My English Lavender has finally established itself after two years and is taking over from the day lilies next to my deck and patio. Instead of cutting it back last year I left it completely alone, and this spring it ran amok! Amok! Amok! Amok! I actually was able to smell it the other afternoon when my allergies were giving me a break. It was divine! And the bees love it. They go about their business busily while I snap pictures. Unfortunately, they are too quick for me to get a good picture of them, but I’ll figure it out someday….. laughing!
And Just for Fun: Both of my grandmothers used to sing this to me and my sister when we were little – its derived from a very old English Nursery Rhyme – that has MUCH bawdier origins. This version won Burl Ives an Academy Award in 1948, and was his first major chart topper. Here’s the song reference:
It’s kind of funny what one falls into – career wise, as one gets older. I started out 30 years ago providing direct care to folks over 22 with mental health issues and developmental disabilities. For those that don’t know – that’s kind of like nurses aide work without the blood pressure checks. I worked in residential when I started out – awake overnight shifts and relief shifts while I was in college. The stories….. and I can attest that the full moon “theory” is a fact – just so you know. Those full moon weekend shifts were off the hook!
I steadily moved my way onward and forward moving into day programs and working with the elderly; becoming an activities director at a local nursing home part time for a short time. I moved back to residential programs and became a House Manager for another short period of time. I can honestly say that those folks are paid nowhere NEAR enough for everything they have to do – and on salary. I averaged 70 to 80 hours a week but got paid for 40 and was on call one weekend a month. My longest week was 115 hours. I passed out from exhaustion at the end of it. OK yeah, I was only 27 years old at the time – but a girls got her limits. After several months of me unplugging my phone when I was not on call (in order to avoid the late night ” there’s no milk in the fridge – what should I do?” calls) and yes, I got those regularly – as well as the sick calls where I ended up having to cover the shift myself – hence the long work weeks – sigh. I realized this was not my cup of tea. I moved into working in Day Programs at another agency in 1991 and haven’t looked back. I discovered how nice it is to work M-F and not dread the sound of the telephone ringing when I was home. I started in direct support again and moved up to case and program management, then into QA case management and administrative – where I currently “reside.” Years of lugging and tugging clients and the occasional aggressive episode left me with a bad hip and shoulder so I don’t do direct support with the clients anymore – can’t. I prefer that term to the current “consumer” as “client” infers that I provided a service -which I did. “Consumer” infers no reciprocity, and I gained so much from working with my folks – they didn’t just take from me. Anyway, that’s my meandering career path to now. What a long strange trip its been.
The last three months of my life at work have literally been taken up by a massive annual project – recontracting with the state for Fiscal 14. My background is not accounting, business, or finance, as I’m sure you noted when you read the beginning of this post -. so this was a real challenge to me to fly “solo” this year. The process was self taught and I am so thankful for the great mentors I have who were available to answer my questions and “point me in the direction of Albuquerque” when I got stuck. But I have to admit I’m fried and in dire need of this time off. So today, I’m not dreading the inevitable return to the Monday grind. In fact, I’m planning a little road trip with my youngest daughter for a couple of days.
And, this coming Friday is our 28th wedding anniversary. June 21, 1985 – which was also a Friday. I will have to do a “Tales from the Northland” post to commemorate the event. So you all can look forward to my wedding recollections when we get back from our road trip. (heehee) So now, I must take us all back to yesteryear…. Glam Rock and Girl Power!
These were Selena Jacques Lahue (my Great- Grandmother)’s peonies. My Grandpa dug them up and brought them to his front garden when she passed away, and my mother brought them to her backyard when Grandpa left us. Peonies also happen to be my sister Susan’s favorite flower. I went over to my Mom’s this morning and together we managed to get these photographs. Mom held up the blooms with a stick since they are so darn top- heavy. It was great to share this time with her, and listen to a couple of the family stories while I snapped away. I’m normally not a fan of white flowers per se, but these have a spattering of red to boost the visual interest; kind of like an artist lined the center whorls with crimson. Nature, gotta love her -even when she’s off her HRT. I hope you enjoy these! Thanks for stopping by.
I know I just recently wrote this (a creative writing challenge) and posted it but…. its the date before THE date…. So much time, so VERY VERY missed – every day. Especially this year, as his youngest granddaughter starts high school, and his oldest granddaughter gets married. You were here for dinner 6 years ago tonight, and I never saw you again. I miss you and think of you so much, Daddy! Today, and every day. …… So here it is again
I pull in the driveway just as the shadows are starting to lengthen and the afternoon is at its golden magical moment. Its been a long day and my feet are killing me. As I walk up the deck steps to the back door I don’t hear our two dogs barking – which is strange, because they usually bark when a leaf blows by the window – never mind when they hear footsteps on the trex decking. But no matter – I’m tired. I open the door and take a step into the dim coolness of my kitchen – shedding my sweater as I walk in.
I’m greeted by Miss Nellie – our old greyhound, who lifts her head off the couch and grins at me, tail thumping. For a millisecond I accept this – then I freeze. Nellie’s been at the Rainbow Bridge for close to two years now. Then I hear his voice behind me - “What’s for supper, Donna Jean?” Dad? Oh, Daddy…. I spin around and RUN, fast as I can, hugging him tightly. He’s real, and I’m not hallucinating. “Take it easy kiddo”, he says, “I’m still recuperating. I just got the OK to drive again today.” That’s when I know. It’s June 6, 2007. Its not the date I woke up to this morning – but when I stepped through my back door this afternoon it’s where I ended up. And I’ve been given a rare gift. One more last afternoon with my father.
I frantically try and think of any way to keep him at my house for as long as possible, as we chat about the girls and wait for them and my husband, to get home. Its surreal. My brain is telling me this isn’t possible, but oh, my heart…. my heart. I don’t know how I manage to keep it together; as this great big lump of emotion in the center of my chest tries to work its way up my throat and explode out of me. But I do keep it together, barely. Dad doesn’t seem to notice. There’s so much I want to tell him, but can’t. The crew gets home just as I think I can’t stand any more and they prove a distraction. I’m in for another shock – when I left them this morning they were 20 and 14. Now, they’re 14 and 8. We decide on pizza for dinner and Grandpa is highly encouraged to stay. As usual, the girls have him wrapped around their fingers, and so he does. I content myself watching him with them, remembering how much they mean/t to him and how much he loves/loved being their grandfather.
Time slows, I start to almost feel like this is normal – and then it suddenly accelerates as Dad gets ready to leave – he’s heading for an AA meeting – just like he did before. My heart sinks because I know he’s leaving and this is the last time I’ll see him – again. Don’t go Dad. Stay awhile. But the time arrives. I know it, and I know I can’t stop him. I tell him unequivocally to take it easy – reminding him (as I follow him out to the car this time) that he has to see the surgeon before he goes back to mowing lawns and landscaping. But I know it won’t make any difference. There really are no do-overs. What was, was. What is, is. And what will be, will be. The timeline is locked in, and on June 7, 2007 he will have a massive heart attack while unloading his lawn mower at a clients house and he will pass away before I can get to the hospital to say goodbye. “I know,” he says. “Love you. Sayonara, Kemosabe. Keep the Faith.” “Bye Dad, I love you too!” And with that, he leaves – just like before.
As I turn and walk back up the driveway the light shifts back to golden for an instant. I hear the dogs barking inside the house. I go back through the door again, back to my future. I smile through the tears I can now let loose - because I got my chance to say goodbye, after all.
Is that even a real word outside of my world? Don’t know, don’t care. So for those of you interested parties – Bibliophil-itis means Book Lover or Reader’s Disease. I’m infected. Gloriously infected. And hopefully, contagious. I’ve loved books – and reading, since early childhood. ” Reada me ‘nocchio, Mama” (read me Pinocchio) was the staple chorus at bedtime for me. I taught myself to read by the age of 4 – and even earlier could always tell when someone tried to cut corners while reading a familiar story. I imagine we all could do that with our beloved bedtime tales. Bit by the reading bug – you betcha. And I quickly became a speed reader on top of it. As a teenager I read ‘Jaws” in about 3 hours. Books were the gift of choice to me at Christmas; but my family soon learned not to give them to me first – or I would literally not open my other presents once I opened the book. I have bibliophil-itis in the worst best way
I was in a discussion on Facebook today- I had posted a link to a picture of Leonardo DiCaprio as Jay Gatsby – which led to the following - ( rather than paraphrase I figured I’d save time and copy/paste) I have erudite, intelligent friends – just so you know – several of whom are wonderful educators. Here is the transcript:
Friend 1:I still have mental twitches from having to read “The Great Gatsby” in school — I have been thinking, after lo, these many years, I might have to overcome this and try reading it again…
Friend 2: Friend 1, you just hit on something that is one of my pet peeves. We force kids to read novels the content of which really is just over their heads, and it turns so many off of reading. They are capable of decoding the words and maybe even grasping the general concepts, but they are not mentally or emotionally ready to absorb the true message.I probably didn’t say that as well as I could, but I’m super tired and just took cough syrup.
Friend 1: no, I think you got it exactly right — my son was assigned to read Maya Angelou’s “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings” over the summer as a HS freshman, and that is not a book that a 14-year-old boy has an interest in, he hated it; I remember also detesting Steinbeck and Hemingway, who were the “in” authors of so-called classics at that time. Luckily I did a lot of extracurricular reading, so I wasn’t turned off to reading as such, but many kids don’t come from families that read a great deal, and that would make a difference. Sorry to be so long-winded, but I could discuss this for hours..
Friend 3: Students do seem to enjoy “Of Mice and Men” by Steinbeck. But now our curriculum is filled with a lot of nonfiction that neither the student nor the teacher enjoy. I think we do need to read nonfiction but all the extended text in my curriculum. I feel as if I am teaching history and not English.
Donna Hoyt EricksonYou guys nailed it! So many people get turned off of reading because of the reasons you stated. Sometimes the message is way over heads. In order to enjoy reading it first has to be an enjoyable story and well, vividly written. I LOVE To Kill a Mockingbird. Read it in middle school, my take away was mostly about the consequences of bullying and finding a friend in unexpected places. Re reading it a few years later, my take was a bit more mature – centered around the (till then not obvious) sexual undertones of rape and incest, social injustice, prejudice, social class, and inequality. I think, and correct me if I’m wrong, that we take from any media (medium?) what our developmental stage and maturity level allows us to. We need to train ourselves to interpret written materials and think critically; allow ourselves the gift of exposure to literature we might not quite be ready for. Personally it’s SO MUCH more fun to read for enjoyment and for love of the story than it is when you have to interpret it for a class assignment. The best teachers hopefully key in on the students interests first and help instill a love of reading at the get go. Mine did. Thank you Mrs Chandler! (Son of Mrs Chandler – please give a shout out to your Mom for me – thanks) Then, the dry boring stuff is a little easier to take. I could discuss for hours too, but you guys already knew that. .
Friend 1: funny you should mention that, my son and I were discussing this and he said “To Kill a Mockingbird” was a favorite of his for required reading — embarassingly, I’ve never read it (hides head in shame). One of the things we discussed was the possibility of broadening the choices available — students certainly must be introduced to a variety of reading materials, just like everything in life — or they will not know what’s “out there”, or be able to extract meaning from writing — but the curricula must take into account the age and personal tastes of the students. There are plenty of well-written and thought provoking books in the sci-fi field, for instance, and since both I and my son are SF aficionados we naturally read more of that than anything else. and Donna makes a fine point that you take out of a book what you are able to depending on your age and maturity level… Friend 3, do you think the English curriculum contains nonfiction at the expense of fiction?so difficult to marshal my thoughts coherently when I have so much I want to say!
Friend 3: Yes I do. I believe students should be exposed to nonfiction but to have an entire curriculum dominated by nonfiction is over the top. Instead of teaching English I end up teaching social studies and science. It would be more beneficial for students to read those texts and discuss them with the social studies and science teacher. We do get to teach a little writing and very little grammar. But as for reading literary books whatever the genre-not happening. I am adding in an independent read right now to open the door to students individual taste in literature. Much more engaging for them.
Donna Hoyt EricksonIndependent Study is a great work around! This discussion has inspired a blog post (forthcoming) Thank you ladies!
I honestly do feel that in order to learn from reading anything the first step to infection with the virus is to read what is enjoyable to you – so the process of reading is positively reinforcing in and of itself. You cannot become a bibliophile if this step is skipped. I witnessed this firsthand with my daughter’s former boyfriend. No interest in reading whatsoever. He was never encouraged to read about what he enjoyed – only told what he had to read. He hates to read, unsurprisingly. That always made me sad. I prefer reading to watching TV or movies actually. Love the places my mind can take me. As an awkward, physically uncoordinated person, books were my sanctuary in my younger years. They still provide a happy place for me.
I did find the discussion about the English curriculum disturbing. Nonfiction reading has a place in English classes – but not to the exclusion of other genres of literature. The human mind is at its best when it IMAGINES. Dry as dirt rehashing of what-has-been does little to stimulate a love of reading – or dare I say – even a love of learning if the learner has no interest in the material. I doubt we are doing students any favors by “browbeating” them with nonfiction they have no interest in. As adults, they will then not likely have much love for literature in any form – having been so adversely conditioned in school. And what of the teachers? How much enthusiasm can they be expected to generate over material they don’t enjoy? Students learn best when the teacher is energized and enthusiastic about the material being presented. An entire generation with no love for the written word, inoculated against the virus. I’m so saddened.
I do love non-fiction and find myself reading more and more of it as I get older. With this caveat: Only about subjects I have an established interest in. The Tudor period. The Renaissance. Sea Stories. Mountaineering. World War 2. Aviation. Prohibition, The Mafia, and Forensics/True Crime. (to name a few)
Not to say that we shouldn’t cultivate a well rounded cache of reading material which we can discuss. We absolutely need to be able to think critically and communicate effectively. We can’t do either of those things unless we are infected enough with the virus to enjoy reading. The enjoyment of the process gets us through the dusty musty stuff and forward to the next level. I admit I approach all of my reading concretely. What happens in the story is my first concern. And if it ain’t interestin- I ain’t continuin to read it. My infection leads me next to ask why I find the material interesting. Why does it resonate with me? Post traumatic stress disorder prevents me from traveling down the theme interpretation path too far; but there are in fact themes that resonate with me. My core values would be a good way to put it, I guess. Love, Friendship, Family, Overcoming Hardships, Perseverance, Actions of Integrity in Adversity, Honor, Loyalty. BUT whatever I read has to be well written or it’s gonna get tossed.
Which brings me to a discussion about authors. I’ve found that my preferences for writers are not so much about how they write (they wouldn’t be published if they sucked at writing, now would they?) – but rather what they write about. If you’re not a fan of the horror genre you may not like Stephen King, or Dean Koontz. If you are then you probably like at least one of them. Frank Herbert may be too cerebral a writer for you even if you are a sci-fi fan. To each his own – and we all develop during the course of the disease in us, an affinity for a particular author’s style within a particular genre. Virus mutations, for lack of a better term. Although it’s perhaps the perfect term to use given the title of this post – Hahaha!
Sadly but unsurprisingly, the US is not a frontrunner in terms of literacy and education – although it should be. (we have the resources, and the personnel – just not the values) Why can we not address critical thinking skills by allowing students access to literature that reflects a theme but not curtailing them by only allowing them to read one book. Multiple choices. We need to rethink our teaching curriculums to reflect a new mission statement. To instill in learners - at whatever age, – a lifelong love of learning and investigation. To help learners want to learn.This is the true virus that needs to infect us all. Bibliophil-itis. The process starts with gladly opening a book.
Head Table Place Settings (Photo credit: VancityAllie)
Remember when you were a kid, and you couldn’t wait to sit at the grown up table on holidays? No more mismatched chairs, paper plates and plastic cups at the rickety old card table. No sirree bub – you got the formal dining room and the good china at the adults table. You were where it was happening. Definitely a mini rite-of-passage, at least for this chick. As the oldest child and oldest grandchild I got to go first. Woo Hoo! Welcome to the Party, Pal!
But I want to talk about a different table. The Head Table. I don’t mean where Bride and Groom sit during their reception, or where the Silver and Gold Anniversary Couples get to sit. Those are cool places to be. The happy place – center of attention and hub of the party wheel. I want to talk about the table you get move up to – and sit at – when your parents pass away. Its not an actual table, but its a real thing nonetheless. And its emotional, and scary. If all goes as hoped, you’re bound for the cemetery next. Not that anyone hopes to die, but if The Fates are kind, they take you before your children.
When you step up to take your seat at the table (if those Fates have once again smiled upon you) you’re usually middle aged – and usually with children and grandchildren by that point. Sitting down, you get to take stock of your life to date. You evaluate your goals, reevaluate them and maybe even change career direction. Or divorce. Or remarry. Have a full blown nuclear mid life crisis. Make a menopausally fueled Hit List. Or none of those things. But - underlying whatever is going on is the stark reality that there’s no human buffer zone between you and the Great Beyond anymore. No safety net below you as you stand on the platform at the ceiling of the Center Ring. Tag. You’re it.
I was chatting with my Aunt Jean the other day. She lives near Chicago, but we try to connect with one another as much as possible. She was 17 when I was born, and she’s my Godmother. We were discussing careers and work. She mentioned that at my age- I’m at the apex career wise. If I’ve reached for the brass ring already – great. If not, I’d better do it soon. She didn’t say so, but I thought - I’m approaching the Head Table, dammit. I haven’t sat down yet because my Mom is still with us; but I’m halfway up there as of 2007 when my Dad left us terribly, suddenly. Two of my best friends in the world – Cheryl and Martha – have a seat saved for me. Cheryl’s been sitting up there since 1999. Martha, since last year.
I’ll be in great company, but I’m really not ready to move up to the Head Table yet. Those Fates though, they don’t deign to ask whether or not you’re ready to sit up there. And if I had to guess, I would say that NO ONE is ever ready for a seat at this particular table. The view is probably lovely up there – friends, family etc. The love, palpable. But it seems a lonely place, regardless of the company you’re in. And, taking your seat up there acknowledges that you are, in point of fact, now an orphan.
So, as I meander towards my new assigned seating (which I FERVENTLY hope I will not have to sit in for a few years yet) I find myself asking the questions: Am I happy? What makes me happy? Do I matter? Selfish questions, but at my age I’ve paid enough dues in life to ask such selfish questions. I also ask unselfish ones: Have I made a difference to someone, helped someone, been a good parent? (Don’t ask my girls that until I’ve had a chance to bribe them) Hahaha! . And finally: What do I want to do with the next 30+ years of my life? I’ve certainly discovered a passion for writing and photography in the last year or so. I would like to build on that if I can.
What questions will you be asking yourself as you approach The Head Table? Or, what are you thinking about as you sit there? Inquiring Minds…. etc.
Heres the song reference, a little before my time but good music NEVER goes out of style, does it?
The air smells divine this evening. Yes, I can actually smell the apple blossoms this year – albeit faintly. Its FINALLY May in New England. Wedding Season. I should head up to Stanley Park soon as things should be in full flower up there by now. But my side yard beckoned this afternoon. I like the play of light and shadow on the leaves and blossoms. There was quite a breeze but the blossoms held on strong. Its sure been a lovely day today. We could use some rain – which I understand is finally in the forecast this week thankfully. Not much else to say. I’m gonna let the pictures do the talking. I hope you all like them! HUGS!
I pull in the driveway just as the shadows are starting to lengthen and the afternoon is at its golden magical moment. Its been a long day and my feet are killing me. As I walk up the deck steps to the back door I don’t hear our two dogs barking – which is strange, because they usually bark when a leaf blows by the window – never mind when they hear footsteps on the trex decking. But no matter – I’m tired. I open the door and take a step into the dim coolness of my kitchen – shedding my sweater as I walk in.
I’m greeted by Miss Nellie – our old greyhound, who lifts her head off the couch and grins at me, tail thumping. For a millisecond I accept this – then I freeze. Nellie’s been at the Rainbow Bridge for close to two years now. Then I hear his voice behind me - “What’s for supper, Donna Jean?” Dad? Oh, Daddy…. I spin around and RUN, fast as I can, hugging him tightly. He’s real, and I’m not hallucinating. “Take it easy kiddo”, he says, “I’m still recuperating. I just got the OK to drive again today.” That’s when I know. It’s June 6, 2007. Its not the date I woke up to this morning – but when I stepped through my back door this afternoon it’s where I ended up. And I’ve been given a rare gift. One more last afternoon with my father.
I frantically try and think of any way to keep him at my house for as long as possible, as we chat about the girls and wait for them and my husband, to get home. Its surreal. My brain is telling me this isn’t possible, but oh, my heart…. my heart. I don’t know how I manage to keep it together; as this great big lump of emotion in the center of my chest tries to work its way up my throat and explode out of me. But I do keep it together, barely. Dad doesn’t seem to notice. There’s so much I want to tell him, but can’t. The crew gets home just as I think I can’t stand any more and they prove a distraction. I’m in for another shock – when I left them this morning they were 20 and 14. Now, they’re 14 and 8. We decide on pizza for dinner and Grandpa is highly encouraged to stay. As usual, the girls have him wrapped around their fingers, and so he does. I content myself watching him with them, remembering how much they mean/t to him and how much he loves/loved being their grandfather.
Time slows, I start to almost feel like this is normal – and then it suddenly accelerates as Dad gets ready to leave – he’s heading for an AA meeting – just like he did before. My heart sinks because I know he’s leaving and this is the last time I’ll see him – again. Don’t go Dad. Stay awhile. But the time arrives. I know it, and I know I can’t stop him. I tell him unequivocally to take it easy – reminding him (as I follow him out to the car this time) that he has to see the surgeon before he goes back to mowing lawns and landscaping. But I know it won’t make any difference. There really are no do-overs. What was, was. What is, is. And what will be, will be. The timeline is locked in, and on June 7, 2007 he will have a massive heart attack while unloading his lawn mower at a clients house and he will pass away before I can get to the hospital to say goodbye. “I know,” he says. “Love you. Sayonara, Kemosabe. Keep the Faith.” “Bye Dad, I love you too!” And with that, he leaves – just like before.
As I turn and walk back up the driveway the light shifts back to golden for an instant. I hear the dogs barking inside the house. I go back through the door again, back to my future. I smile through the tears I can now let loose - because I got my chance to say goodbye, after all.
Early Spring Water Meadow along Rte 23 Blandford, MA
View from the Blandford Country Club. North Street Blandford MA Looking down into Springfield….
Spring Stream. Algerie Road, North Blandford MA
Stone Walls along the Roadway near Long Pond Conservation Area. Algerie Road North Blandford MA
Canadian Goose in its element, and Remnants of a Beaver Dam, Long Pond Conservation Area. Algerie Road North Blandford, MA
And last but by no means least, my traveling companion and chauffeur for the afternoon – The Viking – patiently waiting pondside while I trekked in and got pictures. And no, I didn’t fall in, or get muddy!
It was really wonderful to meander those back roads today. I grew up there and nostalgia waxed large as I noted how much had changed – and how much had stayed the same. The afternoon light is becoming more and more spring-like even though there’s still plenty of snow on the ground up in the hills. The sounds of water cascading over the rocky stream beds, the wind rushing through the pines and dry reed beds, the honking chatter of the geese and ducks – all made for a peaceful backdrop to my self-imposed photo assignment. Hell, I’ll call it what it was -THERAPY. I came home with numb fingers and ears, but quite contented. Best of all, I got to spend the afternoon with my guy!
I actually was able to smell it the other afternoon when my allergies were giving me a break. It was divine! And the bees love it. They go about their business busily while I snap pictures. Unfortunately, they are too quick for me to get a good picture of them, but I’ll figure it out someday….. laughing!
