’d bypass our manufactured creations in search of the ones that nature has made. I would quietly watch the passing parade of people and try to imagine what they were all thinking and doing without ever uttering a word. I would be little more than a fly on the wall, an observer whose only job was to watch and learn.

I suppose that it will not be much longer until I am myself again. I’ll chide myself for letting things go so badly when I finally take the time to look around. I’ll make new lists of things to do and become an industrious cyclone. I won’t notice the doves in my backyard so much when I’m busy dusting the baseboards. I’ll set up appointments and keep them. I’ll join the mad race that is always swirling around me.  I will be in a normal state of health again and firmly in control of my Type A personality. The fever will be gone, replaced by a sound determination to keep my eye on the challenges of life. Nobody will accuse me of sloth or shiftless behaviors. I will be fully engaged in the routine swing of things.

For now though I plan to feed the fever that has overtaken me and actually enjoy its impact on my attitude. It is ironically a disease that I secretly appreciate. It slows me down enough to show me the side of life that I miss when I am one of society’s most productive contributors. It adds zest to my personality and a lilt to my steps. It is the one illness that actually makes me feel good. Since I am retired I am now able to surrender to the siren song that is calling me to embrace the beauty and the joy that comes to such glorious life each March. There will be time enough for labor when I have become myself again. Today I am going to let my spring fever run its course.

Magical

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

downloadI’ve been retired from a four decades career in education for almost six years and I still can’t seem to avoid following the academic calendar. Perhaps it’s because a school bus stops in front of my home each morning to pick up the neighborhood children and I am daily reminded that the process of educating our youth has endures with or without me. Maybe it’s because I still tutor students twice a week at two different schools and in the evenings. I suspect that it’s mostly because I followed the August to June routine for so long that it has become embedded in the heart and soul of who I am. So it is that I continue to immerse myself in spring break rituals each year even though that special week for students and teachers shouldn’t make much difference to me now that I am free to do whatever I wish whenever I wish.

I made no plans for the annual March respite this year and yet the serendipity of my activities made it one of the most memorable and relaxing weeks that I have experienced in all of my years of partaking of the annual spring fling. It began with an evening track meet in which grandson Eli broke the district record for the 1600 meter run. Watching him plying his craft is akin to viewing a gazelle. His form is a breathtaking sight of beauty. Even better is his determination to continually compete with himself to be his personal best. I am in awe of him and watching him on that night was magical just as the rest of my spring break adventure would prove to be.

Husband Mike and I traveled to bluebonnet country the following day, enjoying the lovely blue carpets of the state flower that are so glorious each spring. We had bonafide Texas barbecue and sampled fruit kolaches that warmed the Slovakian half of my heart. We walked among the rows and rows of flowers at the Rose Emporium and brought home two more gorgeous bushes to join the collection that we already have. It was one of those absolutely perfect days that reminded me just how much I truly love the people and the sights of the place I call home.

The weather took one of those unexpected dips in temperature a day or so later just as it always seems to do this time of year. It was a perfect moment for making paprika stew for my grandson Andrew who had arrived for a sojourn from his studies at Purdue University. We had one of those old fashioned Sunday night dinners with him and his family. We caught up on all of his news and lingered at the dining table with stories and lots of laughs, ending our meal with pies that we had purchased at a bakery in a small town known for its sausages, baked goods and ice cream. It felt good to fill the house with our children and grandchildren. It had been quite some time since they had been able to steal a few hours from their busy school time schedules. Not wanting to end the joyful feeling of the evening we all agreed meet up again the following day for a musical light show at the Burke Baker Planetarium followed by dinner in Rice Village.

Just when it appeared that I would return to a somewhat uneventful week my granddaughter Abby who lives in San Antonio called me to request my presence at her home for the next few days. Mike had things to do, like taxes (ugh), so I hit the open road on my own. The drive has become second nature to me since my daughter moved there a little over ten years ago. I break down the distance into discrete parts that tell me that I am moving ever closer to the other half of my ever growing family. The weather was spectacular much as it generally is in March. The bluebonnets were even more profuse than they had been only days before and now they had been joined by the red Indian paintbrushes that shouted out, “This is Texas at its very best!”

My daughter is about to move to a new home so she was busy sorting and packing belongings while I was there. She reluctantly took a small slice of time to join us for gourmet burgers and milkshakes at Hopdoddy as well as a round of bowling at a rather unique emporium. Afterward we played board games and watched old Star Wars movies until late into the night. It felt so much like the kind of activities that we used to enjoy back when we my daughters were just girls and we spent our spring break time chilling out and enjoying life in slow motion.

While my daughter returned to her duties the children and I continued our adventures with a visit to a small hill country town called Boerne where we found treasures in the many different antique shops, including a slightly damaged kachina doll that grandson William named Footless Fred. We laughed with delight as we scored a tiny house fit for the gnome garden that the kids are designing, an old Stars Wars book, a poncho, and a set of quilted placemats. We ended our day with a side trip to Guadelupe River State Park where we skipped rocks and told one silly joke after another.

It was with a certain level of reluctance that I headed back home toward the end of the week, but the kids had things to do that they had been putting off while I was in there. I too needed to get back to reality, but not until I enjoyed what may well have been the most magical day of my spring break.

Mike and I began the final Saturday of my mini vacation by meeting Andrew once again for a farewell lunch. He looked so happy, rested and ready to tackle the next six weeks at Purdue. Like me had had been energized by the people and places that he most loves. He had an optimistic and determined twinkle in his eyes and I felt quite comfortable sending him off to joust with his challenging  engineering and mathematics classes. He will be halfway through his collegiate journey by May. He sees the light at the end of the tunnel and it is a beautiful experience to listen to him voice very adult and wise pronouncements about the future and life in general.

From our sojourn with Andrew we traveled to the home of one of my former students, a young man named Bieu. We have known each other for well over twenty years now and he faithfully maintains a constant connection with me just as he promised he would when he was just a boy in my math class. On this day he was hosting a crawfish boil, another March tradition in the Houston area. He had great pots of the lobster like creatures turning a bright delicious red as the water bubbled around them. He cooked potatoes and corn as friends and family enjoyed the cool afternoon in his backyard.

I continue to marvel at what a fine person Bieu has become. I am as proud of him as if he had been my own son. I laugh that he was the one who most closely followed in my father’s footsteps by earning a degree in mechanical engineering from Texas A&M University. I feel quite certain that my dad would have loved Bieu and his family as much as I do had he been around to meet them.

I ended my glorious week that evening at the seventieth birthday party of Josefina Carrillo. She once worked for Mike at a bank in southeast Houston and he insists that she was his best employee ever. I also had the privilege of teaching her daughter Josie at South Houston Intermediate. Because southeast Houston has always been a small and very friendly kind of world the connections to Josefina go even deeper. Her son married the sister of one of my daughter’s best friends from our old neighborhood, so it was like old home week at the gala.

We feasted on fajitas and sipped on margaritas while a mariachi band played “otra mas” tune after another. There was dancing and enough smiles to light up a city. We learned that many of the people who had come to honor Josefina had lived in our old neighborhood and been involved in the same circles that had defined our lives for years. The kinship centered on the birthday girl bonded us all together and we had an incredibly lovely time remembering how many joys and blessings we had all experienced.

As I think back on my week of simple pleasures I realize how lucky I have always been. I not only have happy, healthy children and grandchildren but a host of friends who have brought sunshine into my life over and over again. I thought of how so much of my good fortune came to be because of the time that I have spent in what must surely be the most inviting city anywhere, Houston and its surrounding areas. Where else would I eat New York style pizza, crawfish and Tex Mex all in one day? Where else would I be so welcomed by Vietnamese and Hispanic families within the space of only a few hours. Where else would the people be so hospitable? Where else would I have enjoyed such a magical spring break? Where else would I rather be?