Roll with the Tide

      Hurricane Irene was over a thousand miles from me, and for that I am most thankful.  We need rain, true, but I can do without the damaging wind, loss of power, and messy clean-up that flooding leaves behind.  Water is such a powerful source, for good and bad, and its presence (or lack of) affects people maybe moreso than any other thing God created. 

      Randomly, I tried to remember when that powerful creation took place:  was it Day One, Day Two, Day Three?  I get all of those mixed up. More than likely I was distracted by trying to figure out how God did all that in six short days. 

      So, I got out the ol' red King James Bible my parents gave me in 1964.  It's still good, you know.  And  there in Genesis One, verse two, was something I had never noticed.  "The Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters." 

      This came before earth's form, before light, before darkness, before Oreo cookies, before anything.      

      Water.  And God "moved" upon it.  Earth's first surfer.

      So from the very, very beginning the Creator had a comfort with H-2-O.  And if He/She did, that explains a whole lot:

       1.  Watering the earth for forty days and forty nights

       2.  Parting of the water to get to the other side

       3.  Punishing Moses the Smiter (instead of Moses the Rock Whisperer) for providing water incorrectly to the impatient Israelites

       4.  Tossing Jonah into the water

       5.  Throwing water balloons at Goliath (made that one up.....but David did get the five smooth stones out of the water)

       6.   Lying down beside the still waters

       7.   Casting nets into the water

       8.   Turning the water into wine

       9.   Baptizing with water

             And my personal favorite.....

      10.  Gideon's men lapping the water

 

       Probably more examples exist, but those are just the ones that come to mind quickly.  And they are not in chronological order, all you straight A+ Sunday School people.  Get a life.

        Water is obviously a constant presence.   Poets have often written about it, too, so I get the idea that we are supposed to make a connection here:  life has swells,  life tosses us around, and sometimes it seems as if life can swallow up and drown us. 

         Maybe your circle of news has been a bit like mine of late, a series of waves crashing about:   yet another diagnosis of cancer, the talk of a five-year-old needing a heart transplant, revelations of child abuse, heartache from the sad reality that a mother's voice will no longer be heard, a beloved pet's final breath, and the inevitability of ALS's fatal theft. 

          Sometimes I imagine myself preferring a hermit's existence.  Alone, isolated, and untouched by a flood of grief.

         Then, I pull out my favorite poetry book and let these beautiful words wash over the ugly status quo.

         And learn, O Voyager to walk

         The roll of earth, the pitch and fall....to sleep in spite of sea, in spite

         Of sound the rushing planet makes.--

                                                                                            "Seafarer" by Archibald MacLeish

         To rest in spite of?

         How many times have we lost sleep due to events on this rushing planet?

         During those moments, O Voyager, try to remember the comforting presence of Someone who walked........on water.

                

Rubble

      Consider the paradox of a construction site.  In one setting, workers are scurrying about like ants pouring foundation, doing the brick and mortar thing, or framing the new structure that is taking shape.

      And then there is the rubble--the evidence of what once was.  In this case, a school building built almost a hundred years ago. 

      On this eve of the first day of school,  I walked home from my classroom past this mound of tangled beams and two by fours and cement and thought about all the footsteps that had made their scuff marks on those wooden floors.

          Built when William Howard Taft was President, this old two-story structure educated children without computers or televisions.  Teachers in this building worried more about a snake or a lizard in a kid's pocket rather than a cell phone.    And recess might have included schoolyard fights instead of fighting over who got to climb on the colorful playground equipment.

           The sun was setting, so I snapped a few photos and made my way home, only a couple of hundred yards from the site. The imagery lingered.  One gets a bit wistful after all these years teaching in the same school district.
           Gone is a historic part of our school's legacy.  Arriving soon is the opportunity to see a new one begin.  Destruction and creation often go hand in hand.

            **************

            Interestingly, what takes place on the inside of any school building--new or old--is a principle quite the opposite.  The act of tearing down to build up is not the method a classroom teacher uses. If it is, he or she needs to find a construction job or any other career........and quickly.  

             Every year when school starts, a teacher walks into a room  facing new "ingredients"--young lives for whom we are responsible.   Some come to us with  strong foundations.     A few arrive in disrepair, with cracks in their foundation from abuse, neglect, poverty, or learning challenges.  

              Even in the best of schools, rubble exists.  We have to dig through it sometimes to find the treasure, that lone item that allows us to recognize potential and then take it one step further:  to help the child see his or her own worth and then inspire them to use that self-worth to make the world better.  An educator is  not just the construction foreman; he or she has to get hands dirty and do the hard labor each and every day in order for the job to get done.

             Our new school will be completed in less than a year; however, the students I greet tomorrow won't be ready anytime soon for all that life is going to throw at them.  Before their education is complete, they will have left behind little mounds of rubble, results of growing pains and teenage adolescent disappointments.       

              Helping them to build on those experiences should be the ultimate mission of all who call themselves "teacher."  

 

Sullivan Family Archives: Tapioca Tales

       I am well aware that food seems to be a constant theme in my writing.  Who cares?  I like food, and it likes me.  Today, my sweet tooth was satisfied with a blast from the past:  tapioca.

        The Sixties was the decade of family meals at the table  followed by dessert.  Mother made this particular dessert many times for us at 3601 Hill Avenue, Snyder America. With five kids, she knew how to make us behave.  Threaten us with no dessert, and we were angels.   

        So, when I got that red and white box out of the fridge today, measured the contents, and brought them to a rolling boil, my mouth watered waiting for the twenty minutes to let it set.  The only way I like to eat tapioca is warm. 

        When the timer went off, I went in for the pudding that launched a thousand smiles at our dinner table many years ago. (I say that, but actually I am speaking only for myself as I really do not know if Scotty, Sara, Shane, or Sabrina even liked tapioca).  Scoops of the pearly white goo went into a real dessert dish.  I do not have many dishes in my house because I do not cook, but I do keep two little glass bowls just for these occasions. 

         Tapioca on my tongue took me back 45 years. 

         The Sullivans ate supper at the table.  All seven of us.  We talked.  We ate a lot.  We probably turned up our noses  sometimes as Mother liked to try new recipes.  She was a cookbook's best friend.  Have Recipe, Will Try was her motto. 

          King Ranch Chicken was a specialty as were numerous casseroles.  About the only thing Mother never perfected was the birthday cake which is ironic considering she had plenty of opportunities to practice with five stinking kids.  Pies--super; birthday cakes--not so much. 

          And then there was tapioca. 

         Association is a funny thing.  With this dessert, I just sensed we were elevating our tastes.  Maybe it's because we ate it in a real crystal dish, not some cereal bowl as we did everything else.  When Mom made tapioca, I just felt, well, sophisticated.

          Until  late 1965 or early 1966.  Tapioca was on the dessert menu one evening, and this soon-to-be 10-year-old was pumped. 

           The dinner plates were cleared from the table as dessert was an event.   On this night, it became THE event.  Just as I was about to dig in to my tapioca, Mom and Dad decided to break the big news:  baby number five was on the way.  Oh good gosh........

           I looked across the table at baby number four!  He was not even a year old!  What were they thinking?  What were they doing?  Never mind, I sort of knew the answer and tried to block that out as fast as I could.

           Saddest of all, tapioca became a symbol of something else and not the sweet classy tasty dessert it was always intended to be.  All I could think of was more cloth diapers being washed out in the commode. 

           Just in recent years have I overcome the unfortunate blame I placed on tapioca.  It wasn't tapioca's fault that the fertility announcement disrupted my after-dinner dessert date.  And, it didn't hurt that baby number five turned out to be a girl.  Sara and I wanted Sabrina so we could outnumber the smelly boys, and this beautiful dark-haired addition turned out to be much sweeter than even tapioca. 

           Mom and Dad stopped having babies after number five.  In honor of that, I ate five bowls of tapioca today--enough sophistication to get me through until Thanksgiving.

The Sweet Stuff

         My affection for food is well known in my entourage.  (Yes, I have one:  two dogs and the folks at the Coyote Country  Store have my back).

         So, it  is only natural that I would view the status quo of my life as the "icing."  The sweet stuff.

         The evidence is overwhelming.  A quick glimpse at my first eighteen years would be enough to prove how blessed my life has been--growing up loved, with two parents, two brothers, two sisters in a small town.  Healthy, happy, safe. Opportunities to go to  great schools with  even greater teachers.  A church family who laid a strong foundation for an important core matter:  loving as Jesus loved.    

         There was just enough passion and love in my marriage  to bring more sweet moments:  healthy pregnancies with healthy baby girls.   I have lived long enough to see my daughters grow up and to be blessed to have a larger family who  remains deeply embedded in their lives.    Both have relationships with all four grandparents, aunts and uncles, and cousins that extend beyond just Christmas cards or once-a-year gatherings. 

          More proof?   For a brief, magical time, soulful love rejuvenated my broken spirit.  Yes, it was a relationship  destined to break my heart, but the experience had a way of healing it, too. 

          From day one of having my first real job, the joy of teaching has never gotten old; I get tired,  but tired is so way better than unfulfilled.  

          The joy of sharing travel and sports and writing and music and food with friends and family--hard to beat.

          And each day for the past fifty-five years, my mornings have begun by waking up and knowing--not guessing or worrying or hoping--that someone needs me.  Mine has been a life of purpose.

          So that brings me back to the icing. 

          I have had an entire life of "cake."  Now I just gratefully gorge myself on the good stuff on top:   good health, daughters with a sense of humor, the voice of parents (now in their 80s) on the other end of the phone, Hi-Def TV, eating ice cream cones, visits with old friends and emails from former students, sitting in the back yard by myself,  a faith that grows closer to fine, driving the El Camino with the windows rolled down, and the list goes on and on and on........

            My purpose now is to live a life of gratitude because I get to live in the sweet stuff.  

            My purpose now is also to live a life of humility because so many people in our world die without even a taste.

      

Stuck Between A Wheel Bearing and a Famine

     What makes for a frustrating day?

     On a frustration scale of one to ten, I had originally decided to give today a seven.

     Around 11 a.m., I was heading to Midland to have lunch with my daughter. 

     Around 11:30 a.m, my car made the decision for me that I might ought to go to Lubbock instead and see the repair shop that had worked on the vehicle two months ago after I hit a deer.  Frustration--and disappointment--set in but only mildly.  Surely this was going to be something easily remedied, and perhaps I could head over to Midland for an early evening dinner.

      The visit at the auto shop, however, did not produce results that I wanted.  Most businesses in Lubbock take it for granted that everyone who comes into their store on a Friday lives in Lubbock and can wait until Monday to take care of matters.  It seemed the gasoline for the unexpected trip to Lubbock was all but wasted, so I thought I would try to salvage what I could of the day and at least get a few groceries. 

       As it turns out, the market was right next door to another car care business.  I went in, talked to Bill, and he took care of matters immediately. 
       The problem, he said, was not related to hitting the deer. He also said he would call the dealership for me in Lubbock and see what they could do.  That was a big mistake.  That dealership was, in Bill's word, "squirrel-ly"  and would not be helpful unless I forked over more money for a diagnostic test that Bill said it didn't need.

        That's when Bill and I both decided the best route to take would be to go to Abilene where I bought the car and let them take care of it, hopefully under warranty. 

         By now, I had made several calls to my insurance adjuster and the Abilene dealership trying to sort out exactly what to do, and by 3 p.m. the decision was made. 

         After four hours of what I THOUGHT was frustrating, I headed home in my air-conditioned albeit injured car with a diet soda, groceries, tunes on the radio, and still money in my account.

          *********

          The scale score for a frustrating day changed.   That revelation came to me while sitting in the market, waiting on Bill's vehicle inspection, and eating my hearty lunch of chicken, bread, and fresh vegetables.

          Frustration is not a four-hour Friday episode of trying to figure out what to do with a 2010 vehicle.

          Frustration is walking days with your five children to a place where you can only hope aid workers can provide some sustenance.
          Frustration is not being able to bury the three children who died en route.
          Frustration is taking your children to a hospital in that same country, a facility without running water or electricity or toilets.

         Frustration is knowing that a cholera outbreak is rampant in that area, even in the hospital.

         And frustration is knowing that help in the form of food and medicine are being sent and are available but that a group of militant soldiers--all in the name of their radical "faith"--are preventing those supplies from saving men, women, and children.

         Frustration is famine and hate and war and all the rotten stuff that goes along with it. 

         I am stuck alright.......stuck in a world where people sometimes complain about having to do lunch duty at school, a world where a copy machine malfunction leads to impatient and hateful words at the office, and a world where people often neglect to say a prayer of thanks before a meal.  A real meal.

         Frustration is staying stuck when you know better.

       

         

                   

Branching Out

       This past weekend my cousin Diana Beth came up with a great activity at our biennial family reunion/Sportsfest.  Our McCleskey family does not  get together just to eat; we compete.

       Diana's instructions for the game were simple enough:  take a tomato, a lemon, a piece of bread, a toothpick, a Starburst candy, and a lifesaver and create something that tells a story.  

        Oddly enough, no one even considered asking me to represent our group (Team Clifton so named for my mother's brother).  I understood why and was certainly not offended and most certainly relieved.  The other team members were all over 50, so we opted to choose Chloe, the youngest McCleskey in attendance.  However, she wanted Turk, my cousin and fellow team member, to assist.   

         Turk and Chloe, who have maybe been in the same room  twice or three times in their lifetimes, made the most of the 10-minutes allotted.   The Virginia Military Institute history professor listened intently to this eight-year-old from Seattle.  Chloe knew what she wanted to do with that menagerie of food items, but she wanted Turk by her side providing narration for the creation. 

          The end result was a delightful story that had some family members meeting for gin and tonics (Turk's input) under a lemon parasol (Chloe's food sculpture).  

          As it turned out, my cousin Pierce won the competition for Team Eula (my mom's sister).  It was a fair decision:  Pierce is a chef/caterer.  The guy could take sawdust, squid, and mayonnaise and prepare something that would look edible even if it weren't.

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

       

          This Friday night event made me appreciate the imagery that is used to represent  ancestry and lineage:  the family tree. 

           It is mistaken to think that family trees only "grow" when a new child is born.  Branches are added whenever precious moments occur, and Turk and Chloe's partnership was one such moment.  These third cousins who hardly know each other were out on a limb together.  All they have in common is the trunk of that tree, but what a rooted and solid foundation it is.

            Like any family, we have endured the elements that have the ability to nourish and those that can destroy. 

            As the seasons go, our family tree has been verdant and lush, experiencing the joys that come with the celebrations of marriages, births, graduations, and job successes. 

            But no family is immune to the bitter blasts of cold.  Trials and struggles, whether self-inflicted or life-inflicted, have not only stripped the limbs from time to time but have sadly broken them on occasion.  Trees do not always produce and provide shade; sometimes the branches' silhouette is hauntingly bare.           

             Watching Turk and Chloe at Sportsfest VIII was pure nourishment.  The McCleskey Family tree trunk is holding steady, and it never hurts to have a drink of family. 

             Yes, the tree symbol is clearly appropriate:  one trunk  but many branches going off in all  directions make for a spectacular sight.  When winter comes, the gnarled but  still connected limbs are exposed.  When spring arrives, the blossoms and eventual leaves shape the tree as one.  

             No matter a family's size, its  members  can always make room to grow.   One of the best ways to do that is to follow Turk and Chloe's lead:  overlook the differences in years or in geography or even in ideology; sometimes even try embracing those differences.
              Doing so might just help our roots grow deeper.