SOLSC '21 Day Thirty-one: Challenge number nine--check

 

I am participating in my ninth Slice of Life Story Challenge run by the team behind the Two Writing Teachers website.  We are challenged to write a blog post a day throughout the month of March.

I wasn't going to do the "woohoo, last day of SOLSC!" post.

  

I wasn't going to highlight that it's my ninth one, and threes are my favorite numbers.

I wasn't going to write about how wonky my old computer is getting, how frustrating it was some mornings--and evenings--to highlight and revise, upload pictures, make the spacing just right when the cursor wouldn't comply.

I wasn't going to write how this year seemed just a bit easier than the last, which, let's face it--SOLSC '20 was really a COVID diary, with plenty of fodder for posts.

I wasn't going to discuss how I've managed writing a full morning page BEFORE each day's Slice, and how I think it's helped me with my posts, even on days when I didn't Slice about what's in my morning pages.

I wasn't going to moan about not being involved in a Writing Camp with students this year, so I didn't get to share their prompt and hold up my writing for their scrutiny, talk about the commitment to putting words on paper every.single.day.

I wasn't going to gush over writers both familiar and new who have dazzled me with their words during this Challenge.  How they've inspired me, stretched me, made me rethink how I string words and spaces together to make sense, make a story, record a memory.

I wasn't going to talk about all the book recommendations that I gleaned from Slices.  Or all the posts I've bookmarked in a task bar folder, waiting to go back and read.  It may take months...

I wasn't going to talk about how I will be a bit relieved tomorrow when my time is just a little freer, the obligations of writing and reading and commenting lifted--but I'll miss those obligations, too.

I wasn't going to write about any of those things...and yet, here we are.  

Thanks for a wonderful ninth year of Slicing with me, writing friends.

SOLSC '21 Day Thirty: How was your day, dear?

 

I am participating in my ninth Slice of Life Story Challenge run by the team behind the Two Writing Teachers website.  We are challenged to write a blog post a day throughout the month of March.

It's a question asked every evening, most often at the dinner table.

"How was your day, dear?"

How was my day, yesterday?  It started quietly enough, no students zooming through the halls, chatting and laughing as they rub in their hand sanitizer.  Nope, they were most likely still asleep on this at-home asynchronous learning day.

Emails first, then a para came in asking for work to do.  Got her set up with barcoding new professional materials, then got a third cup of coffee and sat down to four hours of our monthly district librarians' meeting.

It went by fast, packed with celebrations, talk of spending our budget money ASAP, inventory woes, an origami bookmark and a STEM challenge to try (mine was a flop).  Us elementary-types got the big reveal of next year's Armadillo Readers' Choice list (yay, I already have two of them on my shelf!), discussion about the brouhaha over Seuss (no, we're not pulling the entire collection off of our shelves).  Multi-level breakouts spent a considerable amount of time discussing systemic racism--the system part of it, from food deserts to how the justice system impacts everything from housing to education to healthcare.  There was a specific focus on indigenous people--a group often overlooked in discussions about racism.

Meeting over, a quick lunch, reconnecting with my library assistant, and then an afternoon of group poem editing, book orders, and budget transfers.  Hunted down professional materials for our dual language teachers and discovered the source of the mystery kit next to the circulation desk.  

A quick chat with our ITS, and it was home to plug in my laptop and prepare for a committee meeting.  My husband came home and started eating dinner as I was wrapping it up for the night.

I still had a walk around the block, my Duolingo lessons in Spanish and Japanese, my Noom articles, and watering my plants before I could call it a day.

And that, my dear, was how my Monday went. 

SOLSC '21 Day Twenty-nine: A very short week

I am participating in my ninth Slice of Life Story Challenge run by the team behind the Two Writing Teachers website.  We are challenged to write a blog post a day throughout the month of March.

Today is an asynchronous day in our district; students have assignments from Friday to work on while teachers meet and plan for the last quarter.  Librarians have a virtual meeting this morning, and then we get to work on all that stuff we do behind the scenes:  cataloging, inventory, lesson planning, collaborating, weeding.  I get to cap the day off with a virtual committee meeting for an annual conference event coming up in three weeks; because of our schedules, we meet from 530p to 630p.  It makes for a long day.

Surprisingly, we still get Friday off as a "spring holiday".  We thought it would be removed from the calendar as a meager make-up day for all the school missed during the Texas Snowpocalypse.  Maybe the board realizes that a respite is needed, even two weeks after Spring Break.  I imagine that they are tired too; the pandemic has probably quadrupled the decisions they've had to make this school year.

I am already planning on a quiet Friday, spending time doing weekend tasks early so that I can enjoy the holiday weekend.  I'm thinking that 70's soft rock and scented candles will be nice accompaniments for the time spent doing laundry,  reading, crocheting, and giving myself a mani-pedi. 

A productive Monday with a Friday off to look forward to is a nice start to the week.

SOLSC '21 Day Twenty-eight: Time capsule

 

I am participating in my ninth Slice of Life Story Challenge run by the team behind the Two Writing Teachers website.  We are challenged to write a blog post a day throughout the month of March.

My uncle sent me a box, densely packed by the weight of it, several weeks ago.  I knew what was in it, but couldn't bring myself to open it right away...until last night.

My husband was cleaning up odds and ends from the living room floor, and asked about the box.  

"My mother's yearbooks, from my uncle," I told him.  

I went ahead and opened it, took the carefully wrapped contents to the couch, and proceeded to travel back to a time just a few scant years before she would be a married mother.

I was determined to skim the books in order.  

Her freshman face was broad, eyes smiling from her cheeks, hair still so dark and parted down the middle, poofing out at the sides.  That year showed me uniform skirts almost down to the ankle, an all-female graduating class though there were male undergrads.  The faculty members, mostly priests and nuns, were all pictured with a student, carefully posed in teaching mode.  And there was a librarian--not a nun.  

Her sophomore picture showed a slimmer profile, but disheveled hair...perhaps it was a windy day?  Instructions for a home perm are tucked into the index, where her brother's name joins hers.  She is pictured during morning prayers with her class, this young woman who told me she was known as "the heretic" in high school because she dared to ask the nuns "why".

Her junior picture is much more sophisticated--a short 'do that she would sport for much of her adult life.  My grandmother is also in the yearbook, joining the staff as the study hall monitor.  There is a picture of her with other faculty members in the home ec lab, enjoying a Thanksgiving meal while she chats up a priest, cigarette dangling from her fingers.  Another student with the same last name is listed under my three family members, but I don't recognize her name.

Her senior picture is happy, hopeful.  She has tucked a small print of her sixth grade self in that page.  Her aspirations of being a secretary aren't surprising; she once showed me her shorthand skills after I came across an old textbook of hers.  My grandmother, uncle, and mystery girl are also still pictured.  My mother has "candid" photos with yearbook staff, decorating a Christmas tree, working a mimeograph machine.

There are other details I notice in these yearbooks.  Men and boys featured before the girls (the school was segregated by gender).  The uniform skirts getting shorter, and seniors not in uniform in many pictures.  Most of the senior girls listed secretary as their future career; some had housewife/ homemaker.  I was impressed by the few who said marine biologist, electrical engineer, mathematician; after all, the pages touted science and math classes for both genders.  Along the way, my mother goes from being "Anna" to "Annie", and "Anne".  There was a change of librarians, an addition of an assistant, and my own mother's stint as a library helper.

More realia was found:  a Valentine card from my uncle to his sister; skillful pen and ink drawings of cars, just for her, from a (boy)friend; a color Polaroid of a stereo system, out of place in these black and white pages.

I will have to ask my uncle about the girl who shares their last name, about the boy who drew those pictures, why there were only young women in that first graduating class.  I'm glad he's still here to answer those questions for me.

Was the hopeful look in my mother's high school senior eyes an inkling of the amazing life she would lead two years later as an Army wife, traveling the globe just months after being married, giving birth to me, her firstborn, half a world away?

I would like to think so.

Ninth through twelfth grade, sixth grade at the end.

Home perm instructions.

Morning prayers.

My grandmother

Grandmother is center, wearing glasses

Grandmother's second yearbook photo

My mother is third from left

Mother on the right

Mom decorating a school Christmas tree

Senior notes

SOLSC '21 Day Twenty-seven: Being present, noticing

 

I am participating in my ninth Slice of Life Story Challenge run by the team behind the Two Writing Teachers website.  We are challenged to write a blog post a day throughout the month of March.

I sat at the kitchen table as I do every morning, waiting for my coffee to brew and contemplating how to fill my morning page with words.  Noticing floated to the top of my thoughts, and I started to write about

The amaryllis in bloom on my windowsill, blood-red against a gray sky, a dollar-store gift from a beloved neighbor who has since moved away.  I texted her a picture of it yesterday.

Smaller lilies propped in a tall vase, lipstick-pink and blushing white, forming a canopy over the clutter on my dining table.  Ever since my fortieth birthday, we have had fresh flowers in the house, mostly bought by my husband.  That's been fifteen years of flowers.

The sounds of the clock on the wall ticking, the refrigerator humming, the birds chirping outside until I was writing that sentence, when they went eerily quiet.

Piles of get-to-it-later mail, mostly destined for the recycle bin.

The kalanchoe flowers, once bright orange, are fading and about to drop, sure to make a mess on the table.

A planner filled with tasks in colorful ink, shouting at me from the sidelines.

A bright green timer cube, nestled up to a brown owl mug filled with a rainbow of Inkjoy pens.  Their ink does bring me joy.

My prescription glasses resting upside down on the green gingham oilcloth, unnecessary at close quarters.

My Wonder Woman Tervis cup.  It brings me joy, too.

I am chilly in my pajamas, but know that if I put on my fuzzy blue robe, I'll be hot in ten minutes.  Oh, the joys of post-menopausal thermal mis-regulation.

Stickers next to my planner, swag from an online conference.  A barely-eaten tub of strawberry-flavored cotton candy and an almost-finished can of lemon-flavored mineral water, also swag.  I wasn't fond of the latter.

My coffee is ready, and I am ready for my coffee.  Time to write this Slice.

SOLSC '21 Day Twenty-six: Disastrous thinking

I am participating in my ninth Slice of Life Story Challenge run by the team behind the Two Writing Teachers website.  We are challenged to write a blog post a day throughout the month of March.

 

My father left a message on our phone last night, before either of us got home, to let us know they were safe from this last round of tornadoes.

I immediately felt guilty; I have been so exhausted this week that I've barely paid attention to the news, and didn't focus on weather outside of Texas.  Sometimes I'll catch it in posts on social media, but I've curtailed most of my scrolling for Lent.  

I also work very, very hard not to worry about things that aren't in my control.  Weather is one of those things.  I can control my response to it, and have to believe that my loved ones are capable enough to listen to their local weather, prepare accordingly, and contact us (if they can). When posting my blog on Facebook yesterday morning, I noticed my father had commented on other posts, so my inner alarms didn't go off. 

If I was the worrying type, this is what would occupy my mind all through spring and summer:

Tornadoes in North Texas, Alabama, Tennessee

Hurricanes in the Florida Panhandle

Earthquakes and tsunamis in Japan

That is mighty disastrous thinking.  And I have no control over any of it...but maybe I do need to pay attention to the whole weather segment for the next few months, just to be prepared.

SOLSC '21 Day Twenty-five: Real memories

 

I am participating in my ninth Slice of Life Story Challenge run by the team behind the Two Writing Teachers website.  We are challenged to write a blog post a day throughout the month of March.

There's been a bit of discussion in posts and comments in this year's SOLSC about memories--which ones are real, which are borrowed from family stories, fuzzy recollections and crystal clear details.  I decided to start a list of real memories, ones I know for certain are mine.  They are presented in no particular order.

the feel of smooth, short dog hair at my feet and in the bend of my legs, under the covers (and sometimes dog gas wafting up from under those sheets)

the soft, urgent beeps of heart monitors and IV drips in the NICU; the sound of the respirator in my parents' living room

the sunrise from Senior Hill

my cheek pinched by a stranger saying "Bella, bella"

where my bedroom was located in Naples, San Jose, Stuttgart, El Paso, Jester Dormitory

tumbleweeds and coyotes strolling down Opalstone Street

brown dust accumulating in a day on windowsills

the sweet smell of dance floor fog

cruising Dyer and Transmountain and North Mesa at night

eating ramen noodles for the first time, the kind in the square package

empty stretches of IH-10 without another car in sight, only mesas in the distance (and the time I saw a B-1 bomber fly soundlessly over the desert)

how small the Mona Lisa really is, in person

spicy gingerbread hearts as big as a dinner plate, with white icing sentiments

crowded delivery rooms and kind, efficient nurses

holding my babies for the first time, weeks, hours after delivery

a blue casket with an ivory interior

docksiders and Doc Martens, prep button-collar button-downs and concert teeshirts with the sleeves cut off

cannibalistic guppies flushed down the toilet

the space between my mattress and headboard, mornings after earthquakes I slept through

...

This has been interesting, recording these fragments; I may continue them for the next day or so's Slices.

SOLSC '21 Day Twenty-four: Words

I am participating in my ninth Slice of Life Story Challenge run by the team behind the Two Writing Teachers website.  We are challenged to write a blog post a day throughout the month of March.

I am fed by words

Words of

praise from others

for taking charge

leading well

meeting just the right need

Words on

signs and stickers and screens

proclamations of love in neighborhood yards

affirmations and motivation in my journal and planner

communication, connection, and education at my desks 

Words in

books

fantasy

mystery

science fiction

self help

professional

kidlit

a small dose of history

a large dose of diversity

Words from

students as we practice

language with one another

English

Spanish

Japanese

The words are always there; I am well-fed.

SOLSC '21 Day Twenty-three: The junebugs came a-knockin'

I am participating in my ninth Slice of Life Story Challenge run by the team behind the Two Writing Teachers website.  We are challenged to write a blog post a day throughout the month of March.

The junebugs came a-knockin' 

At my window late last night.

I was typing at the table

They were drawn to my work light.

The junebugs came a-knockin'

I thought, at first, just leaves

Pushed off boughs by greening buds

And floating on the breeze.

The junebugs came a-knockin'

Though it be just barely Spring.

How odd, I thought, given their name

To already be on the wing.

The junebugs came a-knockin'

Tap-tap-tapping on the pane

And told me that the Summer

Will soon be here again.

Image courtesy of Anita Gould, flickr

I am really not that fond of these little beetles, their wings a blur as they repeatedly batter themselves against our windows and doors.  They were a good reminder, though, that the evening was late, and I should cease working and go to bed.

SOLSC '21 Day Twenty-two: Back to it

 

I am participating in my ninth Slice of Life Story Challenge run by the team behind the Two Writing Teachers website.  We are challenged to write a blog post a day throughout the month of March.

Ever since I sat at the circ desk as a librarian eight years ago, I haven't counted down the days.  That doesn't mean I wasn't aware of how many days we had left in the year; librarians have their deadlines, too.  

This past year, March to March, has been different.  There has been so much pivoting, so much newness, so many changes that just keep coming.  There wasn't much of a Spring Break last year, or a summer off, for that matter.  I felt like I was always on edge, waiting for that next piece of information, that next task to prepare for plan A, then plan B, then plan C. No plans of my own because safety guidelines and work took precedence.  The endless hours of screen time felt isolating even as we stared at each other's tiny moving portraits in gridded displays.

So this year, I am counting.  Ten Mondays, a whole quarter of a school year remaining.  I think of what has to be done in those ten weeks.  Library lessons still to teach and books to read-aloud.  Book orders to be placed and budget money to be spent.  After school club meetings; curbside book deliveries through April.  Keep-forever books to be distributed at school and delivered to homes. A virtual state conference in a month with a weekend event I am co-chairing, on an unfamiliar hosting platform.  State testing (which I'm still hoping will be cancelled.)  Another virtual book fair in May.  An all-call for books that have been overdue since October, contacting each individual student.  Inventory, which will be a Herculean task since materials were moved around as classrooms were reassigned, teachers went virtual, teachers quit.  And if I really push, a maintenance request to get shelving cut in half, to put windows in the walls above them to bring new life to my cave-like library.

None of this can be drawn too far into the summer, because my children will be my focus as one gets ready to move back to the United States after five years abroad and the other will be graduating from college at about the same time.  July and the beginning of August are spoken for.

If I think too long about all that lies ahead, I start to feel weepy and incapable.  But if I take just this Monday and focus on two or three of those things that I can do today and each of the next nine Mondays, I might just make it through.  As Glennon Melton often says, "We can do hard things."  

We've been doing just that for the last twelve months.

SOLSC '21 Day Twenty-one: Letter to Christine

I am participating in my ninth Slice of Life Story Challenge run by the team behind the Two Writing Teachers website.  We are challenged to write a blog post a day throughout the month of March.

Dear Christine,

It should go without saying that this is a serious-minded letter, opening with your full name.  This is no time for namby-pamby self-given nicknames; we are getting real here.

I see you've done a bit of spring cleaning--good for you!  Yes, I know you planned on clearing several square feet of floor space, and getting rid of boxes of clothes.  You cleared about a square yard's worth between the bedroom and the hallway and put about one box's worth of clothes in the Goodwill pile.  That's a start.

But (you knew there had to be a but)...let's talk about what you discovered, grouped, organized a bit while you were cleaning:

• A full 76 quart sized storage tub of winter-weight pajamas.  We're talking flannel and fleece, all those cute owly Nick & Nora sets, Old Navy Christmas jammies...you now have enough to last through decades of future winters, even if we repeat this year's Snowpocalypse {{{shudder}}}. I let you keep them because they are soft and cuddly...but please, no more.  Enjoy what you have.  Use them until they are ragged and ready to toss.
• Sweaters, especially cardigans.  Yes, I know you are a librarian and cardigans are practically a required uniform for the job.  You pretty much have the rainbow of colors in various weights and styles; let's get creative and build outfits with what you've got, 'kay?
• That note about creative outfitting--that goes for your clothes, too.  Remember those early days of teaching, when you bought six mix and match pieces and had fun coming up with the outfits?  Let's return to that mindset.  You tend to buy classic pieces--kudos for not being too trendy--which means they will mix and match well.  And yes, I know you are on a weight loss journey, those next-size-down clothes a tantalizing motivator; you've got plenty of those, too.  Save tons of money and shop your own closet.  Wear them until they don't fit/ are too worn/ don't appeal any more, then toss or donate.  You have enough clothes to last until you retire in a decade--no need to buy any more!
• Shoes--you have enough for your two feet for years to come.  Enough said.
• Let's talk skin care products and makeup.  Honey, you've got enough sets and samples to last you through the next three years, at least.  You could make yourself up every day and not get through all the eyeshadows alone before you reach a hundred years old. (And you are your Grammie's granddaughter, so I know you'll still be rocking that made-up look, wrinkles and all, at that age.)  You have supported your friends' side gigs well; give your makeup and skincare product purchasing a rest for a good long while. (Oh, and the same holds true for nail polish--enough, already!  You only have twenty nails!)
• Last, but not least...and this will be a hard one for you, I know...journals, planners, stickers, pens, books.  You tend to go a little overboard with Erin Condren and Plum Paper sales, birthday coupons from Crayola, those cute pens from Talking Out of Turn.  And heaven forbid you pass up that latest, greatest book recommendation from a friend.  You know where all these purchases are--bins of empty journals just waiting to be filled, stickers to last through several planners, piles of unread books taking up floor and shelf space all.over.the.place.  Time to go old school, set your timer each day, and READ already.  Reviews on Amazon don't count.  Close the browser and open a book that's waiting for you, right there in your own house.  Delete those EC, Plum Paper, and Happy Planner emails until you've used up a few dozen sheets of stickers and need a 2022 planner. 

I know you, honey.  I know retail therapy is in your matriarchal genes.  I know you feel that Christmas-like high when those packages arrive in the mail.  But retirement is but a decade away (hopefully), and your children deserve a clutter-free legacy.  There are enough real family heirlooms to pass along.

Learn to enjoy what you have, Christine.  You and your bank account will be so much better for it.  Deep down, you know that's true.

Much love,

Chris

SOLSC '21 Day Twenty: You and me against the squirrel(s)

I am participating in my ninth Slice of Life Story Challenge run by the team behind the Two Writing Teachers website.  We are challenged to write a blog post a day throughout the month of March.

Abigail Lund, one of the new Slicers in my Welcome Wagon, has written a few musical posts; I think I'll follow suit.  On this first day of Spring, as I ponder the newly gardened containers on my front and back porches, I immediately feel annoyance at the squirrels who are determined to destroy them by digging up the dirt to hide their nuts, flinging the potting soil all over the porch and keeping my seeds from rooting.  The phrase "me against the squirrels" brought an old song to mind.  My parody, first; I'll include the video to the real, beautiful song after.

You and me against the squirrels,

Sometimes it feels like you and me against the squirrels,

Behind our backs they've pillaged and scurried away,

Their destruction seen in light of day.

Remember when I laid that new soil down

Happy with the seeds that I had sown,

Wasn't it nice to look around, see pots that looked brand new,

Signs of spring and hopefulness, but instead we are on guard

You and me against the squirrels,

Sometimes it feels like you and me against the squirrels

And for all the times we've yelled at them

Nature isn't on our side.

And when all the plants are gone,

No seeds left to carry on,

Then a shopping trip will have to do,

Fully grown plants will get us through

Think about the days of me and you,

Of you and me against the squirrels.

(My apologies to Paul Williams and Helen Reddy!)

SOLSC '21 Day Nineteen: Constant refuge

I am participating in my ninth Slice of Life Story Challenge run by the team behind the Two Writing Teachers website.  We are challenged to write a blog post a day throughout the month of March.

Fran Haley wrote a pantoum poem about a childhood memory in her Slice "Reading" .  I could empathize with her second grade self, and was intrigued by the poetic form...here's my attempt at pantoum.

Seven schools in thirteen years
I wear new kid armor
Not really fitting in
The library is my refuge.

I wear new kid armor
Head down, but hand raised
The library is my refuge
Books don't judge the way children do.

Head down, but hand raised
Assignments finished quickly, accurately
Books don't judge the way children do
Favored stories a constant when the continent changes.

Assignments finished quickly, accurately
Not really fitting in
Favored stories a constant when the continent changes
Seven schools in thirteen years.

Note from Fran's Slice: A pantoum doesn’t have to rhyme. It is a form comprised of repeating lines in this pattern:

1. Begin by writing four original lines.
   1 2 3 4
2. REPEAT lines 2 and 4 and expand ideas in lines 5 and 6:
   2 5 4 6
3. REPEAT lines 5 and 6, expand ideas in lines 7 and 8:
   5 7 6 8
4. FINALLY, repeat lines 1, 3, 7 and 8 in the following order:
   7 3 8 1

SOLSC '21 Day Eighteen: A forgotten poem, a mistaken memory

I am participating in my ninth Slice of Life Story Challenge run by the team behind the Two Writing Teachers website.  We are challenged to write a blog post a day throughout the month of March.

Today's post is inspired by a link in Tammy L. Breitweiser's Slice "Wednesday: What am I reading?".  

I had forgotten the title, but recognized the poem as soon as I read it.  

So this morning I grabbed my husband's pocket flashlight, the one he uses to find the CDs he wants to play from the shelves by the entertainment center (the lighting is poor in our living room), and hunted for the boxed journal tucked in a bookshelf that is half-hidden by the couch.  I found it behind Sarah Bird's The Yokota Officers Club and Loren Pope's Colleges That Change Lives. I paused as I remembered meeting Bird and gushing about that book, the only one I've read that mirrored my life as a military BRAT.  The Pope book might be past its usefulness, I thought to myself, with our youngest about to graduate from college.

I opened the box and pulled out the journal, gifted by a then-boyfriend.  Skimming the parchment pages, I saw his handwriting and snippets of my lovelorn sentiments...ugh.  I was not in the mood to revisit my sappy, dramatically emotional teenage days.  Skipping pages and years, back and forth, I found the poem, copied from who-knows-where, written in my own hand in the days before the internet.

"Something to think about during motherhood" was my preface, my reason for copying the poem.  I think about what my life was like in February of 1985...

Eight months into college. 

 

My mother and brother had just joined my father in Germany to finish out his work assignment.

I was practically alone in Austin.  No one else from my high school attended UT.  My only connections with my immediate family were expensive collect long distance phone calls, placed once a month.

My relationship with my boyfriend was not really typical. Looking back, we were more like emotional sounding boards for one another.  I don't remember discussions of marriage and children.  I didn't see myself as maternal or marriage material; homely smart girls weren't featured in the bridal magazines that my friends bought.

But there it is, a poem about pregnancy, with those prescient words:  "Something to think about during motherhood." At some point, at eighteen, I was entertaining the thought of becoming a mother.  All this time I've said that I really didn't consider it until I met my now-husband; that didn't happen until two years after I copied these lines.

This forgotten poem has pointed out my mistaken memory.  I wonder how many other memories I've suppressed, altered, fabricated to suit my current mindset...I'm still not in the mood to read those sappy journal entries to find out.

SOLSC '21 Day Seventeen: Red hair, green eyes

I am participating in my ninth Slice of Life Story Challenge run by the team behind the Two Writing Teachers website.  We are challenged to write a blog post a day throughout the month of March.

Half Irish here, fully half

My mother's side marrying Irish  

Until she broke the pattern.

Upon learning that fact

I longed for the red hair of my great-aunt

Green eyes to reflect the Emerald Isle.

But I have mousy brown curly hair

Eyes that look brown, too, unless

You look close enough to catch the flecks of moss.

I've settled for my own shades of green

On ankles and a shoulder

A clover, a knot, an owl.

I'll look for that red hair

On the heads of my

Grandchildren, one day.

Happy St Patrick's Day! May the luck o' the Irish be with ya'! 

SOLSC '21 Day Sixteen: THE card

 

I am participating in my ninth Slice of Life Story Challenge run by the team behind the Two Writing Teachers website.  We are challenged to write a blog post a day throughout the month of March.

There is a rite of passage peculiar to military BRATs, one that I distinctly remember anticipating, even if I don't remember the exact details of the event.

It is the receiving of one's first military dependent ID card, at the age of ten.  The ID card you show to get on base, shop at the PX/BX and commissary, check in at the base medical facility, get shoes at the base bowling alley.  

Basically, a magic card.  

I looked on the internet to see if the process is still in place, and it is.  Children younger than ten can get a card if their custodial parent is no longer in the military/ married to their military spouse and benefits are continued.  But for the rest of the million or so children of active duty military members, the card is issued when they turn ten.

This was a BIG deal for us, especially since school IDs were still mostly little pieces of cardboard that came with your school picture package, flimsy things that barely saw the light of day.

These cards were regularly whipped out at the base gate as if we were spies requesting access to top-secret installations, sometimes bringing a smile to the soldier standing guard.  They were taken to school to show your friends; if you were lucky to be at a DoDEA school, they all oohed and aahed, because they understood.  It was also a huge responsibility, keeping track of the card and keeping it on your person, one that we didn't take lightly, especially when living overseas.

I must have received my ID card in Naples, Italy.  I turned ten just a few months before we left, and I remember showing my card at the gates of AFSOUTH and the NSA, the Navy base where the hospital was located.  Displaying that card made you feel important, seen, a part of the mission of the US Military.

Military dependents get to access services on base until they graduate from college.  During my three years in school, I used my card for medical visits, shopping, even entertainment at the clubs on base.  It had allowed me to visit my brother on his Air Force base in Abilene without extra effort on his part.  

I turned in my last military ID at the gates of Bergstrom AFB here in Austin, the day before I graduated from the University of Texas, and cried on the way home.  I had lost my magic.

For what it's worth, I do still have dog tags with my name stamped on them, though their origin remains a mystery...

SOLSC '21 Day Fifteen: Bring on the Spring clothes!

I am participating in my ninth Slice of Life Story Challenge run by the team behind the Two Writing Teachers website.  We are challenged to write a blog post a day throughout the month of March.

One of my bad habits is buying too many clothes.  I have piles upon piles, most worn at least once, just a few still with tags waiting for the right day/ occasion/ weather.  (I bought dresses for my son's college graduation during his sophomore year.  Hey, they were on sale!)

Yes, it's a bad habit, but it lends itself to one of my favorite Spring Break tasks: the annual swapping out of clothes.  Banished are the black and dark browns, the midnight blues and burgundy and piney evergreen.  Flannel shirts and heavy sweaters and fleecy pajamas are packed away in tubs; I have enough light layers remaining to get me through temperamental March weather.

Out come the boxes of Spring clothes.  Coral and sunshiney yellow, pastel pinks and blues and lavender, bright orange, muted sage and rose.  My brunette (graying with faded purple dye) hair and pale Polish skin let me get away with wearing a lot of different colors; not so good for the pocketbook, but easy to shop!  

The need to buy new clothes will be diminished for at least a few weeks, though, as rediscovering pieces from past Springs will satisfy those urges.  I tend to stick to solids, small-patterned florals and stripes--nothing too trendy that it looks out of date.  Colorful skinny jeans and ankle pants, button down shirts and tunic tops, tees and tanks in every color imaginable to pair with light cardigans (every librarian has a collection of cardigans, yes?).  My newest addiction--Karina dresses with pockets.  I've got enough of those to wear a different one every other week for the remainder of the school year!

Sundays are my day for planning, and that includes my work outfits for the week.  I check the weather forecast and write down the highs and lows on a Word template I made for myself.  Then I sit on my bed, look at all of my clothes, and plan what I'll wear.  It's a good habit I picked up when my husband and I worked opposite shifts, and I had to get dressed in the dark each morning.  My mornings will be a bit brighter now, wearing my Spring colors.  They will make me happy...until I've had enough of the sun and heat of Summer, and my Fall/ Winter clothes will beckon again. 

SOLSC '21 Day Fourteen: HEB2

I am participating in my ninth Slice of Life Story Challenge run by the team behind the Two Writing Teachers website.  We are challenged to write a blog post a day throughout the month of March.

It started a year ago, shortly after the pandemic officially locked us down.  My husband, the main grocery shopper in the family, began hoarding items necessary to survive this event.  I cannot continue without clarifying that he is one of the calmest people I know, so please banish any images you have in your mind at this moment of rabid shoppers scooping up armfuls of Clorox wipes and hand sanitizer.  No, his hoarding was fair, methodical, not-too-extreme.  Just the one extra pack of toilet paper on a shopping trip.  Researching bulk sites for hand gel and "regular" disposable masks (no infringing on medical personnel needs here), three or four items coming in at a time. Lysol spray, when he could find it. 

Then it started extending to groceries, in case we were ever truly locked down, unable to go to the store.  An extra box of his favorite cereal, a few cans of soup.  Bagged nuts.  Crackers, rice, his favorite mints.  More household items got stockpiled too, like garbage bags and paper towels.

Where was all of this going?  To be honest, I really didn't notice, walking around in my own pandemic-lockdown-induced fog.  I vaguely remember him puttering around with those industrial-style storage shelves.  Bear in mind that we have a small house, one floor, three bedrooms with doors that are almost always open.  I really was that unaware, working from home, what little attention I could muster going towards maintaining some semblance of mental health more than anything else.

Until one work morning, when he ran out of cereal in the kitchen.  He announced he was going to get more at HEB as he started walking toward the bedroom end of the house, still in pajamas. (HEB is the BEST grocery store we have in Texas, for those not in the know.)

"Don't you have to go to work today?" I yelled after him.

He didn't reply, returning to the kitchen just moments later with a new box of cereal.

"Where did you get that?" I asked.  "From HEB2," he answered. 

"HEB2?  What are you talking about?"

"The shelves, in Gaby's bedroom," he gestured toward the other end of the house, already pouring his milk into the bowl. 

I walked to the bedroom (which was already packed with boxes of my stuff from my last school, not able to move them to the new one yet).  Yes, there barely fitting in front of the closet, were the silver industrial storage shelves, five stacked, full of supplies.

HEB2. He is still keeping it stocked, always one step ahead. 

SOLSC '21 Day Thirteen: Ode to the Durango

 

I am participating in my ninth Slice of Life Story Challenge run by the team behind the Two Writing Teachers website.  We are challenged to write a blog post a day throughout the month of March.

Almost twenty-one years ago, this Dodge Durango was brand-new in our driveway.  The coupes and sedans of our "work cars" weren't suitable for hauling two young children and the baggage that accompanies them on road trips that always started and ended in Austin. With destinations like El Paso (a long, long one day trip), the Florida panhandle (another long day) and Cleveland, Ohio (we learned to stretch those out over two-and-a-half days), we needed comfortable seating for the driver and passengers, rear air conditioning, and that aforementioned baggage space.  The Durango checked off all those boxes.

Our youngest was two years old then, our firstborn just graduating from kindergarten.  Car seats and booster seats came and went from the middle.  As the kids grew older, if we were prudent with our luggage we could pop up the third row seat so they could have their own space on those travels.  The third row came in handy for hauling their friends around, too, for birthday parties and playdates, mini road trips to playgrounds and zoos.

There was the time I was taking a talkative gaggle of young Girl Scouts to a camping site, and the Durango fishtailed a bit on a slick curve.  My heart was in my throat; the girls just laughed and enjoyed the ride.

This was the Christmas tree car, sometimes fitting it in the back with half the middle seat down, one child sitting next to the point while the remaining three of us crowded the front seat for the short trip home.  As the car aged, my husband didn't care as much about the roof's finish, and took to tying the tree on top.

This was the learning-how-to-drive car, my husband as the instructor, our children both reluctant drivers who waited until just before their high school careers were over to get their licenses.  Their father's reasoning was that if they could handle the Durango, the confidence would make driving the used sedans he bought for them that much easier. I can still picture each of the children driving the streets of our neighborhood and nearby high school parking lots, their father sitting beside them.

This was the moving-into-college-dorms car, driving to Sherman, then Denton, in a caravan of two vehicles as the kids learned how to navigate the highways between their school and home.  The Durango, laden with bedding and clothes, torchiere lamps, rugs, and the all-important mini-fridge would sometimes lead, sometimes follow.  I am always amazed at my husband's packing skills during these moves.

The Durango has been without a working heater for years, the cost to replace the parts too prohibitive to fix.  It is still in service as the college moving car and brought home our Christmas tree this past year, but is most often used for grocery shopping, a weekly trip.  Most days, it sits out in the street, as pictured, since we are a household of only two local drivers but maintaining four cars (one is our daughter's, who is currently in Japan).

Four cars until yesterday, when my husband purchased a brand-new Toyota 4Runner.  It has air AND heat, and cargo space.  It doesn't have a third row, but he thinks the need for that is over.  He claims this is the SUV that will be used into his retirement years, that horizon coming ever closer.  I'm already picturing it laden with our daughter's household goods when she returns from Japan and moves into her next stateside home...and then, sometime in the future, car seats and booster seats once again.

We are a sentimental bunch, the four of us, and texts about the new purchase and the Durango soon leaving have been bittersweet.  In Texan terms, it's like putting a good horse out to pasture for its final days...only the Durango won't be in sight, as five cars are far too many to be parked in our suburban space.  As old as it is, dealers have laughed at the idea of trading it in; my husband has some potential buyers at work.  Perhaps it will become another driving-lessons car, experiencing the feel of teenaged sweaty palms on the steering wheel once more.

Farewell, Durango. You've served us well.