I know I've been absent yet again, but every time I want to post, another shooting happens or some political b.s. happens and I feel too sad to post, or what I have to say seems  trivial in comparison.  I don't want to dwell on those things. I don't want to ignore those things, either. I have to let those things go and allow those thing to inform my world view as I move forward with my own stories.

I'm going to my 35th high school reunion tonight.  I'm going with one of my dear friends who I've been able to reconnect with since my folks moved back to Jefferson City.  We're going to get together ahead of time to primp and talk and reminisce about things.  We'll probably gossip a little and dish about things, but ultimately we're just looking forward to seeing familiar faces and catching up about were life has brought us.

I've read and re-read the list of classmates attending and read statements of regret from those who can't make it.  But I think I've been most affected by the  list of fellow classmates who have passed away.  It's a long list for a mid to small size class.  I counted 29 names and that doesn't include people who can't be located.

I knew of a few of these deaths. Facebook has allowed us to know more about each other and even allow us to share in the journey through illness and death. But a couple of name through me into some serious soul-searching.  One roof these was a girl named Nancy H.  I remember her mostly from grade school.  She was in my class when we moved to J.C. from St. Louis.  She was a skinny redhead with a short choppy hair cut and freckles, and most notably, a pair of glasses  magnifying her eyes and obscuring her face and encompassing the definition of Coke bottle lenses.

She was the kid at the bottom of the heap. Chosen last in games on the playground, mocked for attempt to be accepted and probably alone at the lunch table in the cafeteria.  I say probably because in my normal egocentric way, I was w a y to busy worrying about my own place on the popularity scale and never really noticed.

Whenever she was the brunt of the collective derisive grade school cruelty, I didn't feel for her.  I was just happy it wasn't me.
I lost track of her in junior high and high school.  My guess is that she stayed on the bottom rung of the social ladder, flying under the radar, trying to stay invisible rather than allowing herself to be hurt by rejection.  Maybe she's had a job or went to church or found her social life outside of the school.  I'll probably never find out much about her.  The one obituary I found revealed that she was survived by her brothers and was an avid reader.  My guess is that she would have had no reason or desire to come to this reunion.  And if she wasn't on the list of people who have died, I seriously doubt that her absence would have been noticed by me or anyone, really.

But seeing her name made me think about how ridiculous my own high school angst was.  I was a blue eyed blonde in a world that values blue eyed blondes.  I have a loving, intact two parent family.  I had enough intelligence and support to know I would be able to move on in life.  I was one of the lucky ones.  I remain one of the lucky ones.

Nancy's grade school crime was being born in the wrong body.  I don't blame myself or any of us for how things played out in those days.  We were kids being kids. But I wish Nancy was around  so I could apologize for not seeing her humanity.  For allowing her to be seen as less worthy.  For not being able to let her know that she deserved respect and positive attention.  She deserved love

So to anyone from my class (or really any class anywhere) who feels undeserving of the love and power and protection that comes with those things, I'm sorry for my part in creating those feeling.  You were always beautiful.  You were always worthy.  You were always loved.

Happy 35th reunion!

Grad school...not yet

I know yesterday I left off leaving for Michigan, but I had a couple of more thought about the hospital.  I pooh-pooh that job a little, but I actually learned a lot about being a therapist, boundaries and client/therapist relationships.
The adolescent and adults shared a floor but an opposite sides.  It was only a problem when we would have the rare 18/10 year old who had designs on the cute adolescent girls.  Otherwise, it was good for me since I had exposure to all ages.
The kids,and sometimes the adult,could ask to have "one on one" with any of the line staff (Psych techs or nurses).  It was always interesting and I definitely learned how anything you say can be seen in both positive or negative ways.  Plus, you can't take anything personally.
People will react to you as what you represent to them or how they see you, which very often has nothing to do with the reality of who you are.  These are pics of me from that time so you can see how really young I looked

My mom used to say I looked like Alice in wonderland and thought like Barbara Walters

I was obviously not going to work, but even cleaned up I looked pretty young and fairy cute (oh to be that skinny again)  Here is why this was relevant.  The adults didn't take me or what I said seriously and the kids saw me as an equal at best and a rival as worst.  The young girls didn't look at me and see angst or self-doubt or feelings of inferiority.  I was someone who would take their boyfriends or who would snub them or not include them or put them down.  The boys saw the girl who was out of reach or who they could put the moves on

In the world of psychology this projection- seeing what you want to see or what you believe rather than the reality.  The relationship that develops can take that projection farther and create transference.  So you project your own ideas onto the object (in this case, me) and then transfer your way of relating to that type of object into the relationship with the object.

Sp if the girls saw me as a potential rival ,they would treat me angrily or call me names or just ignore me.  Some (okay, a lot) saw me as a dumb blonde and treated me with contempt.  a few saw me as a rolemodel- a young women finished with college, living on her own with a room mate and a boyfriend and cool clothes (I also worked at a store for extra money and those clothing discounts!)

Although I didn't 100% realize it at the time, finding alternative ways of relating to these kids provided them with an opportunity to change their ideas about the object they created with their projections.  As they changed their perceptions of me, they could also change their behaviors and their relationships.  At least that was supposed to happen!

So the big deal lesson here is to never assume that people will respond to you as you present yourself, no matter how transparent you think you are,  People will always filter you through their own experiences.

There were other lessons, too.  People will cling stubbornly to beliefs no matter how you say things and you have to be willing to allow this. You can't take lack of progress personally.  Having boundaries is not only therapeutic, it is vital for survival.  The first rule of therapy is, the therapist survives.

Here I leave off again and next time, I'm definatly going to Michigan!

Back as promised!

I have been reviewing life, in part, to remember where I've been and how I got to be who I am.  Sometimes I marvel at all that I've done in 53 years, and other times I marvel at how little I've accomplished!  If  spent as much time on writing as on watching tv or playing word games, I would have been able to write enough for an encyclopedia.  (If you're old enough you probably hear Jiminy Cricket singing right now).  I would probably have  been a published author many times over!

I always thought that someday I would write a book.  When I was in college, I said something about writing a book to a group of friends.  Someone said, "You and everybody else".  I was a little taken aback and insulted by that comment, but it made me think about how commonplace the thought of publishing was in that circle.  It made me wonder if that book was just a silly idea, or if I ever would have anything to say.  You'd think t would have made me feel emboldened to think things like "I'll show you!"  But motivation doesn't usually come from the need for revenge for me. Being belittled just make me feel...little  and I think thing like "who do you think you are to think you can write a book?"

So, while this isn't a book, it's an opportunity to write and find a voice and say what I need to say.

I had been reviewing past employment experiences. I've touched on the bad and the ugly, so now I want to focus on the good, the really good and the best work experiences I have had.

Almost all jobs are terrifying at first.  You have to get to know a new environment, new people including a new boss, new procedures, and new office politics.  (Oh yeah.  Office politics are everywhere. )

After the initial shock and subsequent settling in period, the first couple of years are pretty good as long as the place is fairly functional.  My first job as an undergraduate was a a hospital psychiatric technician.  This job was one step above babysitter in terms of using clinical skills.  We spent a lot of time sitting in the day room or in "constant observation " or CO.  CO was sitting outside the door of a patient who was a suicide or runaway risk.  If you were lucky, the patient would actually talk to you, but mostly they either slept or just generally ignored you.  The kids on CO were usually hostile and the adults were either actively psychotic, embarrassed or annoyed.  It didn't help that I was all of 22 and looked about 14.  Some of the teenaged boys would ask me out because I didn't seem like an authority figure ti them!  The adult just didn't take me seriously.

The psychotic patients were the most interesting. I suspect that some of the older people were actually showing symptoms of alzheimer's or some other form of dementia.  Once a very nice refined older lady politely asked me to write a letter for her.  She began her dictating with a formal salutation of "Dear Hosptal Administration".  From there is got pretty angry and a little personal.  She asked my name than went to dictate, "Amy is the stupidest meanest Fucking Ass Bitch nurse in the whole hospital".  then added a "sincerely yours" to her signature.  She then called be dear, patted my hand and politely asked me to mail it for her.  After such a glowing recommendation what could I say except "Of course!"...when monkeys  fly out of my butt, I'll get right on that.

Another older man asked to kiss my cheek and then wanted me to show him what was between my legs.  Didn't wear too many dresses to work while he was a patient there.

But for every lunatic moment, there were opportunities to talk with kids about the cruddy home lives or past abuses.  There were group therapy sessions to observe, and the nurses and other techs became good friends.  Sometimes there were "out trips" for the kids who were having some success in the program.  Most of the nurses hated these trips because they were outside of normal scheduled hour,s but I loved them!  They were usually trips to the movies or the theater and, even though I was working by supervising, it was just fun to me.

After two years, and no prospect of moving into any more money from here, I decided to head to graduate school in Michigan.  I think too years is just the right amount of time to be in a job before chinks in the facade start to be more obvious.  As it was, I left feeling sad to leave behind my friends and colleagues to pursue bigger and better things+

This was the last time I would ever live in Missouri.

But this another chapter in life so it'll be for another blog

Here again

Yesterday was a good jumping off point to get back to the blogesphere


Before I begin, though, I want to thank Julianna Schoeder  who let me know about the article I shared yesterday.  Here is her response and a link to her blog about old Munichsburg

The article was first posted by the Old Munichburg Association and was subsequently shared by Historic City of Jefferson. It was written by Walter A. Schroeder, recent past president of the Old Munichburg Association, who grew up a member of Central Church.

The article is excerpted from Schroeder's forthcoming book, "Southside Sketches: Essays on Jefferson City's Old Munichburg." It will be available in a few months from the Old Munichburg Association. 

Here is a link to her blog  http://munichburgmemories.blogspot.com/

I am looking forward to the reading the book!

The point of this blog was originally a way to let people know about life with Multiple sclerosis and to give me some sense of purpose since my working life has wound down.  Instead, yod blog has been all over the place, and, frequently its purpose is merely to let my Facebook peepsknow I'm still alive!

I've written about my family, my emotions, my understanding of God; thrown in a little politics, and done tons of life review.  Oh!  And a little about life with MS thrown into the mix. 

Now I actually think I  see a direction and an endgame for my aimless ramblings.  One reason to write more frequently is to try to actually be able to call myself a true writer with a body of work.  I know I can do it.  I wrote a poem about my dog every day for a year, don't forget.  That was stupidly difficult, but I did it.  So why cant't I make a habit to blog everyday?  T
I have to let myself think it's okay if they not so deep all the time (As if the ones I do now are !)  

So for today I will leave you with the PROMISE that I will be back tomorrow!  See you then!

Perfect day to blog 

Actually, everyday would be a good day to make myself write something.  I have no problems making a habit of playing Words with Friends, or working a virtual jigsaw puzzle every morning.  I've even managed to make a habit to go yo Yoga 4 times a week.  But writing still feels like a chore.  The actual typing is a killer, but it also requires using good grammar and correct punctuation not to mention coming up with interesting (sorta) things to say and entertaining (sorta) ways to say them).

But today the official word came out. It was a rumor, or a an unconfirmed possibility,.  But now it's fact and apparently final.  They are tearing down the old parsonage in Jefferson city!


 The news is just another layer in my need to become aware of the ethereal quality of life and mortality..  The sweet little home where I experience coming-of-age has been declared unworthy of renovations.  It is being relegated to the heap of :used to be" building; beloved by those who had the opportunity to experience her, but not enough to warrant a full overhaul for those who are financially responsible.  It has too many problems, some of which were probably there when we were!

For now,  I am remembering the list of firsts in my life that occurred at 713 Washington. First crush, first date, first kiss (none are the same person).  Remembering the laughter and the arguments.  The pain of unrequited love;  Practicing the cello in the living room and switching over to the piano to pound out melodies of all the song from the Reader's Digest song book.  I would sit there and sing for hours!  I learned old standards; songs from movies and Broadway, and everything else I could find. It must have made my parents and sibling nuts!  But no one ever stopped me.  Love, love, love in that house.
We had sleepovers -or bunking parties.  JC was just far enough south for that name.  Boyfriends, best friends, frien-emies,  all made appearances there.

It was a sad day in 1981 when I watched my parents leave for their new house in St. Charles. I stayed behind with  the stuff I was taking to college in Kansas City on the opposite side of the state.  It made no sense for me to drag everything to St. Charles only to drag it back a week late.  So I stayed by myself in the dining room using the beautiful pocket doors to give me a sense of cosiness and safety.  I said goodbye to old friends.  Went on a date with my long-time off and on crush one day, and went on another date the  next with the guy who seemed out of reach for so long.  He's still in the top two of ones who got away!

When you're 18 years old, embarking on a who new journey in life, it is hard to comprehend the significance of small things.  It's hard to see the conveyer belt of life moving you a little closer to mortality and finality.

But as a firmly middle-aged grown -up, I am able to see losses and goodbyes and send offs through the lense of longing and wisdom and, ultimately, the beauty and magnificence that is life.

This is the article and some pictures from the Jefferson City Historical society  I hope I am not breaking any laws by putting on my blog!  I am bolding the whole thing so you know it is not mine!!
I'm sad I didn't know half the things it says about the house in that article!

Here's one more story about that house.  Birds used to stay in the chimney on the migratory pattern in the fall (maybe spring...I forget). They would roost in a tree in the day time, but then,one by one, the would circle up to the sky before diving into the chimney. the would star slow, but after a while there would be dozens of birds diving in. It was avery good idea to keep your mouth closed if you were standing close to the house to watch!  More than one person was baptised by bird poop!

One more thing.  I sincerely hope they salvage all the beautiful wood and architectural details.  If they do, I hope they let me buy the
rose window!
Enjoy the article!

Disheartening Breaking News! Central United Church of Christ has just voted to DEMOLISH ITS HISTORIC 1898 PARSONAGE. The vote was made at a congregational meeting after the 10 a.m. service, May 1, 2016.The cost of rehabilitating the structure was estimated as roughly twice the cost of tearing it down. Architect for the Queen Anne-style building was Charles Opel, who designed many of Jeff City's notable buildings. Read the below for its history--an essay written in 2015 by Walter A. Schroeder:

Central United Church of Christ in Jefferson City in 2015 announced its intention to demolish its vacant parsonage at 713 Washington Street. Should this happen, we all will miss this wonderful, historic residence in the very heart of Munichburg. A brief history and a taste of the lore of the 117-year old parsonage is appropriate to inform us of its importance to Southside.

It is not the congregation’s first parsonage. Shortly after the immigrant German Protestant congregation was organized in 1858 and built its church in 1859 on the hill on the corner of Washington and Ashley, it hired Reverend Joseph Rieger for its first pastor. On the day he arrived, the congregation decided to build a parsonage next to the church and directed the new pastor to design it. It was constructed of brick on a limestone foundation and built directly on the front property line, which was the custom in the old country. It was similar to other simple German-style cottages being built throughout German-speaking Muenchberg at that time, like the Hess house across Washington Street and the Buehrle house across the alley on the north. It was finished in 1860. Reverend Rieger cared for Civil War wounded in that parsonage, while at the same time it was home to his family of five daughters and two sons. During the war, “Southern” ladies of Jefferson City entrusted jewelry and other valuables to the pastor for safekeeping in the parsonage. Reverend Rieger also married former slaves in the parsonage (identified as Farbige, or “colored,” in the marriage register). Reverend Rieger died in 1869. All of his next six successors and their families also lived in that parsonage.

In 1891, the congregation, having outgrown its original church building, built a new one, the present Gothic church with the tall steeple. That was during the time when many of the original small German cottages built by immigrants in the surrounding Munichburg neighborhood were becoming obsolete. Their prospering children replaced them with more modern, larger, American-style residences. Joining in that trend, Central’s congregation voted May 1, 1898, to replace its 1860 parsonage with a new one in the same general Queen Anne style as other Munichburg residences then being built in the neighborhood. This is the present parsonage now being considered for removal. Charles Opel was the architect. It was completed before the end of 1898 at a cost $3,109.33. The congregation had instructed Pastor Theophil Mueller to collect funds for its construction—for his own residence—and he raised money well in excess of the final cost. Just a few months earlier, Charles Opel also had been architect for congregational member and city councilman Henry Asel’s residence at 210 Lafayette Street, which was nearly identical to the parsonage. Could Asel’s residence have influenced the choice of style for the parsonage? Asel’s very similar 1898 house still stands and is in excellent condition.

The new parsonage for Central Evangelical Church (the congregational name at the time) was built on the same land the old parsonage sat on, but this time set back twenty feet from the property line, conformable with the American style for front yards. The parsonage measures approximately thirty feet wide by fifty feet deep, with two-story bay windows on both the north and south sides. The main floor has a large front hall with open stairway and beautiful banister, a large living room facing the street, large dining room, kitchen with pantry, and a spacious pastor’s study with bay window facing the church. Abundant woodwork shows high-quality craftsmanship. The second floor has four large bedrooms and bath (a “porcelain bath tub” was specified in the contract). The ceilings are high! A full basement extends underneath the entire house. Except for the limestone foundation, the residence is built completely of brick. Fred Buehrle, a member of the congregation, was responsible for the brickwork. The congregation paid members Ernst Braun and a Mr. Schwartz for construction work. Foundation stones and bricks from the original 1860 parsonage were probably recycled into the new parsonage.

The original small, ornamented, wooden porch at the front door (Germans were known for decorative entranceways) was replaced in 1914 by the present, much larger, brick-pillared porch that wraps around the south side. Also in 1914, water usage was put onto a meter, because the frugal congregation wished to save on the flat-rate monthly fee then charged for residences. The coal furnace was converted to a gas furnace in 1954.

In 1915 the congregation put in a driveway along the north side of the parsonage and built a garage (at a cost of $131) for the newly arrived pastor, Reverend Paul Stoerker, who was the first pastor to have a car. The concrete driveway and garage served as the ceiling for the church’s bowling alley, dug out and built 1920. The bowling alley was entered through the adjacent Sunday School Building. The remnants of this structure, demolished in 1981, butt against the parsonage’s basement wall and are causing structural problems with the parsonage today.

Over the years the parsonage gained many stories to tell. During Reverend Berlekamp’s pastorate (1923–1939), 151 of the 191 weddings he performed took place in the parsonage. On one busy day, four couples were married there! During World War II, Reverend Henry Damm’s wife, Esther, and their two daughters often served as witnesses for marriages hastily arranged for servicemen home on short furloughs. While the war was being fought, the discovery of an abundance of four-leaf clovers in the backyard of the parsonage led to sending one of the lucky charms to several dozen members in military service.

In his memoirs, Reverend Damm recounts an incident during the days of racial tension in Jefferson City, around 1950, while the city was still strictly segregated. The nationally famous mezzo-soprano gospel and classical singer, Rosa Page Welch, came to Jefferson City for a musical performance. Arriving by railroad late with an entourage of six or eight people, the African Americans could not find any place that would serve them food. They needed someplace to eat and relax after their long travel, and Reverend Damm invited them to the parsonage. “So,” in the pastor’s own words, “if anybody knows my Esther, you will know that within 30 minutes she had quickly gotten together everything we had in our kitchen and had a marvelous meal for about a dozen of our black friends and there probably never has been and never will be again such a beautiful evening of classical and church music as was held in that parsonage that evening.”

The Damms’ younger daughter, Nalora, had the bedroom facing the church. As a teenager, she longed to “sleep in” on Saturday mornings. However, Carl Burkel, the musical prodigy well-known to all in Jefferson City, would begin practicing on the church’s powerful Moller organ at 6 a.m. With the facing windows of both parsonage and church wide open to let in cool morning air, Burkel’s booming chords and octaves of Bach’s D-minor Toccata shook teenager Nalora out of bed. (Nalora went on to sing on the Metropolitan Opera stage and for presidents in the White House. She is now professor emerita at the renowned Berklee College of Music in Boston.)

Every pastor’s family complained about the “roar and rumbling of the bowling alley” underneath the driveway just below the parsonage bedroom windows. Bowling could go on well into the night. And several teenage PK’s (“preacher’s kids”) later admitted leaving some marks on ceilings, walls, and woodwork.

Naturally many updates were made to the parsonage since 1898. Knob-and-tube electric wiring had to be improved and the electrical system expanded. Since the original parsonage was built without closets, they had to be constructed in the large bedrooms. Until 1948 the women of the church were responsible for redecorating and cleaning the parsonage from attic to basement twice a year. The women also raised funds for repairs and painting, interior and exterior.

When Reverend Stephen Buchholz and his wife, Becky, moved into the parsonage in 1982, the aging parsonage could no longer be considered suitable as a residence for a young family of the late twentieth century. The neighborhood had transformed into one of rental properties with attendant safety issues. And, like other ministerial families, the Buchholzes wanted to own their own home and thereby have the ability to gain equity in it for time of retirement. Fortunately, Reverend Buchholz was on the board of the Evangelical Emmaus Home for developmentally disabled people at Marthasville and saw the opportunity to convert the parsonage into an Emmaus group home. Central Emmaus Home opened in the former parsonage in 1991. It became the home for five or six developmentally disabled men and was a mission of the church. The residents participated in congregational life.

Central Emmaus Home closed around 2010, and a short while later the congregation leased the parsonage to Calvary’s Gifts, a resale shop for the benefit of Calvary Lutheran High School. But Calvary’s Gifts outgrew the parsonage’s space and moved a block away to 722 Jefferson Street in 2014. The venerable parsonage building has been vacant since, awaiting its new fate.

Sister

Before I begin my real blog post, I want to give the reasons for being absent so long

1.  I started this blog in an attempt to justify my existence when I thought my private practice was tanking.  Every time I figure its a forgone conclusion, I get a referral so I get busy

2.  I hate typing and Dragon is not as fabulous as I thought.  I'll dictate "under no circumstance"  but I will get "udder know surgum stasis" and I'll just have to fix it anyway

3.  I always think of something else (usually play a game or go shopping) that I would rather do

There are more reasons, but they sound whiney and irritating when I think of them, so I'll spare you

Here's the reason I'm back today

I missed sister day on Facebook and I wanted to make up for it.  I actually think my sister deserves better than a blurb in my status.  The relationship I have with my sister is glorious and complex and complicated and wonderful.  It, too, deserves more than a FB post.

I know I have written about my sister before so you are probably aware that she is an actor and an acting teacher.  She is also one of the most beautiful people you will ever meet in real life. She is intelligent, funny, kind, and did I say beautiful?  Sheknows how to challenge and motivate students in classes at her private studio and with her high school students. She creates and produces shows with limited budgets and resources.  In other words, she is the whole package..pretty close to perfect.

she was pretty gorgeous even as a as a baby

My very first memory ever was of my sister. I thought we were playing hide and seek, but apparently she had taken a potty break.  When I found her "hiding" on the toilet, she let me know we were no longer playing by reaching out with her foot and slamming my finger in the door, severing the tip of my middle finger and prompting a trip to the emergency room where my finger tip was sewn back on just a little crooked.  Any future dreams of becoming a hand model were thwarted. 

  

Most of my earliest memories revolve around my sister. 

I remember an Easter egg hunt when I followed her around looking exactly where she looked for hidden eggs.  She missed one or two, but needless to say her egg count was much higher than mine.  That was a pretty good harbinger of things to come.

Being in Beth's shadow was just inevitable.  Once were were going to Six Flags or some place like that and the person in the ticket booth told Beth she was the prettiest little girl she'd seen all day.  I'm sure my parents said something about both of their girls being beautiful, but the message was clear.  Beth was the pretty one.

I didn't have any animosity about her  beautifulness then  It was just so obvious to me that she deserved that title.  She had a heart-shaped pixie face, and her eyes were huge.  My hair was stick straight and my head was shaped like Charlie Brown  I had curly hair only after sitting through being given a torturous, stinky permenant by my grandma. Thankfully, I don't have any pics of that particular frizzy hair don't that probably just pointed out my perceived homeliness.   

But, being beautiful was only one thing that made Beth so intimidating and wonderful as the same time.  She was the best playmate, coming up with the most creative and imaginative games, mostly involving acting and putting on shows.  She was also my biggest defender.  Don't get me wrong, she could be as cutting and cruel as any other big sister in the world, but when someone was picking on me she would put a stop to it.  She even defended my when I was just being a brat.

We had a backyard swing set.  One day when we were playing, some neighbor kids came over and tried to use the swing.  I don't know what was bugging me but somehow, it just didn't sit well with me and a had a screaming crying tantrum to get those bewildered kids of my damn swings.  I was sitting on the swing pouting as I listened to my sister tell those kids a very made-up story of those swings being given to me by some dead aunt or something.  I don't remember the exact story, but I do remember being very impressed with her ability to come up with and deliver such a convincing lie in order to save my reputation from being the neighborhood brat.

I could go on and on ad nauseum about grade school, high school and present day squabbles and rivalries and ultimately loving and fabulous memories.  I may write more of those stories later, vut for now, I want to just tell you this about my sister.

She is better than me in every way and I begrudge her none of it.  She is more beautiful, smarted, thinner, more talented and accomplished.  But I have one thing on her.  My hair color is still natural, and she has to dye hers to cover the gray!  Thanks for being my best friend!

Yesterday was a good day.  One thing actually happened, and the other was a good discovery

I want to make oyster stew on New Year's day.  It's supposed to  be good luck, but I just want it because it's yummy. ( Milk, cream, oysters;  how could it not be good!?).  So Eli and I went to a new (to me ) grocery store that has oysters and duck (I also want to make duck l'orange.  Duck breast is one of the main reason I still eat poultry!)

I am not naming the store because I want to keep my semi-guilty feelings to myself.  If you know the store, you may feel like reporting me or something, even though I didn't do anything illegal.

The butcher shop also has seafood.  It is not self service.  The poor girl waiting on customers did not have any help which is probably why the good luck thing occurred.  Oyster stew call for 2 dozen oyster (my recipe does, anyway).  They only had un-shucked  blue point oysters at $1.29 each. Yikes! 30 bucks! Oh well, it's once a year.  First the butcher/seafood lady told me she didn't think they had any oysters even though I was looking as them in the display window. After I pointed them out, she put 24 of them in the bag and put the price on them

We also got a big old duck which was 6 pounds at 3 dollars a pound.  This was turning into an expensive experience, but, again, it'sonece a year.  We got a few other things, but couldn't find shallots.  Someone will have to make a trip to Trader Joes (that not where we were, btw)

When we went to check out, the man in front of us actually was buying shallots.  Maybe he got the last two in the store.  I wasn't really paying attention to the clerk as  he ran everything through, but when he got to the oyster, he said "This say $1.29.  That can't be right."  I said, "Yes that was the price, and I got 24."  He said, "Okay, that's what is says."  I thought he was commenting on the high cost of making oyster stew, but when he gave me the total for the entire order ,  he said "Your total is $24.75."   He had rung up the entire bag of 24 oyster as $1.29.  For 24 oysters. I paid the bill and calmly walked to the exit.  Eli started to say something about the cost being awfully low, but I told him to shut up and keep walking.

So that is why I feel guilty about my good fortune...but not guilty enough to go back and fix their mistake.  I am just thinking that this oyster stew will be the most lucky one we've ever made.  I have decided that, to ease my mild guilt, I will think of this as a flash sale of buy one oyster and get 23 free.


My good fortune continued with my discovery about some earring I already own.  A few years ago, my mom gave me a bunch of bead leftover from her bracelet making craze.  Actually, I think she was going to throw them out and I rescued them, thinking I would use them for play therapy.  But when I looked through them, I realized they were really cool and starting making my own stuff.  Because I can't keep myself from thinking I need to accumulate even more stuff than I need, stuff, I started scouring thrift stores for jewelry I could take apart and repurpose.

I was in Jefferson City visiting my parents, and found this big old vase stuffed with jewelry.  It was $30, but It was really cool and I figure it was cheaper than buying actual beads at a big box craft store.  I was right about that, but I also discovered some really good jewelry amongst the stuff to take apart.  In that first vase, I found three stretch bad rings that retail for about $7 each and a 24 K gold chain.  I was hooked!

The Goodwill near me is close enough that I could walk to it , if I could walk.  I buy a lot of stuff there.  I buy almost all my tops and sweaters there.  I've found at least 10 really nice cashmere sweaters there.  I'v also discovered the art section.  There is a lot of crap in the mix.  Bad poster, prints from target, and a few paint by number on velvet.   However, I have found tons of originals including original oils and water colors and several signed and dated lithographs.  One I saw listed at an art gallery for $300!  Quite a good return on an investment of $4.

 But now comes my good fortune from yesterday.  I have probably ended up buying about ten of those vases full of jewelry.  I actually really do use the beads and other finding in my own jewelry making.  But in a few of these thing I found silver and gold chains, sterling silver bracelets with gemstones and some very nice earring.

With many of the earrings only one of a pair has made it into the vase.  Lots of times they have a Clairs tag on them or they are just hideous  .But this one pair....

I found the first one, and immediately felt how heavy and well-made it seemed.  It was covered in some white substance that I do not care to found out what it was.  I gave it a basic cleaning.  It looked and felt like silver with a brass X on top.  I finally dug through the vase and found the second earring.  I thought they were pretty enough even with someweird substance on them  They're pretty heavy, so I took them off and put them in my pants pocket.  I then sort of forget about them until I emptied the washing machine. Ooops...

They were pretty clean after their trip to the laundry.  I could see that there was a mark inside.  It said 14K.  Now, I know that silver is marked 925, but never 14k. Maybe this had gold on silver instead of brass!

Sometimes I am able to find things on ebay that are pretty comparable to some of my finds, so I tried my luck  with the earrings,  Searching for silver and 14k hoop earrings

Guess what!  I actually found the exact earrings, and then guess what?  Someone is asking $650 for the very same pair!  Score!  I will no longer feel bad about spending $30 on a vase of "junk" jewelry!

Here are the earrings on the left along with a silver ring with fire opals and a silver and gemstone bracelet

Hello

It's been awhile.  I have been over-thinking.  I have been dithering about subjects to explore and whether I can be interesting or deep or insightful.  I have lost the essence of blogging, which, to me, is to write what is on your mind... and I have a lot on my mind,  I am political and emotional.  I am concerned about my future and whether I am doing anything that matters.  I am wondering where my life is going and how will I  manage my increasingly more annoying and debilitating MS symptoms.

So rather than trying to come up with some interesting topic for you, my small and simple blog, I am going to try to make this an actual blog and give you my current thoughts feelings and occurrences. I don't want it to be a diary because my day to day life is just not all that interesting.  

So here is what is on my mind right now

I have come to realize that I have two of the most n-sentimental men in my family.  My husband used to be at least a little enthused by things like birthdays and Christmas, but somewhere along the way he became a curmudgeon extraordinaire!  We put up a tree for Christmas, but the rest of the decorations sit in unopened storage bins.  I know what the problem is, but he won;t say it  even if he is aware.  He is the one who does the lion's share of the work.  If I do it, he gets mad because he is concerned that I will hurt myself or break something.  But if I don't do it, it doesn't get done.

My son is not much better.  We left his ornaments off the tree until he got back from school, and I had to basically beg him to hang them up on Christmas Eve.  Plus, he couldn't come up with anything he wanted as a gift, and he  s not the most gracious gift  recipient.  Where did I go wrong?!

We went to see Star Wars on Christmas day.  We saw it at the I-Max in 3D which was way cool.  Dana got miffed at me for eating popcorn.  I know the sound was annoying him, but it is annoying to me that he didn't just suck it up or eat some himself.  It is unnatural to not have popcorn at the movies!.  I really wanted to get a picture of the three of us in our 3-D glasses, but there was not even a glimmer of cooperation for this particular photo op.

So as usual, my friends and family have lovely pics of festive homes with big family dinners and general Christmas frivolity, and I got nada.  

All right.  It sounds as if I don't appreciate my family.  I do.  They are phenomenal in so very many ways, and I am no picnic for them to manage, I am sure.  Just need to vent regarding my sad little holiday celebrations.  There are more important things than Christmas decor, most of the time!

Hello again

Here's something to know about me.  When I disappear for a long while, it is because I get into a low place.  Not depression, because I still able to function and do what I need to do,  Ie,  change my self talk, distract myself, etc. I can's say that just chucking it all and leaving the planet hasn't crossed my mind, but there are just too many things to consider and by the time I do consider them all, the idea has passed.  Plus that Dorothy Parker poem plays in my head and I realize it would be too messy for the people who would have to clean it up.

For reference the poem is:  Razors pain you.  Rivers are damp.
                                           Acids stain you.  Drugs cause cramp.
                                            Guns aren't lawful.  Nooses give.
                                           Gas smells awful  Might as well live.

Here are the thoughts that put me in a low place.  "I am a burden.  I am worthless.  No one would miss me.  I am lazy and sort of dim..."  You get the picture.  The other thought that makes me feel like a big steamy dog turd is "If you were a stronger person, you could follow a diet/exercise plan, and you would have more energy, walk better, be less fatigued etc...

These last few thoughts are particularly harmful and soul sucking.   These thought are called "victim blaming" or even "victim shaming."

Here's the deal. I have and am taking supplements including iron, vitamins D and B.  I go to yoga, physical therapy, and weight training.  I do as much aerobics as I can.  My diet could be better because, even though I have not eaten red meat since I was 25, I still like the occasional chocolate bar or a Culver's concrete mixer  (in lieu of Ted Drew's or , better yet, a Junior delight from Central Dairy in Jefferson City).  Despite my best efforts, I am still a good 30 lbs. over weight, and, oh yeah I still have MS and it is slowly progressing the way MS does.

Every time someone tells me that I should try the Wahl's protocol or go gluten free, or eat Paleo, I am being told that MS is my fault.  I know it is well meaning, 100% of the time.  But, I have heard of these diets.  I have seen Terry Wahl's TED talk touting her miracle diet for curing MS and pretty much everything else that ails you.

What I have not seen, however, is empirical evidence validating that these diets will have a similar effect on everyone who tries them.  The only research I've seen regarding the Wahl's protocol is that, in a very small clinical trial, there was on overall improvement in the subjects subjective sense of fatigue.  This is a giant leap away from being a cure.

Now, I am not saying that diet does not play a huge   our health, but it is one piece in a ginormous puzzle that creates wellness.

And sometimes a disease happens because you got dealt a shitty hand.

Be aware that if I knew for sure that some particular diet would "cure" me, I would be all over it like a cheap suit, but until I hear the news from a well developed clinical trial, I am not willing to make my life more difficult and less enjoyable for the off chance hat I may experience some minor alleviation in one area.  Until, then, I will do the best I can with what I have, from where I'm at, and I will call out myself and others when they unwittingly blame me for not being cured with diet.
                                         

This is a rant

I am taking time away from my life stories because I am sorely in need of some rant time.  I have talked before about what a lovely place denial can be.  For many year's I could almost pretend that MS had a very limited role in my life.  Occasional exacerbation and some mild hearing loss were just small bumps Annoying, yes, but severely problematic? Not so much.  Then problems began to be more of an actual issue a little at a time.  MS is a progressive disease, and it certainly has progressed.

 My handwriting, never really all that legible, became undecipherable, even to myself.  (Why are ipps on my grocery list?  Oh.  Eggs...)  I used to like to go on long walks around the neighborhood.  When Eli was an infant, I must have pushed him hundreds of miles in his stroller.  Then, one day, I walked several blocks by myself, and realized that I couldn't continue without resting.  Even after a ten minute break, I was limping and unable to stand upright by the time I got home.  I still didn't need a cane, but any walking I did was significantly curtailed.

I also remember the time I tried to run.  My sister was in town, and we were playing outside with our sons.  I tried to run to catch up with them, and realized that my legs were totally unable to respond to my request to move faster.  I think I may have even fallen.  I was laughing at how funny I must have looked, but it was an unnerving moment of realization that there was another thing I would never do again,  I was about 38 years old.

So my abilities have become fewer and fewer over the course of the past 20 years.  I continue to find denial a lovely place, but I have moved into the fourth level- I know I have MS. I know I am always going to have MS.  It has a significant impact on my life, but  I don't have any feelings about it.  I pop out of denial when I am tired or frustrated or angry and do the emotional work that is part of grief.  I grieve anew every time another ability to lost or another dream dies.

I think people dealing with MS or any chronic disease has enough crap to deal with every day.  I struggle to get in and out of the car.  I struggle to type this. I watched West Side Story on tv and wept.    I remember being able to sing those songs and hit those high notes.  Age is a culprit in taking my range, but MS took the muscles of my vocal cords.  I miss being able to sing.  And, my least favorite struggle, it trying to get to the bathroom on time.

I realize the incontinence is not uncommon in MS and is or even uncommon in the general population.  I have come to terms with finding the right incontinence pads and the neurologist has prescribed medication,to curtail the worst of it.  However, I still find myself with mortifying spots and having to change clothes in order to keep away offensive smells.

So now comes the real rant.  I am taking 20 mg of something called Oxybutinin.  I am supposed to take one in the morning and one in the evening.  I have discovered that, if I take them both in the morning, I can keep leakage to a minimum and am able to be more successful in getting to the bathroom before I have a problem. However, this means that I don't have one for the night and I have to get up more frequently,which disrupts my sleep even more than it is normally disrupted.  So I asked my very competent and well educated neurologist if I could increase my dose to 30 mg.  He listened to my concern and said, that it is okay to increase that articular med by that amount,  Cool!

 I want to the drugstore to pick up the med, but it wasn't in yet. I'll have to chew out the neurologist for taking so long!  Then I got a call from his office. Unfortunately, the insurance won't pay for the higher dose.  Someone, somewhere who is NOT a doctor has decided that I don't actually need this medication at that dose.  So something so incredibly humiliating that can be held off a tiny bit with a simple mediation increase, that my DOCTOR said is okay, that would help me feel a wee bit of dignity when so much has been taken by this dumb illness, is being denied to me because the for-profit health care system doesn't want to hurt it's bottom line.   There is something truly reprehensible about that.  So I am going to box up the content of my adult diaper pail, and mail it to my insurance company.  I may keep doing that every month until someone understands that , yes, IT IS medically necessary.

Thanks for letting me get that off my chest

Moving ahead

I want to write this next blog while the zeitgeist of the nation is freshly focused on race relations and marriage equality.  I won't be talking about the latter specifically, but the supreme court just made Gay marriage the law of the land, and I wanted to give my congratulations to all my gay friends who have gained a huge victory today.  I'm so happy about that!

 But this blog is focusing on race relations.  Here is the class picture of my fifth grade year.

I am  the girl with gasses on the bottom row.  I want you to note the difference between fourth and fifth grade.  My fourth grade class was incredibly homogeneous, as white as can be.  In fifth grade, the demographic was  beginning to change,  I mentioned the the kids from the Children's home attended my grade school, and indeed I recognize at least two girls who were residents of the Home, and they are both white.  The brown faces you see where simply a reflection of the changing community.  I mention this because fifth grade was my first real experience with blatant bigotry and discrimination,  And it was perpetrated by a friend.

Just to give you some background on my understanding of race in general, I want to tell a somewhat embarrassing story.  When I was little, we had a topsy-turvy doll.  It was one of those rag dolls with a big skirt, and if you turned her upside down, she had a different head where her legs should have been.  This particular doll was a "Nannie-Nellie doll- black Mammy (I know that's not PC, but that's what it was) on one side and a little white girl on the other.  Since it was all one doll, I figured it was all one person.  I concluded that, somewhere along the line we all just turned black.  I asked my startled mom when was Grandma going to turn black.  She let me know that black people were born that way and that was the end of that particular cognitive distortion! I think that times were so segregated that the only black person I had ever seen was an elderly black man.  Thus I created that very odd delusion from my doll!

Fast forward to fifth grade.The two black girls were Tracy and Clara.  Tracy was sweet and a little quite and Clara was bold and outspoken.  While they were not part of my inner circle of friends, I always felt somewhat proprietary and protective of them.  I wanted it to be my job to make them feel part of the class.  I think they were exotic and different to me,which isn't necessarily very sensitive or flattering, but it was better then hostility displayed by some of the other kids.

I was fairly popular and a leader at Harrison school.  Teachers liked me and kids liked me so I had no problems standing up for myself.  

My teacher that  year was Mrs, Movshin, who I adored.  We was firm but fair and gave us interesting assignments.  we were reading a story about a girl who attends a progressive dinner.  Progressive dinners are parties were you move from house to house for the different courses; so appetizers at one house, then go to the next for salad etc.  While we were discussing the story, one of my friends said "We should have one of those!"  We were talking about who could do which course, and Clara said "I could do dessert!"  My friend Lori say, "you can't be in it you're an N word" only she said the whole thing.  I guess I had heard that word before, but not in my house.  I didn't think about how insulting that was  I just looked at her, put my arm around Clara's shoulder and said "She can so be in the party!"  Because I was a leader, and Lori was my friend, she just glared at me and said no more about it.  

Skipping ahead several months, my Dad took the job as the pastor of the church in Jefferson City.  I have talked about this transition in other blogs but I haven't mentioned the send-off my teacher gave me from on my last day,  I was in the middle of reading the Laura Ingalls Wilder Little house book.  I think  I had read them all except one- "Farmer boy".  As a going away gift, the class gave me a hard cover copy of that book. All of the kids signed the inside of the dust jacket.  By far, the largest signature was from Clara who added "Your friend" before her name.  

I think I may still have that book around somewhere, but the dust jacket-and signatures-is long gone. 

I always wonder what it meant to Clara that I stood up for her.  I wonder if that iis why she thought of herself as my friend .  I hope she remembers me.  I certainly remember her and, although I didn't realize it at the time, I remember the lesson of how much she had to struggle for inclusion.

School days continued

My fourth grade teacher was Mrs. Stroessner.  Or I should say she was my teacher for most of the year.  Mrs. Stroessner had a baby and moved to Jefferson city.  This was probably when I began to realize that teacher were human beings with lives outside of the classroom.  I think, other than that, fourth grade was rather uneventful.

 My mind remembers the strangest things!  I have a clear memory of finding out about Mrs. Stressner's pregnancy at the class Christmas party.  Everyone participated in the gift exchange and everyone brought a present for the teacher.  My mom, having been a teacher, understood the importance of NOT giving teachers another "worlds greatest teacher" mug. We always gave the teacher stationary, which was useful for writing thank you notes for "World's greatest teacher" mugs.

One of the presents Mrs. Stroessner received that year was a toy bunny and some other baby related items.  I think she saw this as an opportunity to announce her pregnancy.  I am sure I have collapsed the two events (moving and having a baby) into a single announcement, but whatever the timeline, I knew she was moving on and I spent he rest of the day being sad.  After school I tearfully informed my sister of loosing my teacher to pregnancy and the move.  She told me I should be happy because having a baby was a miracle.  I thought, #1. No it's not and #2.  This was a stupid unhelpful thing to say.  I kept both of those thoughts to myself, of course.

The other thing I recall from that day is really odd. Everyone at school got a Christmas gift bag with candy, pencils, and other trinkets.  One of the items was a furry ornament with googly eyes, hung with a piece of elastic.  I immediately called a Bippy,  Remember on Rowen and Martin's Laugh-in how they used to say "You bet your sweet bippy"?  I'm sure they were not referring to a hairy ornament with googly eyes.  But the thing just seemed to be a bippy to me.  The odd thing about this is that I remember Beth (my sister) showing me her pink furry ornament (mine was yellow.  Why did she always get the good color?) and saying, "Look! I got a bippy!"   I distinctly remember thinking how weird it was that we both independently call these goofy things by the same name!  So while her advice regarding how to manage my feelings was trite and contrived, we still maintained our cosmic connection.!

The teacher who took over for Mrs. Stroessner was Mr. Hulsey.  A male teacher was a curiosity to me, but I remember that he was kind and funny.  The only thing that bugged me was how he pronounce the name Phoebe.  Mrs. Stressner had been reading a book aloud to the class as a sort of time filler I think.  She would read a chapter at the end of the day, and she was about half way through when she left.  The main character's name was Phoebe, but Mr. Hulsey pronounced it
 Ph-o-be with a long O sound.  We were too polite to correct him, of course, even though I am sure I am not the only one who noticed!

So now, not only was I aware that teachers were actually real people with real lives, I also realized that they were fallible, too.  So maybe fourth grade wasn't as uneventful as I thought!

Today is Father's day
Last week we had another mass shooting racist hate crime.
I also want to stay with my journey through my teacher memories.
I actually have a way to make all three things meld here.

I left off with my move to Harrison school in 2nd grade.  My dad had taken a position as the resident director of the Evangelical Children's Home in St. Louis.  The home had originally subsidized a  small tri-level home in a residential neighborhood for our family , with plans to convert it into a neighborhood group home.  Although this was something of which I could possibly have been aware at the time,  I am pretty sure the neighbors complained about the idea of a group home being there due to the possibility of black children being place there.  I can't be entirely sure that this was the complaint, but whatever it was, it meant that the plans were scratched and that's why we moved to the big house on campus and my education got moved to Harrison School in the Normandy school district.

I tried to look up Harrison school on -line.  It is still listed, but it doesn't appear on the Normandy district website as one of it's district elementary schools, so I am not sure if it is still there.  At the time, though, it was still a mostly white working class neighborhood school.  The children's home sent most of the residents there, and although the population of the home was mixed racially, it seemed to be a mostly Caucasian group of kids at the time.

By the third grade, I had settled in with friends and teachers and felt pretty positive about things.  Living on the campus of the children's home had its challenges, but generally, at my fairly young age, I was accepted as a friend and playmate.

The school had outgrown itself a little, so my third grade class was located in a small separate building along with the Kindergarten class.  I seem to recall the it was relatively new.  It had two classroom and two restroom, but we had to go to the main building for PE and lunch.  I l0ved my teacher that year.

Mrs. Donovan was the epitome of the old fashioned school Marm.  I'm sure she had been teaching for years and she really loved the kids.

Third grade is the year we were taught cursive and multiplication tables. When we were first learning multiplication, Mrs. Donovan explained the concept and then had us each take turn guessing what the answer was staring with 1x1. We started out  strong and then, as the numbers got higher, more and ore of us faltered.  As it turned out, Mrs. Donovan asked me to run to the main building for something.In the days before intercoms, it may have been something like letting the office know who was buying lunch or who was absent. I had calculated how many people were in line to guess the next equation, and then what my number would be when I got back.  I figured out it would be 8x8 so I spent the entire trip to the office adding 8's.  Sure enough, when I returned to my seat, and my turn came, I knew that 8x8 was 64, thus impression Mrs. Donovan with my prowess at math.  I have since realized that the math part of my brain is missing, but it was ice to be good at it for a few moments.  
Third grade was my first encounter with seeing a child display separation anxiety/school refusal. I can't remember anything else about that little girl except that she was new to the school and she wailed and sobbed as soon as her mom left her side.  I remember Mrs. Donovan trying to make her feel welcome, but the little girl suddenly darted for the open window and slithered though and was gone. The interesting part for me, was that I was keenly aware of understanding her feelings...being scared of the teacher and the kids; hating new surroundings; missing her mother.  The other kids laughed at her antics, but I just remember wishing I could help her understand that it would be okay.  I had been in her position and everything would be just fine.

I know that I said I would tie  this blog into Father's day and touch on the hideous shooting.

Although third grade was uneventful,I think it was the calm before the storm that was to come to the Normandy district as more African Americans move in and race relations reached a fever pitch.

I have a lot more memories of third grade, but I think you've probably hear enough for today.  I will end by saying Happy Father's day to the man who taught me tolerance and led me into a life of service.

Here is of my Kindergarten class.  I'll dig up some more for next time

More on teachers and a lot on learning

I left off with first grade.  I started second grade at Home Heights in the Riternour School district in St. Louis.  I have zero memories of the teacher I had at that school, which is odd for me.  I think it may be due to the significance of moving to a new house and a new school when we moved onto the campus of the Children's home.

We move around Christmas time.  I know this because I remember buying something for our class gift exchange.  Those were the days before political correctness and worries about liability.  Gift exchanges were a common practice and sexism was a given.  Girls had to wear skirts or dresses even in phys ed.  Boys chased girls on the playground and it was a given that every one would fall into gender roles with ease.

Given the sex divide, politically incorrect Christmas gift exchanges were generally separated by gender.  Since  I was new to the class, my mom bought gender neutral school supplies as a gift, just in case it was a random exchange.  Turns out it wasn't,,  Girls gift and boys gifts were piled on separate tables.  We all drew a number and gifts were selected (from the appropriate tables, of course) in numerical order.  My number was high, so I had to wait while the bigger and flashier gifts left the tables first.  I was less interested in getting a good gift than I was worried about someone having to receive pencils and notebooks when they selected my gift.

The girl (naturally) who picked mine was as gracious and appreciative as a second grader could be.  She thanked my and said  that was always happy to get new supplies for school.  I'm sure she cried all the way home.  I had to choose from the last two or three small packages left on the table.  Good things often come in small packages.  I got a really cool Liddle Kiddle  (remember those?) bracelet with a tiny little doll inside a tiny little locket.  Wish  still had that.  It's probably worth a fortune on ebay!

My teacher that year was Mrs. Feeney.  I don't think I could have been more fortunate in being assigned to her class.  There was a Japanese student in her class who was also new that year.  He spoke no English when he first arrive in her classroom, but Mrs. Feeney was so excited to have him in her class, that he was able to communicate and flourished by the time I got to the class in December.  She was excited to have me there, too, although I was a lot less interesting than Kazu!

She made Kazu into an opportunity to teach us all about Japan. We learned how to sing Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer in Japanese, and made a Japanese Christmas tree from newspaper. Kazu painted our names in Japanese figures for each of us (very inaccurate translation, I'm sure).  We always sung Happy Birthday to each child in Japanese and had Japanese bean cakes for snacks.

I don't remember if Kazu stayed at that school for more than just that year (or even for more than that semester), but Mrs. Feeney made his stay in her class something significant and wonderful for him and for everyone in the class.

Thanks, Mrs Feeney, for making my own transition to a new school, a welcoming , nurturing magical experience.

Teachers

Thanks to my mom, who meticulously filled out my baby book and my school year journal, I jnow exactly who all of my teachers were throughout elementary school!

I was not so thoughtful.  I shoved items of interest between blank pages with every intention of going back to fill out each entry for each year.  I could have answered each question;  Who was my teacher? Who were my friends?  What did I like to eat for lunch, or What was my favorite subject?  Now that my son is a sophomore in college, it sees to be a missed opportunity.  Not that I think he will be all that disappointed anyway.  Considering how sentimental I am, I managed to raise a wildly pragmatic kid.  I blame his father.

I do have memories of my various teachers.  Accuracy is not guaranteed, but the memories are there.  I did not attend preschool except for the occasional stays at the daycare at the YWCA (I think it was the Y, anyway.  Remember accuracy is debatable here), so I did not have a consistent teacher until Kindergarten.  My Kindergarten teacher was Mrs. Freeman who I remember as a heavy set lady who was  little scary to me.  I'm sure she was perfectly lovely, but this was my first foray into academia and it was scary in general.

I had to ride the bus, and in the days when children weren't taught to read until first grade, we relied on strips of color coded construction paper to get us to the right bus after school.  I recall some man asking me where I lived in order to verify that our colored strips were accurate.  My strip was green, and my mom had drilled into my head that I was to get on the green bus.  When I dutifully gave the man my address, he took my green strip and said something vaguely disparaging about my mother being mistaken about which bus I should take to get home.  .  I think he gave me different colored strip of paper, but I still boarded the green bus.  I never doubted that my mom was correct, and sure enough I made it back to the stop in front of our little ranch house.  My mom must have seen the incorrect color strip, because I told her the story and what the man had said.  I recall, her expression and understood that my mom was none too pleased with the backhanded insult to her intelligence. I, however, never once doubted that my mom was way smarter than some random color strip checker!

After Kindergarten, who moved to St. Louis requiring a transfer to a new school.  My teacher was Mrs. Burney.   I have a clear memory of looking at a page of a Humpty Dumpty magazine as my om read it to me.  I thought "How on earth do you get words out of those strange squiggles?"  I'm sure I knew the alphabet, but did not translate that those squiggles were letters..  (Just as a brief digression; I love Humpty Dumpty magazine.  I was very excited every time it came.  One arrive on the same day that my mother returned from the hosital with my new infant brother.  When my sister got home from school that day, I ran to greet her saying "We got a new Humpty Dumpty magazine...and Mom came home from the hospital.  I am going to sick to the idea that I was saving the best news for last...)

Mrs. Burney taught me to read.  I finally was able to decipher those squiggles.  I think I graduated from picture books to chapter books very quickly after that and have enjoyed words very much since then.   Thanks Mrs. Burney!

I want to scan some pictures from that time, but it will have to wait till I figure out how to set up my new scanner.  Pics will come next time

Cheers  to teachers and...moms

It's Mothers day, so I must do a shout out to my mom and all the phenomenal mom's I know and those I don't.  One day a year to celebrate Motherhood, is way too little.

But I wanted to write about teacher.  Actually, I have never taken a class with three of my all time favorite teachers, although I have definitely learned the most from them.  There are my mom, my sister and my brother.

 My mom was an English teacher.  I thank her for making me somewhat of a grammar geek/snob.  I also credit her for my love of books and reading.  Did you know that parents owning books-more than being read to or being provided with their own books- is highly correlated to their kids becoming readers and book lovers themselves.  We always had books around, and memories of my mom frequently include seeing her with a book.

I take back that I never had her as an actual teacher because I am pretty sure she was a substitute in one or two of my classes.  Although she knew how to teach, her real strength as a substitute was being able to manage unruly kids.  Once she was warned that the class she was subbing for had locked a previous sub in a closet.  Her first words to the class were "I heard you locked your teacher in the closet yesterday.  There will be none of that happening today.  "  I am sure that she struck terror into the most harden delinquent in the class!

Another teaching gig that I know she aced, was being a Sunday school teacher.  This easily could have become repetitive and boring, and I am sure that quite a few Sunday school teacher see an opportunity to preach dogma to bored teenager, or complete Biblically based worksheet with rowdy 10 year olds.  But my mom really liked teenagers.  She liked challenging them to think about their belief and memes in new ways.  She liked lively discussions and sometimes, even got into trouble for bringing up controversial topics or using edgy materials.  Maybe it seems as if teaching Sunday School is a not real teaching, but I guarantee that she changed more minds and influence actions just as much as anybody teaching algebra in a High School.

My brother is a High School Band teacher.  He and his wife, who is in charge of the drum line and color guard, have taken the band program in their small town, into the national spotlight with their amazing marching shows,  Here is a link to one of their brilliant performances

https://youtu.be/uDMnAWdVlEo

Even though his prowess as a teacher and his ability to visualize and create amazing  performances is a strong suit, he is even more amazing at how he interacts with students.  Just as my mom made kids be respectful and made them think, Paul holds his kids to high standard,  He believes in them and motivates them to be their best selves.  He never questions their ability or willingness to make things happen.  I have seen him in action.  He is stern and demanding without ever losing his respect or love for those kids.  and they respect and love him right back.

My sister never really wanted to be a teacher.  She is an actor from birth and by training.  When we were kids, she and I used to put on shows for our mom and dad and anyone else who may have been around.  Most of our show consisted of lip syncing to sound track albums from Disney movies.  I always thought it was so nice of Beth to let me be the lead character.  In days long before  every girl wanted to be one of the Disney Princesses, I was being Aurora and Snow White and Cinderella and Alice in Wonderland.  Poor Beth was relegated to being all the other characters.  What I didn't realize at the time, was that , by making me be the one note hapless heroines, she got to dance around as Cinderella"s animal friends, cast spells as  the fairy godmother, drink tea with the mad hatter, look into the magic mirror as Snow White's step-mother, and the turn around and be the magic mirror itself!  She was a pint-sized one woman  show!

After years of being a working actor, she succumbed to her desire to have a steady paycheck and took a teaching position at a performing arts high school in New Jersey.  Just as my mom and brother have inspired and shaped their students, my sister is creating a classroom full of thoughtful and sensitive aspiring actors.  While many of them do go on to use their skills in the field, she is really giving them the tools they need to be thoughtful and expansive human beings, by challenging their believe about themselves and the world.  Here is a like to a video of her students, nominating her for a Tony award to acting teachers.

https://youtu.be/bp0Cfi10O8g

 By the way, my very busy sister also operates her own outstanding school for actors.  Here isa link to her school's website  www.njactors.org

I am fortunate to have these amazing teachers in my life.  I do feel a tiny bit inadequate to two such decorated and well-loved teachers.  Teachers and actors love to give out awards for excellence.  Therapists aren't even able to tell anybody about any of their work, let alone make a video of their best sessions!  I'm definitely in the wrong feild if I'm looking for accolades, butthe rel unsung heroes are Moms who could never be singled out as Mother of the Year, because they are all the best mom's in the world.!

Here's to my own best mom!  I love you!

I'm back again.  I tend to come and go so frequently!

I have figured out something about myself.  I get busy.  I get behind.  I feel guilty for not keeping up,  I procrastinate.  I give myself a hard time.  I procrastinate more.  And then I figure I shouldn't be focusing on frivolous things until I get my "real work" done.  This does  not stop me from playing word games until my head explodes,or reading drivel or watching my very important TV shows.  It just keeps me from being productive in other meaningful ways.

Here is what I have been up to,in the meantime.

On the MS front:  I have "graduated" to using a walker.  My neurologist wrote me the order for it and said "You're gonna kill me, but I think it's time"  So I got one, and , what do you know...I actually get around a lot better and can last a lot longer-which is very important when you are shopping.  The next time I the neurologist , I had the walker.  I said, "I think I get around a lot better with this thing."  He responded,"God, yes!"  Not just yes or even "I think so, too," but, "God, yes!" Somehow, that was just a little disconcerting...

Amazingly, my practice has been picking up a little.  That's part of the reason I have gotten behind on paperwork.  I hate paperwork.

In order to not feel like a complete slug, I spend a great deal of tie taking open coursework classes.  I am currently taking "The Neuro-biology of Everyday Life"  through the University of Chicago.  Originally I was trying to take it more seriously; trying to pass exams and doing course projects etc and then I realized the reason I never followed through with getting a doctorate degree.  I hate that stuff!  I only want to absorb the interesting stuff.  (Just as an aside, I really did debate going back to school for a few minutes.  I even took the Miller Analogy Test and scored n the 98th percentile nationwide-I am a good test taker).  Since I hate studying and completing paperwork, but love actually learning new stuff, open coursework is the best thing.. It even beats going to seminars and conferences because it's free!  Plus I don't have to wear shoes.


Learning stuff makes me feel as if I am accomplishing something, even though I'm really not.   I watch a lot of TED talks for that very same reason.  So I'm knowledgeable, but being so doesn't really help me accomplish much.  Although, maybe that's why I aced the MAT.

So now that I feel as if I got that off my chest, maybe I can get back to the story of becoming me.

It's teacher appreciation week, so I think I will focus on amazing teachers I have had or that I know.  Watch for it!