Eulogy for Some Khaki Shorts

I read once that newspapers have ongoing obituaries for celebrities and other famous people. They're called "advances", and by compiling them first and adding onto them as years go by, the writers can build and fact-check ahead of time so that when a celebrity dies, the newspaper can add in a few last facts and release it within hours or even moments of the announcement.

As a person who rarely plans in advance for anything -- dinner, stopping for gas, laundry -- I find this fascinating and smart.

As a person who struggles with goodbyes in any form, I find it freakish and morbid. It makes me glad to not be famous. It's enough to have cameras lurking around your bushes or following you to Starbucks; think of some lonely writer in the basement of your hometown gazette adding your latest Oscar nomination or car crash to your file, waiting for the day you croak and his touching tribute will land on everyone's doorstep.

But there are times where it's important to be prepared. Times where you must steel yourself against a loss that changes something in your very soul. Times where you ease into your goodbye slowly, like dipping a toe into the frigid ocean as opposed to waiting for a typhoon to swallow you up.

And so I begin to say goodbye to my favorite pair of khaki shorts.

Yes, I'm fully aware that may be the whitest white person sentence I've ever written. I own it, and I hate myself for it. The idea of khaki shorts is so suburban America, and the idea of having a beloved pair is downright embarrassing on levels I'm still learning to navigate. At least they weren't pleated.

But I'm sad, y'all.

I've seen it coming for a while now, and with each wear and wash, I have felt the slow creep of the trash can drawing near.

Oh, Death, thou art so beige.

I don't know how old these shorts are; I can't even measure time in BK or AK. I bought them at a discount store called Ellis Half Off which was remarkable because it was a dingy store front in a questionable part of our neighborhood, and all it contained was the irregulars and cast-offs from Target.

Can you imagine? Target. Cast-offs. Discounts. It's been gone for years, but that's grief I've already processed.

I found several pairs of khaki shorts there (one can never have too many khaki shorts and white t-shirts for your summer), but as it was a store of irregulars, this pair was the only one to fit. They had to be under $3.00 because nothing in there cost more than a bag of Taco Bell. This was its magic.

The tag read the wrong size, but over the years, the shorts have adapted to whatever size I had become. Lose a few pounds and the drawstring serves its purpose. Gain a few pounds and the cotton stretches fearlessly.

They're like the jeans from The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, except they're shorts, and I'm not about to let someone else borrow them. Get your own khakis, sister.

I once spilled bright orange paint on them in the Health House at El Tesoro. It's been nearly a decade since I sat at that table, painting rocks and guzzling homemade salsa. I relegated them to camp shorts and lounge shorts after that, but within a few washes, the paint vanished.

They magically healed themselves to stay in my life, y'all. Khaki miracles are real.

With me, they've traveled a lot, and it shows.

My thighs rub like three wishes are gonna get granted.
The wear and tear is so real. Girls, I know you hear me.

They've traversed hundreds of miles over two different summer camps. They've soaked up the saltwater from the Atlantic and the chlorine from pools across Texas. They've helped me set up nearly every classroom I've been in at my school, and they comforted me through long, hot Saturday mornings, grading papers without A/C. They've taken hundreds of truck rides at the ranch and sat on the world's filthiest curb on Bourbon Street.

Even after a lifetime soaking in Tide and OxiClean, they smell like campfire smoke and homesick tears, cedar trees and freshly cut grass, spilled vodka and soft cotton. And they feel like going home.

I don't wear them out much anymore. They're the kind of shorts that you have to pre-plan your undergaments around because not only are they threadbare in places, but the seams threaten suicide on any given deep squat. And we've established I'm not much of a pre-planner.

In truth, the last couple of times I wore them on an errand, I scoped out my escape routes in case such a moment (and my underwears) came to light. This is not an anxiety that should accompany you to the public library.

Overdue books, yes. Your khaki shorts rotting off of your body, thread-by-thread, in the biography section, no.

So with much regret, I have decided their end is near.

I toyed with several methods of farewell: sewing shears, the Salvation Army donation box, a little Boyz II Men karaoke tribute, a Viking funeral.

None seemed appropriate.

So, I came home, placed them in the wash one more time and will place them in a box of other beloved but retired things.

And maybe next time I'm feeling sentimental or headed to the beach, I'll take them out to find them healed once more.

The orange paint glob was right there on the left leg, I swear it.

Farewell, old friend. It is, in fact, so hard to say goodbye.

Sea Glass

I was 35 years old the first time I laid eyes upon the ocean.

I understood, in theory, what I was looking at, I suppose. I mean, I've studied the oceans in geography class, done reports on sea life in elementary school, learned about tides and lunar pull and shipwrecks. Upon seeing it, however, I could not grasp its enormity. Even just standing on the edge of that gulf, looking to the horizon, knowing full well the distance to another shore, I could not imagine such a vastness. I felt small and lonesome and shaken.

Lying on the beach was a small piece of glass. I picked it up as I looked for a shell, a rock, a memory. It was plain and brown, probably just a piece of a broken beer bottle. Nothing special. A remnant from another person's history. Time and tides had dulled its edges some, but it sliced my thumb as I wiped away the sand. Not dulled enough to be safe to handle, I dropped it, and stuck my hand to my mouth on instinct. I left that beach with the taste of pain, coppery and salty, on my tongue. 

I love the water. I always have. To swim, to splash, to float. My mother has always been terrified of it; always forcing me into life jackets, looking away as I plunged in. It was one of the few things I was unafraid of. I felt confident and weightless in the water. I could tread longer than anyone else in my swim class. I floated instantly, releasing all my worry into the sky and sun above me. But I had grown up on lakes and pools and creeks. Always, I could see the edge. Always, I knew there was an end. It was only as I stood in the waves, holding the tiny hand of a child, staring out into the ocean, did I first feel the unease. The sense of danger from a riptide and the unknown. It felt too big, too much, too powerful. I calmed myself by digging my toes into the sand underneath. Relief comes from connection, from standing on solid ground.

But there is a certain irresistible beauty in panic, and I waded deeper still. 

For the past decade, there have been what I call the "small deaths" -- the "first times". When he stumbled. When he stopped driving. When he moved to a wheelchair. When he could no longer talk on the phone. The delusions. The hallucinations. The anger. When he could not brush his own teeth or shuffle cards or finish a game of dominos. When he could not recognize me. When I could not recognize him. Each moment a wave. Some were ripples, barely noticeable. Others, a tsunami. With each, I panicked more. With each, I kept wading deeper, marking each buoy as I passed, knowing, logically, there was an end I could not see just over the horizon. 

I fooled myself into thinking that my father's death would bring me back to dry land. It has not. My grief feels like the ocean, big and powerful and unfathomable. I cannot see the shore although, logically, I know it is there, somewhere. I am adrift right now, alternating between treading and floating, between surviving and living. I am aware of what I can do and what I cannot. I watch the sky for search planes each day. I look for lighthouses. I am afraid of crashing upon the rocks, of hitting an iceberg, of wrecking my ship. I find myself without a compass, using the stars on clear nights to guide me.

I think often of my mother and her fear. How she lingered on the shore or in the safety of the boat. How I might be struggling against the tides now but how I've never been afraid to plunge in and feel the saltwater upon my face.

It is a gift to feel. 

The shoreline is faint and hard to see. But I know it is there. No ocean goes on forever. Their waves meet and mingle, trading pieces of debris -- love notes from a distant land, pieces of a broken dish from a sunken ship, or even just a plain brown beer bottle. I have not forgotten the feel of the sand between my toes. I will recognize the solid ground of the ocean's floor one day, and I will dig in and hold on and haul myself back up on the beach. I will comb its edges for seashells and rocks, digging out memories, and smile. 

And perhaps I'll find a piece of sea glass, once broken and plain, now beautiful and weathered, its jagged, sharp edges smoothed fine by the pounding waves. 

The Taste of Despair

There are certain ways I know that I'm getting older. The songs I loved in high school now play on the "classic rock" radio station. I forecast rain by the ache in my right hip. And random, insanely weird hairs pop up overnight on my face.

Seriously, nobody ever tells you that last one, girls. But it does. So when it happens to you, call me. You are not alone.

But probably the saddest thing about getting older is my intolerance of things I used to love. Chief among them? Cereal.

My family loved cereal. Loved it. No matter how many cans of generic brand green beans we had, the one luxury name-brand item we were never without was cereal. My dad would get a giant mixing bowl, fill it with a combination of Sugar Crisp and Frosted Flakes, dump a quart of milk and a chopped banana, and go to town. My mom took her Sugar Crisp straight. My brother: a Honeycomb man. And I... well, I was ride or die for Toucan Sam.

I loved Fruit Loops. I'd let them sit in my bowl just long enough to soften and not slice open the roof of your mouth but not so long to lose all texture in a mushy glop. The sugar shards would slide off the loops into your milk, dissolving slowly and giving it a glistening skin. And while each spoonful of loops was a delight, we all know it was the milk we were after. You'd hold the bowl to your lips and tip it back, guzzling the sweet, sweet ambrosia. I felt powerful and strong. (I assume that the children who could down all their milk in one long pull were the same kids who would later excel at things like keg stands and tequila shots.) You could go all morning off the energy from just a couple of spoonfuls of leftover Fruit Loop milk. In fact, scientists should probably start thinking about it as a fuel alternative.

I dabbled in other cereals occasionally -- Apple Jacks, Cinnamon Toast Crunch, Peanut Butter Captain Crunch, of course -- but there was no real commitment there. When I went away to college, a good 3/4 of my meal allowance was Fruit Loops. Breakfast, lunch, dinner... it did not matter. Avoiding the judge-y gaze of the cafeteria ladies, my suite mates and I would fill Ziploc baggies full of them to smuggle out to class. Should we ever have lost our way from a drunken frat party, chances are we could've found a trail of red, yellow, and orange loops to guide us home again.

I don't know the exact time I stopped eating Fruit Loops. One day, I did, and the next day, I didn't. Like so many of our important choices in life, the whys and hows go unnoticed, unknown. But whatever day it was is the day I guess I grew up.

"Once you're grown up, you can never come back." -- Peter Pan

A few years ago, while working at camp, we changed food distributors. Lo and behold, a mountain of single serving, sugar soaked wonder rained down upon our kids. Being the boring grown-up that I was, I'd grab my Total Raisin Bran, or if I was feeling especially spry -- some Honey Nut Cheerios, to settle in for breakfast. And then one day, I saw a bowl of Fruit Loops, sitting on the cereal bar, lonely and left behind. Suddenly every neuron in my brain was firing with latent childhood thrills.

I pulled back its single-serving lid to gaze upon its wonder.  And what did I find? Purple. Blue. Green.

Blasphemy.

No matter. I poured my soy milk and began to wait in the anticipation of joy that only reclamation of youth can bring.

I grabbed my spoon. I dug in. I lifted the first spoonful to my mouth and tasted -- and I tasted -- and I tasted... what was this? This sameness?! Where were the vibrant tastes of my  innocence? This cloying sweetness coating my lips, making me feel like I'd just rubbed a powdered sugar-Vaseline compound across my teeth? I couldn't even finish the bowl. It was too painful.

I had tasted despair.

And it tasted exactly like adulthood,

Make It Work

You  remember the struggle I endured yesterday and Friday, no?

Here's the Before: Day 2 pictures from Saturday.  I didn't take any on Friday because it was too depressing and overwhelming.

This is Day #2. By this point, I'd already done about 3 hours of "cleaning".

This is just some of the trash and recycling.
Much of it was totally unused.
I battled mightily the capitalist, wasteful American guilt.

The aforementioned V-8.  I mean, for real.

Bookshelves, moved courtesy of my work brothers.

Built-ins: about 2.5 hours in. Previously engulfed in furniture and binders.

Reading shelves in background were finally filled.
But I was dumbfounded as to what I could accomplish on Sunday.

I went to dinner with my best life friends last night.  Although I was exhausted, they just kept telling me how different my outlook and attitude about the start of school was (for the better).  In years past, I've been excited to meet my students, close our door, and spend time getting to know each other -- but not necessarily for all of the other "stuff" that would become an emotional sinkhole.  They offered to come help me in my room in the morning, but being who I am, I told them "thanks, but I'll be okay."

And being who they are, they didn't believe me, and they showed up anyway.

It was kind of a full-circle moment.  Heather and I began at Nichols JH together 14 years ago, and Laurie helped us both move in to our classrooms that year.  Now, it's a new year in so many different ways, and although we are all in very different places now, it was comforting to have the familiar with me today.

My goal today was to have a "functional" classroom.  I hoped for a little flair, but, as usual, those girls totally surpassed all expectations.  The pictures just don't even do it justice. Not by a mile.

My desk.  This is the cleanest it will be all year. Enjoy it.
Special shout-out to Al and Taylor Fratina who know how fresh flowers cheer me up.

The area behind my desk.  Still a few personal touches to add,
but I'm pretty impressed.

The sheetrock monstrosity became an accent wall witha little wrapping paper and stapling.
The stage is still there, but now it's the home of the "Group of the Week".
The stage also has a hole in it.  I placed a crate over it as a hazard prevention.
You're welcome, AISD.

Shelves and built-in. 

Classroom library.  I still have about 250 books to mark, cover, and inventory.
Anyone have an extra bookshelf?

This will be our reading goal board, but for now, it's enough just to be decorated.

Lights off.  Lanterns and lamps on.
I detest fluorescent lighting.

The hanging of the Chinese lanterns was enough to make me shed tears of joy.
They're pretty, but they're a pain.

Another bulletin board.  Again, decorated.  Again, relieved.

Built-in organized. Supplies hidden away.

My door needs some more work.
Creating for that tonight.
I'm reading "Fire and Ash" btw, and, no, I'm not getting rid of Coach Naz.

My door signs.  

And a new change in the attitude chart.

Yep.  They blew in and started posting and hanging and straightening and cleaning, and we didn't stop for 5 hours.  It was like every organizational, home makeover, reality tv show all rolled into one.  We even had a "make it work" Tim Gunn moment.  

Even Heather's 6 year-old son, Marcus, pitched in.  He sharpened pencils for every student tomorrow "in case they forget theirs" and put one on each desk.  Little does he know how correct he could be.

Those 3 took such a load off my shoulders today.  They made other people jealous and totally impressed one of my new team teachers who gave them all the credit. "You couldn't have done anything with that chaos yesterday!"  Thanks, Justin.  And people should be jealous.  I've said before that I've been blessed with the world's most amazing friends.  Everyone should have them, but they can't.  I need them too much.

***

The past week has been a struggle.  It has.  But when I put it in perspective against the last year, the two aren't even in the same league.  On the way home this evening, I started to think about all of it together.  In a way, I'm okay with changing rooms.  It's a ton of work, but maybe I needed that fresh start.  When I wasn't sure if I was going or staying last year, I took the opportunity to purge all of the things and material cluttering up my classroom and my life.  It was nice to unpack only the good things in this room.

There have been times this summer that people have asked me if I'm happy that I was asked to stay at Nichols.  My most honest answer at those times was, "I think so".  It was hard to be sure about something so unsure.  I still struggle with it, and I know I'm not the only one.  Last year was, by far, my most challenging year as a teacher, and it wasn't for any reason I'd ever encountered before.  I felt so distressed and guilty that I couldn't see past this summer.  I couldn't imagine what would occur to make the changes necessary.  I truly believe that those of us who stayed could use a little counseling; you can often read the worry on our faces as we try to make sense of everything that's happened since last January.  In fact, that's one of the ways I wound up typing at you people every day.

And while I feel really good about the changes that are happening -- better than I have in a long time -- I still see my doubt sneaking into my mind in even the smallest ways.  This afternoon, I introduced Laurie to my new principal.  In the conversation I said, "Even if this doesn't work, we went down swinging".  I didn't mean to sound negative, but rather to say that we are going to give it our best fight.  At that, she turned my words and said, "This is going to work.  It has to.  We have nothing else to do but build."  And she's right.  I have to stop worrying about what could happen at the end of the year before this one has begun.  I have to put my faith in both strangers and my friends, and I have to let go of the "ifs" and embrace the "wills".

For 13 years, I always wore a horseshoe pendant during my volleyball and basketball games I coached. I'm a firmly superstitious person, and I also appreciate the heck out of tradition so there were few times I was ever without it.  When I was most nervous -- before a big game or important freethrows or during an injury -- I would touch it and whisper a little positive energy into the Universe.  It didn't always work in the game, but it always calmed me down.  It became my touchstone.  Last year,  I wore it every day and, during the moment of silence, I would touch it and say a prayer for our school.  I took it off on the last day of school, and I didn't wear it all summer until Tuesday.  That morning, I reached up to touch it in my nervous, slightly obsessive way, before the training with our rival school began.  And, I kid you not, it was gone.  My chain was still around my neck, but the pendant was gone.  I looked all over the floor, in my car, and in my bathroom when I got home.  I couldn't find it anywhere.  It took everything I had not to fall apart about such a silly little thing I'd bought for less than $5.00 at Sam Moon, but for an English teacher who can find symbolism in any old thing, it was pretty devastating.

So tonight, as I drove home and thought about how to change my words to match my attitude, I stopped to buy some replacement glass for a picture frame in my fancy new classroom.  As I browsed the aisles, something caught my eye.  There, in the midst of a row of charms was my new horseshoe.  And just above it?  This. I kid you not.

You don't need an English degree to see this one, folks.

Choosing Change

Today in "News That's News to Nobody":

I don't like change. I really don't.  I'm afraid of it.  It's uncomfortable.  It's uncertain.  I especially hate change just for the sake of changing, and that so often seems like the only reason people institute it.  

But sometimes, it's important and necessary.  Sometimes it's the opening of a window instead of the closing of a door. Sometimes it leads you to things you didn't even know that you wanted or needed.  And sometimes it's the change that you've been screaming for in a world where no one was listening.

I went to a work meeting yesterday.  I didn't want to go because I'd spent the last two months stewing in fear and anxiety and distrust.  For once, my greatest worry was that nothing would change.  But I'm glad I did because afterward, I felt good, and I saw other people feeling good.  And, this morning, I woke up with a light heart and a smile.  It's been far too long since that happened.

There are big changes happening for so many people I care about.  Some sought out that change and others had it forced upon them.  How that change happened is critical to how they might feel about it.

But here's what I have had to learn:  it happened.

I cannot change its happening, but I can have a vote in what happens next.

I can choose how I accept it.  I can drag my feet, or I can hit the ground running.

I can choose how I attempt it.  The horizon can be the end of the world, or it can be adventure into the undiscovered.

I can choose how I see it.  Do I see the sunset or the sunrise?  The dark or the dawn?

But I can choose.

And that was news to me.  I hope it's not to you.

The $2.00 Prayer

I stopped at Walgreen's just to drop off some Redbox rentals and pick up some cat food.  That was all I intended, really.  But it's not all that happened.

On my way to return the movies, I noticed a man, trying desperately to stay dry and warm in the downpour, standing next to the machine.  On reflex, I pulled my purse closer to me because I didn't know him.  I wrinkled my nose at his unwashed stench.  I cast my eyes downward to avoid making eye contact.  I did my very best to ignore the situation. 

And then he spoke.

"Excuse me, miss.  How are you?"

I nodded and mumbled that I was doing fine.  All the while, I wondered why the machine couldn't move any faster.

"And how has the day treated you?"

"How had the day treated me?' I thought. I woke up this morning in my extra-warm bed.  I took a shower, put on clean clothes, and had a choice in my breakfast.  I went to my job -- a job that I love and that provides me with more than I need.  My students had come back to school... happy, ready, and able.  I got no fewer than 20 hugs and even more "I missed you's".  I was surrounded by friends and colleagues who love and appreciate me.  And, on my drive home, my only complaint was the slow-moving traffic that might delay the start of my basketball game on t.v.  So how had the day treated me?

"Fairly well.  I'd say it's been the best day in a long while," I replied, with a smile.

"That's good.  Real good," he grinned back. "You don't think you might pass on some of that good luck to me, do you?  You don't have any spare change?"

In my mind, little Roman candles of cynicism burst forth.  Beggar.  Bum.  Vagrant.  Drunk.  Stranger.

But when was the last time a bum asked me about my day?  Better yet, when was the last time anyone who wasn't a close friend asked me (and really wanted more than a "Fine. And you?" in response)?

In my pocket was a dollar bill.  The fact that I had any sort of cash is a small miracle, so I thought that maybe it'd bring him a little luck.  I chirped at him to stay dry and try to stay warm, and I went in to finish my errand.  As I was checking out, the machine asked me if I wanted cash back.  Thinking of the man huddled under the flickering Walgreen's sign, I clicked the $10 button and waited for my change.  I walked out, folded it up, and handed it to this stranger.

When he took the money from my hand, he also took my hand.  I stiffened, alarm bells going off in my head, panic rising.  And then I saw him bow his head to pray.  To pray for me.  When he looked up,  there was genuine kindness and thanks in his eyes. 

With the money clutched in his hand, he had yet to even look and see that it was a $10 bill.  I smiled a bit as I walked to my car.  During those few moments, a total stranger in a much-worse position than I, took the time to pray for me... for what he thought was $2.  And his $2.00 prayer renewed me just a bit.  When have I ever been so grateful for just a few dollars?  Not in a long while.  Not until that moment.

So, no... catfood is not all I picked up at Walgreen's today.

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?

Nothing Gold Can Stay

Some changes are like a glacier, inching forward year by year, seemingly making no change at all until, all of a sudden, it's ice age time and you're the dinosaur who didn't pack a sweater.

Other changes are like firecrackers -- quick, sharp, and hardly noticeable except for the scorched ground and fluttery heartbeat. And the missing thumb.

Either way, I just don't like it. And before anyone drops the "but change is healthy and good for you" bullcrap on me, understand this: tofu is healthy and good for you too, but the mere sight of it still makes me throw up in my mouth a little.