Park 'n Ride

My parents have always subscribed to the notion that used cars are better than new cars for the following reasons:

1)  Better to have a $500 payment (on repairs) once in awhile than have a steady, monthly $400-$500 payment.

2)  Was there another reason?

I'll admit, there's some logic to #1.  I mean, if you get a good used car (and of course I'm an expert at this after a lifetime learning from the parents), you could go a whole year, maybe even two, without having to make a "payment."  On the other hand, a steady monthly payment on a new car pretty much ensures that you won't find yourself coasting down a main thoroughfare, gritting your teeth and attempting to bargain with your vehicle (If you could just make it to that parking lot up ahead...I promise I'll never again let the tank go all the way down before filling it).  Neither does a monthly payment come as a surprise to you, like some warped Santa's idea of a gift (You chose to make do with what you have instead of just buying a new one!  Great!  As a reward, here's your Complete Exhaust System Repair Bill!  It's the gift that keeps on taking...).  Add those concerns to the "guilty-until-proven-innocent" attitude one must have when dealing with those no-good mechanics (got this one from the parents too), and it's no wonder I've spent so many hours focused on designing my new XTerra online, like any good ostrich in the sand.

Incidentally, now is not the time to mention the possibility of not being able to afford said monthly payment.

Wondering where this post is coming from?  Well, here's been my day so far:  I take the car in for a semi-routine fixing of the serpentine belt, which (surprisingly) did not require any arm, leg, or other body part payment.  The mechanic comes out to let me know I'm "all set," and then casually mentions, "Oh, and you might want to get ahold of one of those bolts pretty soon."

"What bolts?"

"Oh, the one that typically holds your alternator on.  It's missing."

"Missing?"

"Ayup."

"Well, where is it?"

"I don't know.  It wasn't there when we put the belt on.  But like I said, you might want to see about that pretty soon, because without that bolt the alternator'll probably just fall off at some point."

Now I don't know much about cars, but I'm guessing that wouldn't be good.  "Well, can you put another one on for me," I say hopefully.

"Yeah, no problem."  He doesn't move.

"Today?"

"Sure, won't take a minute.  I just need a bolt."  He looks at me as if I've been hiding one.

"And you don't have any here."

"Nope.  Probably have to go to the dealership for that.  But once you have one, just bring it back in and we can put it on for you no problem."

"Awesome."  I'm about to leave when I realize there are probably any number of bolts involved with a car and that I most likely will not be able to describe which one I need, so I ask him to write it down for me.  He gives me a slip of paper with the words "alternator bolt" scrawled on it.  I'm pretty sure this will not be of much help, but I leave anyway and drive across the street to the Toyota dealership (grateful that there is one in such close proximity).

"Hi," I say to the guy at the counter.  "I need an alternator bolt for a 2005 Toyota Corolla."  He nods and begins typing things into his computer.

"Do you want the bolt that holds the alternator in, or the tension bolt?"

Why I don't say "just give me both" I'll never know.  Instead, I say, "Uh...I'm not sure, but I think he meant the one that holds the alternator in."  He nods, grabs the part from a drawer behind him, charges me $4.00, and I'm on my way back across the street to Jiffy Lube.

The Jiffy Lube guy takes one look at the bolt and says, "That's way too big -- not gonna fit."

"So I need the other bolt then, the tension bolt?" I say, thinking I sound a bit knowledgable and therefore "on top of my game."

"Uh...yeah, sure."

If I were telling this story to my mom on the phone, at this point she would say, No, Keyna, that's not right!  You need to take it somewhere else!  She would not get the humor.  Luckily for these guys, I do get it.  So I take my faulty bolt, go back to the dealership, and proclaim the need for the Other Bolt.  Two guys (the same from before and another guy) spend fifteen minutes trying to locate said bolt on the computer inventory to no avail.  They even come out to the car and look at it to see what they need, but the part is simply not listed in any of the diagrams of my car.  So they give me a handful of bolts in different widths and lengths, a refund for the previous bolt, and send me on my way.

I drive back across the street to Jiffy Lube, pass on the handful o' bolts, and the guy disappears to "give them a try."  He comes back a few minutes later with three bolts, and I say, "Oh, good so one of them was the right one."

"Yeah," he says, "it was kind of a tight fit but I made it work."  Very confidence-inspiring.  Nonetheless, I thank him and head out, eager to get on with the more important parts of my day's plan, like purchasing mouse traps for the house (another story for another time).

I make it to the Ace Hardware a few blocks from my house when the car radio and clock blink out, followed quickly by some sputtering, and then coasting with no power into a convenient parking spot.  Deep breaths.  More deep breaths.  I try to start the car -- nothing, not even a click.  More deep breaths. Must.  Control.  Fists.  Of.  Death!!

The Cliff Notes for the rest of the story go as follows:  long conversation with Jiffy Lube guy, no new information; friend tries to jump car, no luck; random guy from barber shop next to Ace goes on smoke break, chats pleasantly about cars breaking down, tells me not to go to Handy's (where I usually go), then recommends a small Asian mechanic across the street; Random Barber Shop Guy, Small Asian Mechanic, and I push car across North Ave.; Small Asian Mechanic tells me "battery and alternator bad."

I guess the upshot here is that I'm once again thankful that Burlington really is a biking/busing town (see previous post).

Ride of Your Life

Recently I've been conducting an experiment.  I keep telling people that one of the reasons I like Burlington so much is that it's a great bike/public transportation town, unlike any of the other places I've lived.  I decided I'd try to take better advantage of that fact, so I purchased a bus pass (good for unlimited rides) and have been busing/biking to as many places as I can.  This decision has yielded several interesting experiences, but here are the Top Five from the week of September 25th:

5.  Ran into this girl that I frequently run into in Burlington but haven't seen in about a year.  We worked together at Borders (pre-bankruptcy) for about two days, then I had to quit because I was in grad school and was slowly going insane.  Then I saw her intermittently, usually at random places, throughout the next few years, and she always acted like we were best friends (I usually had trouble remembering her name).  She acted the same way on the bus the other day, and in fact she remembered not only my name (which in and of itself is a feat), but where I was from, what I went to grad school for, and what my favorite book was.  Next time she'll probably remember what stop I got off at.

4.  Forgot to put the bike rack back in place after getting off and retrieving my bike.  I was almost three blocks away before I realized the honking was for me.

3.  Ran into an ex-friend who recently (as in last week) "fired" me.  She got on, we ignored each other; she sat two seats in front of me, we didn't speak.  Good times.

2.  A young blond woman, probably in her twenties, but also probably not carrying an entirely full deck, got up and gave me her seat when I got on because she was "taught to be kind to the elderly."

1.  Official transcript from a conversation between a crazy woman who spoke VERY loudly, a kind, random girl sitting next to me, and me:

       CRAZY WOMAN:  Where's the baby?
       RANDOM GIRL and ME:  [looking at each other, then at the woman, confirming that she is, in fact, talking to us]  What baby?  [in unison]
       CW:  The baby, I said!  [speaking even louder, as if we haven't heard her]  Where's your baby??!!
       ME:  Oh, we left her at home.  [Girl suppresses a laugh]
       CW:  What??  She's only six months old, I thought!
       RG:  Yeah, we figured it was time to stop coddling her.  At some point you just gotta let 'em go, you know?
       ME:  [nodding my head]  Yeah, I mean enough's enough, right?
       CW:  [horrified]  You just left her alone?  No one watching her?
       ME:  Oh, well, no -- the dog's there.
       CW:  [back to normal; not sarcastic] Oh, well, that's alright then.


Stay tuned for next week's adventures!...

Least Complicated

Another Friday night spent at the B & N.  I remember the last time I wrote a post on a similar experience...turns out it was almost exactly two years ago.  I just reread it; it seems I was decidedly more bitter then.  I can't say my mood tonight could be illustrated by unicorns and rainbows, but it is a mood sans edge.

The thing is, here's what I realized (and wanted to share with you):  I chose to be here tonight.  I actually could've gone out with a friend, but I chose to come here.  What's more is, I chose to ride my bike here, and about half way it started raining.  And it's dark (because it's 7:51 pm).  So clearly I really wanted to spend my Friday night at the Noble.

And now that I'm here and I've found a seat that I like reasonably well, I can see why I wanted to come.  They're playing sexy saxy jazz music overhead, and they've just pulled some cinnamon scones out of the oven, and I'm looking around and all the people look normal.  No mental patients pushing napkins like last time.  And this time I'm not running from anything (or anyone).  I'm just hanging out, in my place.

Just thinking and writing...

Cycling Through

Okay, I promise all of my posts won't be so gushingly inspirational -- I guess I've just been extra introspective as of late -- but I just couldn't pass this one up.

I discovered yesterday that my bike, a Trek 3900 mountain bike, has 24 speeds.  I have owned the bike for four years.  I knew when I bought the bike that it had 24 speeds, which is part of the reason I liked it, and yet I just discovered the range of speeds yesterday.

I was taking advantage of the absolutely gorgeous day we were having in Burlington, thoroughly enjoying the ride, when I hit a hill.  As per my post about Miley Cyrus, I pushed on.  In the middle of the hill, I found myself thinking, why the hell is this hill so damn hard?  When am I gonna start being able to just speed up these hills like all the other bikers?  (I was feeling decidedly less inspired than the other day).  Then it occurred to me:  I was in the wrong gear.  Without getting into the details of the gears on my bike, I'll say I usually stay within a small range of about 7 gears out of the 24 at my disposal.  Why?  I have absolutely no idea, except that I'm not really one for change.  But yesterday, after I decided to go out on a limb and switch to a lower gear (or higher -- not sure -- whichever made the hill easier), low and behold I made it up the hill with relatively little trouble!

Previous to this experience, I'd find myself thinking, I can make it up any hill, no matter how difficult -- it's just a matter of allowing myself to go as slow as I need to, which sounds like a reasonable, if not positive, sentiment.  But then I would quit about half way up about half of the hills I undertook.  Then I'd feel shame and guilt -- you know the drill I'm sure.  So I'm amending my thoughts.  I'm not retracting the above statement --  I still think it's true and helpful.  But I'm adding this:  you can make it up any hill, no matter how difficult, as long as you allow yourself to go at your own pace and use the right gear!

No Really...You Shouldn't Have

I'm allergic to cats, so naturally they flock to me as if I were the Pied Piper toting an extra juicy fish to divide among them.  No kidding -- whenever I visit my friends who have cats (and I never tell them ahead of time that I'm allergic, because then they always make a huge deal out of vacuuming, banishing the cats to other rooms, etc.), the situation usually goes something like this:

ME:  [enters room, chatting happily with friend; sits down on comfy chair/sofa]
CAT:  [appears in doorway, cocks head curiously at new possible playmate; gracefully leaps up into my lap]
FRIEND:  Oh my gosh, he never does that!  He's usually so shy, you almost never see him!  Obviously you're very special!
ME:  [laughs nervously, smiling and petting cat, knowing that within minutes the sneezing, puffy red eyes, and itching will begin, as will the explanations, apologies, and subsequent banishing of said cat]

I've basically come to accept this truth over the years, and it doesn't really bother me.  After all, cats are mildly cute and usually very soft, and mostly worth a few sneezes.  As long as I know that after a few hours, I can leave and the other, somewhat less enjoyable cat issues will be the owners' problems.  Other problems? you ask.  What other problems?  Aren't cats pretty low maintenance?  


So for the last week or so, a random neighborly cat has been hanging out on my doorstep, often giving me a look that says, you know you want to take me home.  Like I said -- Pied Piper.  This was all fine and good, since I had no intention of inviting the cat, whom I believe to be around its teen years, into my home, and it was kind of cute coming home to a cat on my doorstep.  But two days ago, instead of a cat on my doorstep, there was a somewhat less cute squirrel carcass, complete with oozing guts and a bloated belly.

At first I thought, that's weird -- I wonder where this thing came from.  I know it couldn't have been Indy [dog] -- she doesn't go out in the front yard.  Then I thought, does someone in the neighborhood hate me enough to leave this on my doorstep?  Is this a message?  Have I offended the Burlington Mafia?  Does Burlington even have a Mafia?  Then it dawned on me:  it was a gift.  A token of respect, love, and gratitude, if you will, from Mystery Cat.  Supposedly, I hear from other cat owners, this is one of the highest honors a cat can bestow upon human-folk, second only to bring a live rodent into said human-folk's home.

So...thanks?  Although next time, I'd be just as happy with a DVD, as cliche as that may sound.

Be a Loser

Today I'm reminded of a song that, cheesy as it may be, holds a lot of truth and inspiration: "The Climb," by Miley Cyrus (of all people). I know, I know...I'm sure there are plenty of sarcastic, snide remarks about my questionable taste in music coming my way, but just hear me out... 


Today I climbed a mountain. Okay, I actually climbed about a tenth of a mountain. But my intentions were good. After my recent epiphany about being an "athlete" (see previous post), I figured I'd stop being an Eastern Mountain Sports poser and actually GO HIKING. I've done this before, so it wasn't my first time. But today felt different somehow. As I was scrambling over the rocks and making my way through what the trail guide called "moderately strenuous," I couldn't help but sing Miley to myself: "There's always gonna be another mountain. I'm always gonna want to make it move. It's always gonna be an uphill battle -- sometimes I'm gonna have to lose. It ain't about how fast I get there. It ain't about what's waiting on the other side: it's the climb." Granted, I also couldn't get Stevie Nicks out of my head: "I climbed a mountain and I turned around...and the landslide brought me down." In this case, though, Miley proved to be a bit more inspiring (although Stevie has inspired me many a time). 


I can't tell you how true those lyrics to "The Climb" are. I can't tell you how much they sound like me -- well, the first part at least. I am ALWAYS trying to move mountains (or climb them), and even though I try to remember that "journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step" stuff, I usually find myself wondering why I can't just kick the mountain aside like a wayward piece of trash. And inevitably those thoughts lead right to the "what's wrong with me?" thoughts, which are, as we all know, less than helpful. 


Today what stuck out to me, though, wasn't the line about the journey being more important than the destination, although that's usually the one that gets me. Today what got inside my head was that "it's always gonna be an uphill battle," and "sometimes I'm gonna have to lose." I think that's the part I've never accepted, never even entertained. No losing, right? Who wants to be a loser? Well, at this moment...I do! Right now I have a LOT to lose, both literally and figuratively (I'm catching the irony in the whole "losing weight" vs. "being a loser" thing as I type). 


The thing is, if you never try, you never fail, but you also never succeed -- anyone who's ever sat in a classroom plastered with inspirational posters knows that. But for years I have told myself that I would try, knowing that I might fail, but never really believing it could happen to me. And then when it did happen, when I did fail, it was like, "wait a minute -- I'm not supposed to fail! I get points for trying, right?" Somewhere along the way I seem to have lost the message. So here's the new thing (or at least today's thing): if you never lose, you never really know what winning feels like...so yeah, sometimes you're going to have to lose. 


Betcha didn't know your song was so deep, huh, Miley? 


On a different note, I plan to write the publishers of my trail guide and suggest they change the difficulty rating of today's hike from "Moderately Strenuous" to "Calves in Hell." Guess there's more than one reason it's called Mount Hunger.

What Color Are Your Walls?

Recently I made a "discovery" that rocked my sense of reality.  I put "discovery" in quotes because it was one of those things that's been right in front of me all along, for several years now, and I just now noticed it.  Kind of like when you wake up one morning, look at your walls, which have been painted a lovely shade of blue for years, and go, "Huh.  My walls are blue!  I mean, they're really blue," and you even consider calling a friend and discussing this brilliant realization, but in the end you don't because you actually need more time to process it.  That's the kind of discovery this was, and now I'm at the end of my processing time, so I'm sharing it with you...out loud...on paper:  I am an athlete.

About four years ago I started practicing Taekwondo.  I had wanted to be the "Karate Kid" since I saw the movie when I was 10, so I was very excited to finally be embarking on this journey.  From day one, I loved Taekwondo, as much for the community aspect as for the sport itself.  But I quickly discovered that it is just that -- a sport -- and that's when the anxieties set in:  I'm too overweight to do this, too out of shape.  What if I make a fool of myself?  What if I'm the last one down the floor?  What if everyone's just standing around waiting for me to fail?  Can I really take that rejection?  What am I thinking -- I am not an athlete.  I kept going, but the fears didn't go away.  Each class I would just push them to back of my mind as best I could and continue kicking.

In March of 2010, I successfully tested for black belt.  I was still overweight -- by quite a bit -- and I'm sure I survived the test on pure adrenaline, because had I been faced with that kind of workout in another setting, I honestly don't know if my body could've handled it.  But I huffed and puffed and sweated my way through it, and in the end I vowed that I would not test again until I was at my goal weight (which at the time meant I needed to lose about 60 pounds).  After that I gained about 15 more pounds, and this past spring, I started to notice the effects of this extra weight on the mat.  I have more difficulty getting my body in the air for jumping kicks; I land heavily on my heels; I generally move slower, even when I tell my body to hustle; I experience more aches and pains, during and after my workouts; and (maybe most importantly) I've become increasingly self-conscious on the floor, which impacts my ability to fully execute the techniques. 

As of this moment, I have five months to train for my 2nd Dan (degree) black belt testing, which will take place at the beginning of March 2012, and I have once again recommitted to dropping down to goal weight (or at least close) before I make another appearance before the Testing Board (a bunch of high-ranking black belts who judge your performance).  I've struggled with losing weight all my life.  Despite the fact that, in other areas of my life, I am a driven goal-achiever, no amount of positive (or negative) reinforcement has ever seemed to be enough to push me toward achieving this goal.  I make sure I get anything else I want; why not this? 

Master White, my Taekwondo instructor (a 7th Dan black belt), is helping me train, which means he's giving me a focus and some specific things to work on, along with a lot of moral/emotional support.  After my first private lesson with him last week, I started thinking:  a lot of people pay him a lot of money to whip them into shape.  A lot of athletes pay him a lot of money for his expert advice on how to win sparring matches and make Nationals (which of course he's done several times).  When he worked with me on Friday, he didn't begin any of his instructions with, "Now, because you're overweight, we're going to..." or "I know you're not really an athlete, so..."  He talked to me the same way I've heard him talk to so many gold- and silver-medalists before.  Like I am an athlete.  Like that's a given. 

Yesterday I spent two hours working out, a combination of eliptical, weights, ab work, and Taekwondo-specific exercises.  I will do that at least three or four times a week, hopefully more, between now and March.  I will do this, in addition to eating nutritionally and drinking lots of water, because I am an athlete in training.  In the process I'm sure I'll lose weight, but more importantly, I will have the inner and physical strength to join my fellow athletes out on the mats for testing.  Maybe the reason I haven't achieved the weight goal all these years isn't because I'm not capable or I don't have the drive or will power; maybe it's because I was focused on the wrong thing.  I was so busy trying figure out how to be something I thought I wasn't, I didn't even realize I already was.

Like I said, this morning I woke up and realized my walls really are blue.

Days Like This

I'm 40 minutes into my two hours free parking, sitting on the third floor of the Fletcher Free Library, and I realize it's days like this that make me feel guilty and keep me from getting work done. I should be working on my syllabus for various classes right now, but what am I doing instead? Sitting here, staring out the window, going back and forth in my head between these two thoughts: "God, it's a GORGEOUS day! I need to be spending time outside. These days won't last much longer," and "I need to be inside so I can get wifi so I can work on my stuff for school. There'll be other nice days." Needless to say, this vacillating between obsessive thoughts (which both make me feel guilty, by the way) is not helping me achieve either goal. So I sit here, staring out the window, wishing I were outside...

Thomas Alexander Houston II (1921-2011)

Today my grandfather, Thomas Alexander Houston II, known to most as "Pop Tom," passed away after a relatively short but difficult battle with cancer. These were the only images I had on hand that reminded me of him. Both are taken at one of his favorite places, High Hampton Inn, in Cashiers, NC, where we had our annual family reunion.

After hearing that he had a massive spot on his lung, he opted not to take chemotherapy. We all knew that, at 90 years old, this was pretty much his death sentence. But even though I knew that, and even though I had that news a few months ago, I still didn't manage to send him that letter I'd been planning to write. So cliche, but you just can't put off things like that. Eventually procrastination really kicks you in the ass.

Earlier this year I wrote a tribute to him on this blog, and I said much of what's on my mind now. In 90 years, that man truly lived -- played golf and swam almost every day up until about five years ago. He was fierce and intense, both in love and anger. He never rode the fence. That much I learned from him. I guess as humans go, you really couldn't find a better one.

I wish I could say I was the granddaughter he wanted, the one he deserved. And sometimes I was I suppose. But lately, in the last fifteen years or so, I really wasn't. At this point I don't even remember all the things that kept me from loving him the way I should've. I know they seemed important at the time, righteous even. But now they seem like such a pile of little things, just a scrap pile of reasons not to make myself vulnerable one more time. He deserved to know how much I loved him, how much his ways and spirit shaped me. Houstons are tough, Houstons endure, Houstons get things done, Houstons go after what they want full speed ahead. Houstons are beautiful.

Sometimes, Houstons are weaker than they'd like to be, but I suppose in the end, Houstons try to let go gracefully.

Best Line from MMU

So here's the best line I've gotten in a paper from Mount Mansfield Union High School, where I'm currently ending up a long-term sub position. (Note: no sarcasm here -- this is actually an awesome line).

[at the end of an essay on the development of the American hero through literature]

"From Romanticism to Postmodernism, American heroes have gone from 'superhuman' to super human."

wish I'd thought of that one!

It's a Beautiful Day

Beautiful weather makes me want to get out in the world and accomplish things.

But it also makes me want to nap in the sun.

Life is full of complicated dilemmas like these.

This Just In...

According to one of my super astute college students:

The 1960's Hippie generation had a significant influence on all the generations that preceded them.

It's a tricky thing, influencing people that lived before you...I hear you have to use The Force.

And another thing...

I've been having an ant problem at Casa Houston, so naturally I invested in some Raid and fumigated the place.

Yesterday I came home to about 204 ant carcasses on my kitchen and sun room floors, and I thought, the exciting life of a 35-year-old-single-woman-with-no-career strikes again! Don't try to tell me you're not jealous.

On Turning 35

Turned 35 last week. Distressing. Overwhelming, really. Finding it hard to speak in complete sentences. Don't say it -- those of you who're older and **ahem** wiser and want to call me a "baby." I know, 35's not the end. It's not even the middle I guess. I hope.

But let's put it this way: I can no longer say I'm going through a Quarterlife Crisis. And a Thirdlife Crisis just sounds like something totally different.

So...wanna know what I did on my 35th Birthday? Well, I started out the day by going to the police station to get fingerprinted. (this was actually for my new job coming up in May, but I did get some satisfaction out of telling my students that all citizens have to get fingerprinted on their 35th birthdays, just as a way of keeping Big Brother in the loop). Then I had a doctor's appointment. After that I went to Friendly's by myself and ate my weight in Munchie Mania and Cinnamon Roll Sundae. Later that night I drove down to Randolph, VT, attended a Taekwondo class at the Randolph Blue Wave (another gym in our Blue Wave association), and went out with a friend of mine afterwards. The tkd class nearly killed me (I think the instructor was "showing off" because I was there) and Ramsey (the friend) and I didn't get to go out until 8:30, and apparently Randolph completely shuts down at 9:00. But I did have some fabulous lasagna and Ramsey made me some awesome butterscotch/oatmeal cookies. Then I went home and watched Law and Order: SVU with my dog.

OK, so I'm not saying it was a bad day, per se -- far from it, in fact. It's just that...well, I remember when I was in high school, and even college, and how my birthday was such a big deal. All day long I would catch myself thinking today's my birthday!!! and realize I was grinning from ear to ear. And usually there was some big extravaganza planned for that night or for the weekend to follow, and so much of the day would be spent anticipating what was to come. But last week it was just kind of like, oh, yeah, today's my birthday. almost forgot. And then I'd think, and once I'm done with this, I get to go to the...doctor. Oh, but then I'm going out to lunch with...myself. I mean, I know people used to tell me that birthdays become less of a thing "as you get older" -- I just didn't expect that to happen at 35.

Then again, there's a lot I didn't expect to happen at 35. And a lot I did expect that apparently didn't survive the cutting room floor of the movie of my life.

Remembering Gamma and Pop Tom

I've just gotten the word that my grandparents, my father's parents, otherwise known as "Gamma" and "Pop Tom," are not doing very well. Pop Tom has fallen and broken his hip, for which he is not going to undergo surgery because he can't withstand the anesthesia. This means he'll be laid up, flat on his back, for about eight weeks. It also means that things are not looking up for him. Meanwhile, Gamma spirals further into full-blown Alzheimer's and now spends her days fighting off those nasty nurses who insist on "assaulting" her by trying to do things like dress her and make her eat, and obsessing over a lost swim suit that she hasn't worn in about five years. These are the days of my late 80s/early 90s grandparents...

So I guess it's only fitting that I write a tribute to them. And on that note, I find myself caught in mixed emotions.

I was the first grandchild. The oldest. Well, at least until we found out about my half-brother, the charmer of the family, and then it was like fruit-basket turnover. But before that I was the oldest. I coined the names "Grandmama" (which got changed to "Gamma" when my next cousin couldn't pronounce the whole thing) and "Pop Tom." I think the best word to describe my relationship with my paternal grandparents is...complicated. My father, their oldest son of five children, died when I was just 18 months old. He apparently was the only person who could ever charm his way around their Southern Aristocratic Gentility (except for my brother, see comment above). I, on the other hand, never seemed to be enough for them. Not petite enough, not feminine enough, not demure enough, not polite enough, not Southern-Belle-ish enough. Just not enough. This, of course, is an accusation they would categorically deny, but that doesn't make it less real to me. And I can honestly say, after almost 35 years of vying for their approval, and receiving it only when I accomplish a "thing," never just for being the awesome person I am, I am tired. I'm tired of having to "adjust" to their version of love, especially when I am surrounded by easy, free, unconditional love. I wish things could've been different.

On the other hand, I find myself reveling in nostalgia anyway. Pop Tom taught me to play Rummy at age 4, and he never went easy on me. To this day I've never met another person who plays Rummy the way he does -- in that all-or-nothing, have-to-be-an-expert-at-remembering-cards way. But I loved it. Still do. And I loved the homemade peanut butter/black walnut milkshakes that went with those late night games. He also taught me to swim like the champion college swimmer (U of Oregon -- Go Ducks!) he was. And when my cousin Rusti, who was like a sister to me, came along, he taught her too. And we spent so many hours down at the Liberty Bell pool in Pine Mountain, GA, diving for pennies and racing from end to end -- his "little guppies." He tried to teach me golf, a love second only to Gamma, but it wasn't my cup of tea. But I still have great memories of riding the greens with him, Classic Coke (in a glass bottle) in my hand, and getting out to putt. And I'm pretty sure I get my love of crossword puzzles from him, although I still can't finish a New York Times (which he did every day) on my own.

Fond memories of Gamma are harder to come by. She was a brilliant painter (oil, acrylic, watercolor), and I always wanted to learn to paint, but whenever I asked her to teach me, she would wave me off and tell me I had to learn about perspective first (apparently from someone else). She was always hardest on me about my weight, my appearance, my lack of Emily-Post-ness. But then to others she would say how proud she was of me and my accomplishments. I still wonder if she was actually proud...and if she would've been proud if I'd never accomplished anything, if I'd just been...me. But there is one thing: her vanilla cupcakes with homemade vanilla frosting. She always made them for me when I was there, regardless of special occasion or not. Granted, she mocked them the whole time, always saying, "these silly things? They're just cupcakes for Heaven's sake! Just regular old cupcakes with 7-minute frosting." But she always made them for me. And I loved them.

In the final analysis, the most difficult thing about our relationship --the most perplexing, the most complicated -- turns out to be the simplest: I love them. Fiercely. And no matter how much water passes under the bridge, that will be the rock that remains.

Unemployment

Why is it that the less I have on my plate to do, the less I get done? You'd think that all that free time would allow me to get all those little things done that I never had time to do before. But NOOOOO...instead I've managed to catch up on 8 seasons of Law and Order SVU!

You know it's time to find a productive occupation when you start referring to television characters as friends of yours in common conversation.

Houston Home Gym

Upper Body Workout

Exercise #1: "Getting Something Out of the Car"

1. Open front house door and squeeze through

2. Sink shovel into waist-deep snow

3. Lift and throw

4. # reps = 128

Exercise #2: "Letting the Dog Out"

1. Open back house door

2. Squeeze arm with shovel through opening, creatively wrap arm and shovel around door, and "push" snow away from door

3. Squeeze body through new (wider) opening

4. Sink shovel into waist-deep snow

5. Lift and throw

6. # reps = 74

7. Manually remove dog from snow bank before going back inside

To Madame with Love

I haven't posted on here in so long...I almost don't know where to start. But lately I've been filling out lots of apps for lots of jobs, hoping to snag a full time gig for next year. One of the apps required an essay question that asked me to describe what makes me a good teacher. In thinking about this question, I wrote the essay that I'm about to post. The essay doesn't really answer the question very well, but it turned out to be a nice tribute to one of the most inspirational people in my life, so I thought it'd be good to post it here:

Musicality

I’ve known I wanted to be a teacher since the eighth grade, when Mrs. Zohn walked into our chorus class singing. She had big shoes to fill: the man whom she replaced had been our favorite, and we were all prepared to hate her on principle. All during the previous summer we’d talked about how we couldn’t believe Mr. Holben was leaving, how we’d never betray him by even liking her a little, how we’d simply refuse to do anything she said. But we couldn’t do it; she took hold of our hearts from that very first day as she belted out the chorus of “Sloop John B.” We barely registered the news that soon each of us would be singing “Gee, Mom, I wanna go home,” solo, in front of the rest of the class (until, of course, we actually had to do it).

Deborah Zohn was a striking woman. She was young, but she had taught before. Dark, thick, curly hair, olive skin, tall (at least to an eighth grader), and often dressed in black leather. She exuded confidence and ebullience and she reminded us of all the great women from history we’d learned about – a mover and a shaker for sure. She made us smile while we sang (imagine that), sometimes by reminding us of little in-jokes that had developed during practices, sometimes by pushing up the corners of her mouth with her index fingers in a purposely campy way that made us crack up every time. She told us that smiling improved our pitch, but over time we realized that there were other benefits too.

A day wasn’t a day without a little Zohn. I wore my first self-chosen dress for her, for our first concert (quite a contrast with my tomboyish ways). She gave me my first on-stage feature, the alto part in a duet from Les Miserables; I learned all the music for that play before I ever read the book or set foot in a theater to see it performed, and to this day it’s still my favorite. And listening to her stories about past students who would come back to see her, all grown up and almost unrecognizable, was the first time I had conceived of the idea that a teacher could be that influential in a person’s life. I knew I would be one of those students, and I hoped I would be one of those teachers.

Many of us had already been “musicians” for about five years before she came into our lives, but she taught us the real gestalt of that word. She taught us about the things that have to happen before any of the notes or key signatures or breath marks can make sense: things like discipline, commitment, confidence, positivity. She also taught us about something called “musicality,” which I define as the art of synthesizing the technical with the interpretive, the theory with the practice, the external and learned with the internal and inherent, thus creating a seamless performance unique to the musician. And, though I didn’t realize it until much later, she taught us that another term for “musicality” is “teaching.”

Mrs. Zohn used to tell us that she and her husband would never have children because she had enough kids already. We’d laugh at her sarcasm, knowing how true it was that dealing with us must be exhausting indeed. But I didn’t realize until I became a teacher myself that the exhaustion came not from frustration and stress (although I’m sure there was plenty of that) but from caring. Her rule on signing yearbooks was that she would only do it for ninth graders, who would be leaving junior high and venturing into the unknown of high school – that way, she said, she could focus on writing a truly personal message. And, as with all of her other rules and expectations, she followed through. In my copy of the 1991 Troxell Junior High yearbook, where all my other teachers simply signed their names or wrote, “It’s been a pleasure,” or “Have a great summer and good luck in high school,” Deborah Zohn made her mark. “Certain students seem to stand out in a teacher’s mind,” she wrote, “you, of course, will always be among them.”

Explaining what made me want to become a teacher isn’t hard; but delineating what makes me a good teacher is a daunting task. It feels overgeneralized and somewhat contrived to say that I get to know the students, use my sense of humor, establish and enforce expectations and consequences, constantly search for new ways to break down abstract concepts into accessible chunks, and try to show students how literature applies to the real world, even though all of that is exactly what I do. The musicality of teaching isn’t about the broad strokes; it isn’t really about your philosophy or your curriculum or your classroom management. All of those things are subject to change anyway, because of the variables we call life. The musicality of teaching is about the day-to-day: the conversation you have about the best sports cars with the kid who always sits slumped down in the back; the smile in your eyes that no one else sees but the shy kid who’s just made a breakthrough in analyzing a poem; the endearing nicknames you give them, and vice versa; the concerts and games you attend; the times you make a fool of yourself and laugh with them; the words you write in their yearbooks. Very little of it has to do with literature, or music, or whatever subject you think you teach. But it all has to do with learning.

Certain teachers seem to stand out in a student’s mind. Mrs. Zohn, of course, will always be among them. And now, thanks to her, so will I.