Interesting read told from the perspective of a precocious chemistry obsessed mystery-solving girl in 1950's England. Held my interest, althought there were a number of somewhat improbable scenes.

The Soaring Heights of Low Expectations

The Soaring Heights of Low Expectations

Bad Poets' Society

There is a reason why I assiduously avoid housework.  That reason is  I AWAYS GET DISTRACTED! Let's face it, I find virtually anything more satisfying than housework.  After 45 years of keeping my own home, the thrill of dusting, scrubbing, and re-arranging is gone.  Take today for example.  I decided to dust the bookshelves in the family room--and we don't even have any company coming!  But before I managed to set out the feather duster, cleaning cloth, and spray, I came upon my Passages Journal, the repository of some poetry that I had written, mostly around the time I realized that I had been suffering from depression since about the age of sixteen.  Needless to say, I was a bit of a mess, but, having identified the source of my discomfort, I was making a lot of introspective leaps of faith that I would figure things out and become a happier person to be, and to be around.  I guess a good sub-title for this post could be

"Better Living Through Chemistry"

And any number of the pieces could be better titled as  

"Prozac Moment."

As I thumbed through the journal, I even found references to chenille and hiding under beds, so perhaps it is fitting to share a bit from this journal on my blog. After all, it is who I am, or who I was some twenty-five years ago.  I have often found myself awakened by a poem in my head, or a beginning of one. Sometimes they are nearly fully formed by the time I regain consciousness enough to write them down.  And most likely, they can be judged as uniformly bad, but what the hell...

***************************************************

In 1990, I discovered that the bizarre obsession I had with pulling out my eyelashes and eyebrows had a name, Trichotillomania.  I had suffered with it since the age of eleven, and had passed the years from eleven to forty-one convinced that the only cause for this strange behavior was that I must have been certifiably crazy.  What other reason could there be to explain why  a perfectly and ordinarily vain young female would consciously deface her own face?  Lo and behold, it turned out I had a serotonin-related chemical imbalance in the brain, a medical condition whose treatment included certain anti-depressants. Over the next ten years or so, with a number of different kinds of therapies and medications, my Trichotillomania symptoms did not abate, but I learned how to deal with them, and became an expert at applying just the right kind of false eyelashes.  I also discovered that depression had been a far more debilitating problem than my peculiar follicular disorder.  Early on in my treatment with anti-depressants, I was awash in revelations and poems.  

***********************************************************

Recovery Discovery

1990

The beast no longer lives in my house;

He's taken to visiting elsewhere.

The beast no longer lives in my house;

He's unwelcome and doesn't belong there.

He sometimes returns to find doors locked tight,

The windows closed and shuttered.

But sometimes they're open to let in the light,

So he creeps in and hides in the clutter.

******************************************************************

Forgiveness

1990

Unbidden thoughts

wash over me,

Sweet waters of absolution.

Forgiveness lies so deep within,

Swim the waters of sweet absolution.

Swim the waters of sweet absolution.

*******************************************************************

Ascension

1990

I'm floating up through

pearl-pink clouds,

Into shimmers of gold

and shadows of amethyst,

Passing on to a blue so pure,

a blue so divine,

It must be the gateway to Heaven.

*******************************************************************

Life in Absentia

1990

I almost forgot to enjoy my life!

So rapt in spirals of despair, 

Plunging ever downward, 

Barely making it back to fresh air. 

~

I almost forgot to enjoy my life!

How bizarre, how can that be?

Losing sight of all that matters,

Losing touch with me.

~

I almost for got to enjoy my life!

I'm rescued now--I'm free!

Rediscovering daily joys, 

Finding my way back to me.

~

I mustn't forget to enjoy my life!

It's the only one that I've got.

I'd hate to come to the end of my trail,

And find it had all been for naught...

but a sigh. 

*******************************************************************

Sail On

for my mother

1990

Sail on, little star,

through infinite space.

Your pin-point of light 

beams infinite grace.

Sail on, little star,

astral pilgrim ship,

each life-time a port

on an endless trip.

Sail on, little star,

may you always find peace,

As you drift ever onward,

May love never cease.

Sail on, little star

to wherever time leads,

And scatter your stardust

as heavenly seeds.

 

*******************************************************************

Well now, wasn't that all  delightful?  I don't know about you, dear reader, but I think I might actually go dust something!

*Stardust stamp  from Ephie at 

http://www.mycandylove.com/forum/t55012,1-format-favors.htm

                                                    

Winnah, Winnah, Chicken Dinnah!

I was always something of a messy child.  Not a total piglet, mind you, but a stacker and a piler.  I think, in hindsight, this was a good thing, for it prepared me for a life that did not proceed in a neat-as-a-pin, orderly fashion.  I think it's why  I can usually handle a little chaos.  To wit, when one of life's myriad bumps in the road brought my daughter Melanie, and her two kids, Jaiden, and Briar, to our home to live with Jim and me.

The time together actually passed quite smoothly and quickly during the six months they were with us.  The house was once again filled with the bustles of a young family, their comings and goings, and the inevitable helping with homework.  Remembering one of my favorite of those occasions:

It had been a  busy week at our house, and the kids had been going to bed later than usual, with homework piling up, packing, attending their first funeral, and other such things.  Melanie was very busy preparing to move out into a house of their own, so I had been charged with helping the grandkids do their homework after we returned from dinner at our favorite Chinese restaurant.  I was also charged with having them both in bed no later than 8:30, which was still later than their usual bedtime

Fortunately, Briar had had a short day at school and finished his homework early.  He had earned some Club Penguin time on the computer, which left me free to help Jaiden.  Good thing, for she had assignments in math, science, language arts, and history.  Jaiden and I retired to the bedroom to get started on what looked like a full evening  of work. I was thanking my lucky stars that I still remembered how to find circumference, diameter, and radius in case she needed help with her geometry.  Midway through the assignment though, her fortitude seemed to flag--and we still had much more work to complete.

I noticed that she still kept on her bed a pair of Melanie's red satin pajama shorts that Jaiden has used as her special "wubbie" since birth.  I commented that compared with supervising homework,  I had much more fun playing peek-a-boo with her when she was five months old, covering her face in the red satin, and taking much delight in her chortles and wildly flailing arms and legs.  So, we decided that she needed to put the shorts on her head, and, working independently of each other, if we came up with the same answer to a math problem, she'd  thrash her arms and legs and I would scream, "Winnah, winnah, chicken dinnah!"  No doubt about it, Grama and Jaiden are certified lame-os.  But thirty plus years in the classroom taught me nothing if not, that when instructional interest wanes, insert something bizarre and otherwise pointless.  Always my go-to lesson plan!

 Having finished the math, we moved on to a summary of plate tectonics, which I had taught about many for years, and which Jaiden understood quite well without my help.  Then a compare and contrast assignment from very interesting story about a newspaper boy in the Great Depression.  While Jaiden continued to work, I put Briar to bed and armed him with his trusty flashlight so he could read from Harry Potter for a few more minutes.

Needing a bit of movement and a change of scene, Jaiden and I headed out to the couch in the living room to tackle key points about ancient Egypt during the Middle and New Kingdoms. (Have I mentioned that none of the assignments that night were remotely like anything I learned about in sixth grade?)  Jaiden was quite impressed with my knowledge of this era. I didn't tell her it was mostly from having watched so many Charleston Heston and Debra Paget pot-boilers in the fifties.  Some of Granny's secrets, are better kept, mummy-like, under wraps! She'd have no idea who those helpful old movie stars were, so I just told her to just keep watching PBS, like her grandparents.

By 9:30, Jaiden staggered off to bed, homework completed, and ready for night-night.  After tucking her in with her satin and kissing her goodnight, I wandered over to the computer to check out Facebook.  All I can say is that after two and a half hours of school work, "Winnah, winnah, chicken dinnah!" had lost some of its luster.  The "baby" Jaiden Raine still looked  smashing in her red satin, and Grama Marilyn looked like she should be permanently placed UNDER a peek-a-boo blankie!

 

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!