The Root

Today is World Teachers' Day.  The fact that A) I didn't know this, and I'm a teacher and 2) it's on a Saturday is so frustratingly appropriate that I can only shrug and laugh.  I only found out because one of my other favorite writers/teachers wrote a great piece about his 3rd grade teacher.  It's great, and you should go read it here.

It reminded me of a conversation I had with one of my fellow teachers not too long ago.  We'd been discussing her son's 4th grade teacher, and I couldn't help but remember my own.  Most of my elementary school career, I'd managed to fly under the radar.  I suspect that teachers knew I was smart and they liked me because I followed rules and kept quiet, but I don't have much of a sense of who I was as a child then.  Those memories are lost on me.

And then I landed in Bonnie Gooch's class.

I can remember so much about Mrs. Gooch's class.  I could probably even draw it out on paper if I had too.  She had the warmest smile, softest hands, and kindest voice I'd ever known.  She was also the tallest woman I think I had ever met, and I found it abnormally fascinating that someone so physically imposing could be so gentle.  Mrs. Gooch always read aloud to us in the afternoons, and there are certain books that when I hear them, I am transported back, head on my desk, warmed by the afternoon sun, soothed by her voice.  Mrs. Gooch taught me about dividing fractions, basketball rebounds, and compound sentences.  I think of her every time I teach my students about comma placement.

I think this was also the year we studied the plant cycle, growing beans in a cup.  I can remember my excitement at the green shoot, sprouting, spreading its roots throughout the soil I'd transplanted it to.  It was the first (and one of the only) things I've ever managed to grow.  It didn't last long as I hadn't realized that it would need room to grow and spread, that its roots needed more to anchor in and feed from.

More than just what she taught me, however, was the way she taught me to carry myself.  I was painfully shy and unconfident as a child, always struggling to please those around me.  I happened to be in a grade full of remarkably athletic boys and beautiful girls, and I struggled even just to stay near the middle.  When there are only 33 people in your grade, believe me, the middle does not contain a very wide margin for error.

If my earlier teachers had noticed any talent of mine, they never told me, and I had spent 4 years in school believing I had none.  Mrs. Gooch not only noticed, she made sure I knew.  She was a passionate competitor, and she encouraged this spirit in me as well.  She recruited me for her UIL Picture Memory team, an event which required the study of 40 paintings, their artists, countries of origin, and some critique.  I had never been exposed to such beautiful artwork (even in just print), and I marveled at how Mrs. Gooch could pronounce such difficult names and know so many things about places outside our small town city limits.  I was 21 when I visited the Kimbell Museum here in Fort Worth for the Renoir exhibit.  It was hot and crowded, but when I found myself nose to nose with a real-life Renoir, it was worth it.  I got yelled at by a security guard for being too close, but I didn't care.  When in my life would I be able to be so close to such history -- both that of the artist and my own?

Mrs. Gooch was also the first person to notice my love of writing.  She challenged me to be on her Ready Writing team.  It was difficult because I had grown up feeling like a child with no voice, with nothing of particular interest to say.  I couldn't imagine why she would tell me that she needed me, but she did.  We worked both in school and after, this little team of writers, racing the clock with only a pencil and our brains to arm us.  I do not remember even one word that I put to paper that year, but the feel of it was exhilarating.  I was only the alternate in that event, but it began my obsession with words.  It began my journey as both a writer and writing teacher.  It began my path to finding my own voice and then having the courage to use it.  For that alone, I'll be forever grateful.  It is a gift she had no idea she was giving.

I have been blessed by a lifetime of incredible educators, from elementary school all the way through college, and I continue to surround myself with some of the best in our field.  From each of them, I have taken nourishment and knowledge; each of them has a special place within my soul.  Other teachers along the way have nurtured what she planted, but Mrs. Gooch was the root.

Thank you for giving me room to grow.

No Rain, No Rainbows

There is the saying that there are no rainbows without a little rain.

Yesterday, that was so very true.  It was a difficult start to the day, and I found myself deluged by some incredibly confusing and shameful feelings.

But then the rainbows arrived.

Remember my two new nephews?  They live in Oklahoma and due to foster parent restrictions, it was difficult for my brother and his new family to visit Texas until adoptions were finalized.  And it's extremely difficult for my parents to travel the 4 hours to visit them.  

So yesterday, at 9:15 AM, my parents -- napping in their chairs -- awoke to a surprise visit from two of their grandchildren.  They'd only met Isaiah once, at his 1st birthday, and they had yet to meet 9 month-old Jaxson.  It was love at first (slightly confusing and dream-like) sight.

My mother, the Non-Crier, immediately burst into tears.  My dad, the Crier, was too excited to cry.  Me?  I'd already cried twice that morning, so there was absolutely no escape for me.  If you know me well, you knew this answer already.

It wasn't a long visit, but it was a good one -- a needed visit.  But it's 11:00 now, and I've just gotten home.  So I'll just leave you with some cute pictures.  That's all anyone wants anyway.

Jaxson meets Grampa for the first time. Bald is beautiful, people.

Isaiah and Grampa.  It's hard to catch a picture of Za.  That kid's always on the move.

Meemaw and Jaxson.  They were kinda in love.

See?  Told you.

Za at the domino table.  This is how I started my domino career --
building random domino sculptures with my grandmother, Henrietta.

When you leave home at 5:30 AM for a surprise visit, nap time comes soon.

The picture of relaxation.

Isaiah riding on my mom's walker.
The family cat also rides around the house on my mom's walker, so apparently, it's just the thing to do.
I took this picture specifically for you, Courtney Mullaney.

And if you read Wednesday and yesterday, and you still came back today... thank you.  Thank you for your kind words.  For your support.  For understanding and for validating.  For not making me feel ashamed to feel ugly and awful and alone.

You probably didn't know it, but while these guys were the rainbow, y'all were the ones holding the umbrellas.  I love you.

Not Quite Peace in the Middle East... But It's a Start.

 

     

The Champion



The Challenger














These are the two main sparring partners in what I've dubbed "The Feline Integration Act of 2011".  It's been almost 2 months now, and while there is occasional spitting and hissing still, for the most part, this is the stance we've achieved:

Complete and total ignorance of one another.

This is the favored chair of the Alpha Cat.  She is old and crotchety and generally the head of the house.  Nearest the window.  Blinds raised.  This is HER spot.

 

She does not look crotchety whilst sleeping.  Don't be fooled though.

The Challenger, however, realized a few days ago that this chair is one effing awesome chair.  It's generally warm and sunny, and it provides a comfortable spot to loll about lazily because humans typically avoid it.

The definition of "lolling."  And of "hefty".

So, it's been game on.  And I've allowed the battles because, in the end, there's only one chair.  It's an important chair to several parties.  Both feel they have a right to the chair.  And there's no reasoning with either cat.  Mainly because they're cats but also because they're both stubborn and angry. 

Angry does not equal "time to listen thoughtfully and considerately".  Ever.

This morning, however, a tenuous truce was reached.  With backs turned to one another, in order to avoid direct eye contact, each cat chose a comfortable corner and spent a good two hours napping.  Only inches apart.  Without anyone losing an ear or subjecting me to an hour long mewling and growling spat.



"If I can't see you, you're not there."

 Attention Planet Earth:  if two mean-ass fat felines can figure this out, what the heck is your excuse?

Hometown Heartache

There are only a few times where I really miss my childhood. For the most part, it was a painful and awkward and intimidating time of my life.

But the Fourth of July makes me ache.

There's nothing like the Fourth of July in a small town. The smell of a hundred different barbecues wafting through the air. The turtle race. The celebration on the courthouse square, with its face painting and balloon animals and cotton candy creations. The pucker of a sour pickle sno-cone. The crack of a bat at the little league park. The floats made of newspaper and crepe streamers and 7th grade dreams. The squeal of a child as he scrambles for the sticks of Juicy Fruit gum thrown from the parade route. The rodeo, with its tight jeans and giant buckles and Stetson hats and red cups of beer. And the rodeo dance. Oh, the rodeo dance. Where everyone's parents are permitted to live like teenagers for just that night only. The cool of the lake water splashing against your feet as you watch the fireworks overhead.

I miss you hometown. Today, the big city has nothing on you.