Laura's Star

Sometimes hope begins with a distant light...

Laura’s Star, beginning December 21^st and ending Christmas morning, is a work of fiction based on a true story. 

Apples and Icons

I am tired.  I am physically exhausted, yes.  I believe the technical, physiological term for what I am experiencing would be “pooped.”  I am also tired of being in that 1936-era school building.  I mean I am SICK of it.  Of the last 48 hours, I have spent nearly 26 of them in that building.  The superintendent said I should consider renting an apartment near the school and/or set up a bed on-premises. I’m leaning towards silver Airstream parked on the playground.

Here’s the answer to the question you are asking me via telepathy.  (Yes, I can hear your brain asking me if I have lost mine…) The reason I have spent so much time at school in the last two days beyond my usual hours of teaching, is because I also served a turn as a teacher representative at the school board meeting Monday night.  The meeting doesn’t even begin until eight.  I stayed after school, instead of going home, to prepare for my trip on Thursday (more on that in a New York minute).  By the time the meeting had adjourned and I had doodled on every scrap of paper within my reach, it was 9:30. 

Yesterday I stayed late in order to prepare for my substitute teacher that will be filling in for me for the latter part of this week.  What a pain in the butt it is to get things ready for the sub!  It is much like hiring a maid and then cleaning the house before she arrives.  And it does not help that my sub is the teacher that filled this very room with her presence for thirty-nine years.  She is as much an iconic part of this school and community as is the town “hall” where countless celebrations have been held commemorating weddings, anniversaries, graduations, and any other gathering that has been held and needed spaciousness.  It also doubles as the town movie theater, complete with church pew benches for seating.

OK!  You drug it out of me.  I am intimidated by her legend.  She taught multiple generations to read, write, and do ‘rithmatic.  She IS the face of first grade around here.  So when she steps into my borderline cluttered, endearingly chaotic classroom, I have visions of her clucking her tongue and thinking,”Uffda! (a Norwegian utterance), I should have never retired.”

But she did, and the school board was fool enough to hire a middle-aged, quasi-hippie to replace her, so I will just have to hold my head high and risk her stringent evaluation.  You understand my stress at preparing for her arrival though, I hope.  She knows her stuff.  I do not yet.  Oh, I think I know as much as the average brand-spankin’ new teacher, but the proof is in the puddin,’ as they say.  Only time will prove whether or not I am a truly effective instructor.

I want her to walk in tomorrow and find neat, organized stacks of curriculum manuals, activity sheets, and art supplies for the paper bag reindeer and tongue depressor Santas.  That is my fantasy anyway.  I suspect today’s busy schedule will leave me walking out the door at the end of this day saying to myself, “She’ll figure it out…”

So where am I going, you ask?? (I am so glad you asked…)

My hubbie and I are climbing on board a plane tomorrow morning and heading east to take a bite out of the Big Apple (sort of ironic for a teacher to be headed to an apple).  We have dreamed about and discussed spending time in New York City at Christmas time for several years.  We made tentative plans to do so last year to celebrate my finishing my degree.  But then I had a few courses to finish up over Christmas break, I got hired (yay!), and it just was not feasible to run away when so much stress hung heavy on my shoulders.

Mr. Dahl brought it up again this fall.  Race ‘ya!  And so we began planning, scheming, and buying tickets online.  Our itinerary is jam-packed.  Phantom of the Opera one night.  Radio City Music Hall another.  Then there are all the iconic NYC experiences that will somehow find their way into our overloaded schedule.  Ellis Island, Empire State building, Metropolitan Museum of Art, hot dogs off on of those shiny carts, and on and on.  We are STOKED. 

But before I settle into my plane seat, pull out my paperback and finally draw a deep, cleansing breath, I have papers to grade and art projects to finish, and a perfectly perfect retired teacher to get ready for. 

I am ready for a break.  But resting will have to wait another day.

Right now I need coffee and in internal pep talk.

(Serenity now….)

You Should Have Finished Serving Your Sentence, Chicken On Sale

I found him today.  I should say, my daughter found him.  Hannah was waiting for her turn at piano lessons (the piano teacher comes right to the school and charges a whopping $4 a lesson).  She didn’t feel like tackling biology, so I put her to work in my classroom.  She got down to business pulling plastic tubs out from under the shelving and fishing out the most amazing plunder.  Lost pencils, folders, erasers, markers, and a plethora of other unclaimed items. 

She suddenly stood up.  “It’s a frog,” she declares, as if she and I had been discussing amphibians and their habitats.  “Eww.  It’s a frog,” she states again, as if I am hard of hearing (my kids keep asking me if I want a walk-in shower for Christmas, so it is true that they think I have one foot in the grave).

I walk over to where she was and stooped down to take a gander with my old lady, rheumy eyes.  Sure enough, lying in state was a very shriveled froggy, on his back as if he had been laid out in a casket for viewing.  His little legs were stretched out perfectly.  He was very, very thin. 

Chicken On Sale never made it past “the yard.”  What you were thinking, you green fugitive, you??  Crime never pays… you surely knew that!  You should have done your time, eaten the delicious reptile pellets we served you daily, and put up with sixteen eyeballs staring at you all day, tapping on the side of your pretzel jar habitat, shouting at you to “WAKE UP!’…. oh, never mind.  You are probably better off now.

Well, anyway, mystery solved.  He must have tunneled to freedom when the kids added fresh vegetation that fateful morning. 

It’s a wonder he didn’t stink to high heavens.  He’s been gone for weeks. 

We now have eight very cool Walking Stick insects in our possession, so we did not mourn for long, but forgotten he is not.  His name comes up often and as each of my eight first graders chose a name for one of the Walking Sticks, Chicken On Sale was a very popular name.  We settled for names such as Chicken Junior and Chicken On Sale Redux. 

His memory lives on...

Beginning December 21st… Laura’s Star

Coming the Week of Christmas... A Story of Hope

Porcelain Children

My mother gave me many gifts as I was growing up.  No, not material things; there was very little money for that in our household.  But rather, lasting gifts that have helped shape and mold me into the person I have become. 

She gave me the love of reading, for example.  The fun of diving into a really good book and getting lost for ten minutes or two hours has been a lifelong joy.  She also instilled within me the marvelous ability to laugh at myself and not only share in a joke at my expense, but be the first to share it with others.  It was a pretty amazing skill to possess when I was an awkward teenager.

She also taught me that material possessions are transient and that I should hold onto them loosely.  Those beautiful things that I treasure, collect, and admire are only within my possession until I am victim of a devastating fire, a robbery, financial ruin, or any other potential life loss.  I witnessed her many times give away a dish or a piece of furniture or anything else that she thought someone else might enjoy.  She knew she was merely a custodian of those things, not life owner. 

The phrase that rings in my memory is one that I heard many times throughout my childhood.  Whenever I would drop a dish or glass and stand watching in horror as it shattered at my feet (and it happened often, for I was a clumsy child), she would simply say, “It’s OK, honey, that dish is not more important than you are.  It’s just a dish.  It can be replaced.  You cannot.”  In hindsight, I do not ever remember her actually replacing any of the countless things broken by my hand.  I suppose the funds were never quite there with four children to care for. 

But she never complained and never, ever flung my clumsy deeds into my face at a later date when her frustrations were surely boiling over with yet one less dish, or glass, or vase in the cupboard (I was very clumsy).  Oh, she would occasionally try to reconstruct a china teacup or porcelain plate with the ever-handy Super Glue, but they never look quite the same, do they?  Even if the edges go neatly back together, you always have that dark line where the new seam is.  It somehow takes away from the perfect beauty it had once held.

I mention my butter-finger past because that is the image that invades my mind when I consider my students locked in a custody battle.  They have a mother and they have a father, but they no longer have a mother and father.  It is now he and she, or rather he against she or she against he.  Usually it is he and she against each other.

I have a sweet six-year-old who is turning seven tomorrow.  He is PUMPED.  He has mentioned his birthday thirteen times a day for a month.  He knows our classroom traditions and has made sure they will be in place for his big day.  I absolutely adore the unashamed demanding of specialty status that children expect on their birthday.  For one day a year, they are the sole center of attention.  They will not be denied their very brief moment of glory.  They should not have to be denied it.  The celebration of Life is something to be revered.

My husband, who is Logic itself, has said countless times, “It’s just another day of the year.”  I’m sorry, dearie, it is not just another day.  Life is precious and finding a reason to recognize that fact is nearly holy, I feel.  I love birthdays.  You have my permission to lavish adoration on me when mine rolls around.

Here is where things have gotten sticky for Mr. Birthday.  Things are a mess between mom and dad.  I will not lay out details here, for they are irrelevant, and frankly, none of your business.  I will suffice it to say that I only hope my Birthday Boy has a great day tomorrow.  It could be a day of disappointment or trauma for him.  I really hope it is the day of his dreams. 

So for all the divorced parents out there locked in a custody nightmare, I have just a few things I would like to address as a teacher. 

First of all, I have not walked in your shoes, therefore I do not judge you.  I cannot pretend to know how you feel or what frustrations you face everyday.  I DO know that you love your child.  I have no doubt about that.  I am sorry for your heartache, fears, and frustrations.  I cannot imagine not getting to see my children each and every day.  I simply cannot imagine it…

That said, here is my list of things I would like for you to consider as you walk this rocky path:

1.     Remember that each child is “hard-wired” to love both their mother and their father.  No matter how awful you feel your ex is, your child merely wants the love and unconditional acceptance of both of you.  He or she cannot help it, anymore than they can help the need to take a breath every few seconds. 

2.     Please, please (please!) do not share your frustrations over your ex with your children.  It will do zero good for you, them, or anyone else.  Your child is not equipped to emotionally handle your baggage.  It will only leave your child stressed and fearful.

3.     Try to find something good about your ex to recognize.  If you cannot find even one small positive trait, then at least don’t disparage the other.  Your child will feel the need to defend that parent, and that is not their job.  Their job is to navigate the choppy waters of youth secure in the love of both of their parents.

4.     Please work together for special days (holidays, birthdays, etc.) in order to create those golden memories that every child deserves.  Sometimes it just ISN’T about you or your need to “win.” Let peace reign for a while.

5.     Don’t rob them of their childhood.  Let them be kids and not miniature adults.  Leave the fretting, anger, and manipulating to the adults.  A teacher should not ever have to hear a child tearfully confess that they feel unsafe or are afraid that custody will go one way or another.  Time with each parent should be joyful, anticipated, and a safe harbor.

This issue is hard for me, people.  Children are so incredibly precious.  Given the proper conditions and environment for thriving, they will flourish and rise to their very best potential.  You know me well enough by now to know that I will always advocate for the child.  The happiness and welfare of adults is of less importance to me.

I see these children with broken hearts much as I viewed the broken pieces of porcelain that used to lie at my feet when I myself was a child.  There are no “do-overs.”  When once their spirits are crushed and their hearts in shambles, all the Super Glue of the world won’t make things as they once were.  I am not judging.  I am merely making a teacher’s observation.   There are no easy answers or quick fixes to the complex issues that wrap tentacles around broken trust or lives betrayed. 

But the children….

The precious, sad children…

To the children I say, “Nothing is more important than you.  You are irreplaceable.  And if and when your parents get things figured out, or if they never do, just know that you have never, at any time, been unloved.  Be brave, be strong, and most of all, be a kid.”

To my Mother, thanks for making me feel irreplaceable and loved.

In a perfect world, every other parent would do the same…

A Tale of Two Christmases

Guess what I did last week?  No, I mean it… guess.  Yeah, how did you know?  I decorated my house for Christmas.  So what? (you might be thinking), so did the rest of America.  Yes, but you don’t understand.  You see, this year I WANTED to decorate.  Couldn’t wait.  Looked forward to it all day.  I felt EXCITED to haul those 34 tubs of glittery plunder into the house and empty them with abandon.

Let me back up a bit.  You need to understand how momentous this is for me.  OK, technically, I decorate my rambling farm house every year for Christmas.   I get a little nuts, truth be told.  I put up two Christmas trees, one for each floor, and several small trees as well.  I have a tiny feather tree (an old Victorian throw-back) that I just love.  Then there are the vintage linens, anything that glitters, and electric candles in every window of my house, 47 in all.  I love Christmas.  I love Christmas decorations, and I am madly in love with strings of tiny white bulbs. 

But the last two years, well…. my Christmas Spirit took a bit of a hiatus. 

Here’s the deal with going back to college in the middle of your life.  You have to find a way to squeeze school into the busyness of the rest of your life.  Remember when you were in college? (I’m talking to you normal people that pursued degrees in their late teens and early twenties).  We thought we were SO stressed and busy and overworked.  I mean, we actually had to curtail our social lives so that we could write those stupid papers and study for tests.  It was so bloomin’ demanding!  Yes, I certainly am making fun of that stage of life.  I can because that used to be me whining and feeling persecuted. 

If I could have gazed into the future and witnessed myself as an adult learner, I would have shut my fat mouth and counted my blessings.  Schooling in my 40’s was way (way) harder.  It is true that my children were independent, but having older children just means you become a full-time taxi driver.  It got better when my older children could drive and help shuttle younger siblings around, but when all the licensed drivers leave home, you have to slap the meter back on the dash and get reacquainted with the road. 

So in the fall of ’09 when I started my education coursework, I was also a full-time paraprofessional in our local public school.  I wanted to keep my foot in the door, in case a teaching job opened up, so I kept my job while going to school full-time.  The school was so incredibly gracious about my schedule and gave me as much leeway as I needed to make it all work (God bless superintendent Webster!), but I am here to tell you that I have NEVER, ever (ever!) been so busy in all my life.  It was zany wackiness from Day One.

Here’s a sample day from that era:

Travel 30 miles in order to be on time for my 8 am class.

Class over at 8:50 – get in the car and travel the 45 miles to my job.

Work half a day, get back in the car and travel back to the campus for a mid-afternoon class.

Hang around in town because I also had night classes.  I usually went to the public library and tried to knock out some heavy studying.  This would generally require massive amounts of strong coffee.

Go to class from 6-9 pm (more strong coffee consumed).

Travel 30 miles back home (shivering on some of those -30 degree nights).

Fall into bed and sleep for a few precious hours before getting up and doing it again the next day.

It was nuts.  And I loved it (mostly). 

In the middle of all that blur of school and work, I was still a mom and a wife.  Not a very good one, mind you.  But I think everyone understood that this was MY time.  I had waited so long.  They would indulge me some of my trespasses.

So when Christmas rolled around that first year, I was not even close to being in the mood to do anything remotely holiday-related.  But I did, because that’s what mom’s do.  We do even when we don’t feel like doing.  I did decorate, I did bake, I did shop.  I did not send out a Christmas letter.  That would have to slide.

The next Christmas (2010), was even worse.  I was wrapping up student teaching, PLUS a graduate level, 3 credit course, PLUS two independent studies courses, PLUS an undergraduate course that my advisor had forgotten I needed.  She called two weeks into my student teaching and lobbed the grenade into my camp.  She was so very sorry to add to my stress, but you see, My Dear, you absolutely MUST have this class in order to graduate.  We will make a few allowances.  I’m so very sorry. 

I hung up the phone that day and cried; big crocodile tears that wouldn’t stop.  I was so TIRED.  Tired and stressed.  That was a very bad day. 

The entire semester was intense and exhausting, so when my traditional Christmas decorating day rolled around (the Friday after Thanksgiving), I could not have cared less about decorating.  My oldest son, Trevor, was a bit alarmed.  He just stared at me.  “Mom, you have to at least put up a tree!”  I crossed my arms and harrumphed.  Why?  He was edging nearer to the phone to place a discreet call to the nice people with the white jacket and sleeves that fasten in the back.  His mother had lost it.  He began pulling boxes and storage totes down from their dusty shelves and placing them in front of me in order to spark SOMETHING.  It just made me grumpier.  I didn’t have time for any of this!!  I had projects and studying and hair-pulling to do.  Leave me alone, people!  You’ll survive without the usual trappings for one year!  (Oh, it was baaaad).

Some part of my sane brain that was still functioning, knew he was right, and that even though my kids are mostly adults, they still needed the comfort of traditions kept.  And so, very begrudgingly, I started pulling glittery ornaments and white angels, and miles and miles of white Christmas lights out of boxes and half-heartedly setting them here and there.  Christmas music helped (a little).  As the house began to take on its familiar glow and twinkle of Christmas magic, I began to feel that familiar tug in my heart and began to be filled with the warmth that is unique to this time of year.  Trevor got his way and I was glad.

That was last year.

This year it was GAME ON.  I was ready.  I was excited.  I was my old, merry self.  Hannah and I pulled everything into the downstairs living room and began to unpack and set our favorite things into place.  I added even more miles of lights and more glittery ornaments.  I cranked the Christmas tunes and belted out every one at the top of my voice. 

But I think it went beyond my usual love of all-things-Christmas.  It was feeling free to enjoy it all without that incredible cloud that had hung over me for two years.  I am not complaining, mind you.  I willingly signed up for all of it.  I knew it would be hard.  I also knew I would reach my goals, and I DID. 

I think that is part of my exuberant joy this year.  I am proud of myself.  It is probably unforgivably gauche to say so in a public format.  I do not care.  I took on a challenge and conquered it.  Yay, Vonda! 

And to top it all off?  My sweet husband is taking me to New York City for a few day to experience The Big Apple at Christmas time.  Woohoo!  Broadway and ice skating at Rockefeller Center and the Metropolitan Museum of Art and all the amazing things that I’ve always wanted to do.  It is a delayed celebration of my hard work.  It will be the frosting on the fruit cake. No, no, I don’t even like fruit cake (who does?).  Let’s make it chocolate cake.  Ooohhh, even better… French Silk pie.  Yeah, NYC trip will the frosting on the French Silk pie (hey, it’s the holidays…)

So this year, when my sons finish their finals and get in their cars and head north to a rambling farm house on the prairie with enough lights to guide in small aircraft, I will listen to their tales of miserable end-of-semester woes and irrational professors, and I will nod sympathetically.  Yes, it is hard and stressful to be in school.  And I will smile, because I will know I have blazed a trail for them.  They will conquer and succeed. 

I did….