Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone

My eight year old grandson began reading Harry Potter this fall, and, knowing I had read the books, he wanted to discuss this one with me as he read.  Needless to say, my in-depth discussion ability was somewhat dampened by the passage of time since I had first discovered the wizarding boy wonder.  At one point, Briar asked how long it had taken me to read all the books.  When I told him it took seven years to finish them all, he looked completely schocked, and announced, "Gee, Grama--I can read faster than that, and I'm only in the third grade!"  I had to explain to him that the books, when first published, came out one book at a time, one every year.

Now, the way I look at it, if you have an eight year old boy, who loves sports and being outdoors, wanting to discuss in detail, a hefty series of wonderful books, you'd better seize the opportunity!  So I am now re-reading this much loved series. I am not allowed to get too far ahead of Briar, which is fine, since it allows me to do other reading at the same time.  We are now reading book two, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets.  

Once again, I find myself highly entertained with J.K. Rowling's amazing and intricately crafted work.  This book provides an engaging introduction to Harry Potter, leaving the reader happily anticipating the next volume.  I particularly love Rowling's humor and word play, which makes the book as appealing to adults as well kids.

Thanks, Briar, for challenging your grama!  Keepin' me on my toes!

The Three Little Kittens: A Post-Christmas Miracle

On a recent drive to Lake Tahoe, I asked Jim to turn into the TJ Maxx parking lot so I could zip in and try to find a nice winter cap.  The variety of winter accessories is much smaller in Placerville.  As luck would have it, I found three knit hats and a new pair of gloves!  Christmas--it's all about the giving--from me, to me!  I was quite pleased with my purchases, especially the nifty new hand warmers.  Quite chic, in gray, with a beige cuff and tip on each index finger and a smart wooden button affixed with gray yarn.  Score!

Fast forward three weeks.  I'd managed to wear each hat a few  times and the gloves were very comfy after several wearings.  When the afternoon's plans changed to include a trip to Folsom's seasonal outdoor ice rink with my daughter, Melanie, granddaughter, Jaiden, and two of their friends, Jennifer and Maya, I was tickled.  The weather had become very cold in the days after Christmas, but the sun shone brightly, with thin opalescent clouds dragging across the sky.  All I had to do to be ready was to pop on a perky chapeau and don my fashionably well-coordinated gloves. 

Uh-oh!  I remembered that last night while searching for my phone in the unwieldy mess that is my purse, I had only seen one glove.  So, in the light of day, I checked again.  One glove.  I checked my coat pockets. No glove. I checked my car.  No glove. I checked outside around my car. No glove. I checked every room in the house.  No glove.  I checked all the various drawers in the house in which, at any time in the past 35 years, I have stored a glove or scarf.  No glove.  And so, just like the three little kittens in the nursery rhyme, I began to cry.

Only I didn't cry.  I virtually never cry.  Instead, I began with a  pathetic whine, which, within minutes, morphed into a full-fledged, obscenity-laced hissy fit.  I have many witnesses who will vouch for the fact that this is most definitely my least attractive character trait.  I know it, and I do wish it wasn't so. I really do need better self-control.  I know I'm being a complete and ridiculous bitch, but there you are. Soon the walls of the house echoed with my foul-mouthed lamentations. By  the time my daughter arrived to pick me up, I was in high dudgeon, an occurrence which my family is all too familiar with, and which they loathe.  At first solicitous of my sorry predicament, both my husband and daughter helped retrace my searches throughout purse, car, driveway, and drawers--a house upturned.  Knowing full well that I have several pairs of perfectly suitable gloves, their help became ever more grudgingly given until both Jim and Melanie were, in no uncertain (or kindly) terms insisting that I GET OVER IT!

Apparently, there would be no pie.  I'd be lucky to still be taken to the ice rink!

Melanie's teeth and fists were clenched as she began easing out of our driveway.  Now, though still greatly saddened by the loss of one of my  new, but treasured, and most favorite gloves, I felt more ashamed than anything else.  What a baby!  Albeit, a baby with the mouth of a Marine drill sergeant. Maybe I'd feel better with a piece of gum to chew on, instead of chewing up the world around me. So, with my naked little hand, I reached into my purse, and immediately up popped a glove, with spring action like a jack-in-the-box. Really--as if the hand of God had opened up and fired the glove right at me. Not the glove that had lain at the bottom of my purse since yesterday, alone and pitiful. But the missing glove!  I now had two!  How was this possible, after all the searches that had been conducted in the past forty-five minutes?

"It's a post-Christmas miracle!"  I shrieked.  Melanie, all too accustomed to my outbursts, largely ignored me.  As I told her of the inexplicable, spring-loaded and sudden appearance of my missing mitten, she looked like she was pondering placing me in a home sooner than previously anticipated. "Well, Mom, that's good.  Now let's hit the ice rink and have some fun." Pat, pat, pat.  There, there.

I can't remember how many times I mentioned the post-Christmas miracle that afternoon.  But we did indeed have a wonderful time at the rink.  Melanie and Jennifer, dutiful moms, adjusted Jaiden's and Maya's skates, kept their scarves for them when they got too warm, and kept watch over their babies.  I took pictures.  Later, after the girls had left to go shopping with Jennifer, my dutiful daughter took me to dinner.

And I had pie.

Lessons From the Classroom

Attitudes vs. Vicissitudes

I think that what I most enjoyed about teaching was the simple adventure of hanging out with kids and experiencing their unique, always developing perception of the world around them.  They reveal so much in their observations and especially their questions.  And, when I was paying attention, there was always something for me to think about and learn from, too! To wit:

Because I substitute only at the school that was my second home for over thirty years, I am extremely comfortable going into the classrooms as a "guest teacher."  I know the kids, their families, the teachers, what's expected of me--the whole deal.  I usually "introduce" myself with "Good morning, kiddos! I AM OLD.  I get grumpy.  Don't be bozos, and we'll have a great day.  You know you don't want me to have to grab my broom and fly around the room like the old wicked witch I can turn into!"  Maybe not the most professional of intros, but it works just fine for me.  Often, no matter what the grade, the subject of my age comes up, so I have the kids figure out how old I am with a grade-appropriate math riddle.  I beam at the kids whose answers shave years away, and look aghast at the ones who peg me for a ninety-three year old crone.

One day recently, a little second grade sweetie came up to me to get a paper, and asked earnestly, "Mrs. Souza, how DID you get to be so old?"  This gave me pause.  It's all too easy to feel sadness, shock, and horror at the changes wrought upon our bodies and visages as time passes.  And yet...after a second or two, I replied with no small measure of glee, "Well, Karlie, apparently I haven't died!"  As this answer seemed to satisfy us both, Karlie went back to do her work, and I resumed my cruise around the classroom.

And still, she LIVES!

It's Monday--What Are You Reading?

I just finished reading Brown Girl Dreaming by Jacqueline Woodson.  What a beautiful treat!  Tracing her family lineage and memories in lyrical format, this book was a joy to read. I did not want to read it too fast, as some pages required lingering and contemplation.  Every chapter read like a poem--some just a few lines, some several pages long.  Growing up in the very different worlds of South Carolina, Ohio, and New York City, Jacqueline recounts her journeys of self-discovery concurrently with the burgeoning civil rights movement.  Third child in a divorced family, searching for her true home and her own unique gifts, Woodson's recollections conjure deep emotions in the reader as well.  I highly recommend this book.

Love, an Accounting

How do we reconcile 
The tattered ledgers of the heart?
Love put in, love withdrawn, 
With each of us taking our part.

Pain compounded,
Interest lost,
Passion wanes--
No love without cost.

Can balance be found
Between heartache and joy?
Put your heart in a safe
So it won't be destroyed?

Heart that has hardened 
Deposits of tears
Crystalline organ--
Will it melt through the years?

Nothing is permanent
Nothing is fixed--
Both sorrow and happiness
Between and betwixt.

Let the day come
All are healed and matured,
To see, in new forms,
That love has endured.

How do we reconcile 
The tattered ledgers of the heart?
Love put in, love withdrawn, 
With each of us taking our part.

Etched in Sand by Regina Calcaterra
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Luckily, Regina Calcaterra lets us know in the first pages of the book that all the children in her family have survived their horrific upbringing at the hands of a mentally ill and alcoholic mother. Otherwise, the repeated tales of abuse and neglect would overwhelm the reader. The book instead is a testament to the tenacity of the human spirit, to maintain hope and familial love in the face of terrible odds.
Calcaterra, through her own intelligence and determination manages to survive the double threats of her mother's insanity and the bureaucratic insanity that often resides in the nation's foster care system. Luckily, there are a few souls who do reach out and help her. Today, she is a successful attorney who, working within and outside the political arena, is an advocate for foster children everywhere. Hers is a strong voice for the thousands of unheard, unseen children who seek refuge in our schools, our libraries, and in work.
Etched in Sand is a beautifully written, timely memoir. It was nearly impossible to put down (the alarm clock was not my friend while I was reading it!). I highly recommend this book.

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