Common Sense Manifesto/Farewell to Facebook

--Dedicated to Johanna Reiss, my author friend (The Upstairs Room, The Journey Back, That Fatal Night, and A Hidden Life)

I am broken. For now.

Not that broken that curls me up in a ball at night or keeps me from eating (obviously). 

Not the kind that makes me cry or give up.

It is the kind of broken that Alonso Quixado felt on his deathbed.  

The Don Quixote in me has retreated.

Like many of you--or I hope like many of you--the past sixteen months have been spent studying and researching and determining how my vote would be cast on November 8, 2016.  I worked hard because citizenship is hard work.  I did not assume anything.  As with any campaign season, bias runs its course.  Spin on news comes with the territory--we grow up spinning excuses about our finances or our relationships or our health or child rearing. Why are we critical of the media or talking heads when they do it?  If we truly do our homework, we can filter as needed.  

But something was different in 2016.  And it broke me.

Before you quit reading, thinking this is cry-baby mode about the election result, I challenge you to continue.   

Beyond any November outcomes, I am broken because of what transpired last spring and into the fall and even today.  It is not that a certain candidate lost or that another won.  It is the path we took to that result that knocked me down.

--I saw hate.

--I read hate.

--I heard hate.

--I struggled to find my idealism when I read people had discovered they could profit from fake news sites.

         http://www.nytimes.com/2016/11/25/world/europe/fake-news-donald-trump-hillary-clinton-georgia.html

--I was deflated when I watched news interviews or read comments of those who falsely said our President and his family had taken faith out of the White House.  I offer proof below that he has not.

      A discussion on ACU's campus in 2008 led by Dr. Shaun Casey on the role of religion in the public square influenced and reshaped the function of the office [Office of Faith Based and Neighborhood Partnership] under the Obama administration. Casey ('81) is an ACU alum and professor of theology at Wesley Theological Seminary in Washington, D.C. He is an adviser to the Obama administration on religious affairs. 

            http://www.acu.edu/legacy/news/2012/120516-white-house-briefing.html

         

--I cringed when I heard specific jokes for which there was no apology made about women, knowing that family members--including myself--have been victims (yes, that is the word) of sexual advances and assault.  (For the record, I also cringed in 1998 when another politician demeaned his position along these same lines).

--I felt disillusionment knowing that political ideologies, not a collective litmus test of character, seemed to sway our judgment.

--I felt ashamed that I could not share why I related more to Hillary (someone who has paid the price for questionable decision-making but who at the core has spent most of her life in true public service) because I, too,  have made bad decisions which have adversely affected others. Yet I know in my heart I am not a liar, a cheater, or a crook.   I thought of students who may have been told at home or by fellow classmates or by other teachers that they are stupid and dumb and eventually how those students begin to believe that....when they are not. The formula worked:  say something or write something often enough, and soon people will believe it unconditionally. 

--Finally, I felt frustrated that reason and common sense did not surface for healthy discourse on the issues that we care about.  It's a given that we are going to disagree on how to solve problems. Sadly, there appear to be no Henry Clay types anymore to orchestrate the necessity of compromise.  I will never be convinced that issues such as abortion, immigration, or the use of public restrooms could not be worked out using education, common sense, and decency.  The letter of the law--the very thing we loathe about the Pharisees and Sadducees--obviously still has a tight grip.

      My desire?  To see this country find a way to fight fair and fight intellectually (because I am not against fighting--a debate coach never would be).  Go read any book about the Continental Congress's meetings in 1776 or the Constitutional Convention in the hot summer of 1787.  Those statesmen were often at each other's throats; it was rarely congenial.  But the job got done well, and we live with the end result over 200 years later: that end result being a peaceful transfer of power on November 8 and culminating with President-elect Trump's Inauguration Day in January 2017.

     No recount is needed.  But no Twitter based on the false claim that "millions of illegal immigrants voted" is either.  The United States is better than this.  I long for the common sense that will encourage all citizens to cherish what is good, to restore wisdom, and to move forward in ways that reflect a kinship with the world.  Yes, we must physically protect our nation, but we must also protect our honorable reputation for championing good over evil.  Yes, the government needs to consider funding social programs, but it has a fiscal responsibility to be good stewards as well.  This is not partisan.  This is common sense.

      At the beginning of this blog, I dedicated this to Mrs. Reiss.  She and I have emailed for a few years now after having taught her novel, The Upstairs Room, to my Sixth Graders.  She is a Holocaust survivor who, as a young girl,  went into hiding for over two years in the 1940s because she was Jewish. She came to this country after the war, married, raised two daughters, and is a U.S. citizen.  I have channeled her thoughts and words many times in the past few months--and will do so in the years to come.  Because history, not Facebook or Twitter or news sites, is my teacher.  Her history is a part of ours.

        ****************

        I will miss reading your good news of family, your funny posts, your beautiful pictures. And, as an artist and writer, I will have a tremendous void at not having a broad outlet such as Facebook to share my travels, my classroom experiences, and my stories. (You can still access some on Instagram where I will post photos).

                         Call this a manifesto.  

                         Call it my Waterloo. 😏

           

          Two roads diverged.  I am simply taking the one that will help me go fight the windmills. 

   

Common Sense Manifesto/Farewell to Facebook

--Dedicated to Johanna Reiss, my author friend (The Upstairs Room, The Journey Back, That Fatal Night, and A Hidden Life)

I am broken. For now.

Not that broken that curls me up in a ball at night or keeps me from eating (obviously). 

Not the kind that makes me cry or give up.

It is the kind of broken that Alonso Quixado felt on his deathbed.  

The Don Quixote in me has retreated.

Like many of you--or I hope like many of you--the past sixteen months have been spent studying and researching and determining how my vote would be cast on November 8, 2016.  I worked hard because citizenship is hard work.  I did not assume anything.  As with any campaign season, bias runs its course.  Spin on news comes with the territory--we grow up spinning excuses about our finances or our relationships or our health or child rearing. Why are we critical of the media or talking heads when they do it?  If we truly do our homework, we can filter as needed.  

But something was different in 2016.  And it broke me.

Before you quit reading, thinking this is cry-baby mode about the election result, I challenge you to continue.   

Beyond any November outcomes, I am broken because of what transpired last spring and into the fall and even today.  It is not that a certain candidate lost or that another won.  It is the path we took to that result that knocked me down.

--I saw hate.

--I read hate.

--I heard hate.

--I struggled to find my idealism when I read people had discovered they could profit from fake news sites.

         http://www.nytimes.com/2016/11/25/world/europe/fake-news-donald-trump-hillary-clinton-georgia.html

--I was deflated when I watched news interviews or read comments of those who falsely said our President and his family had taken faith out of the White House.  I offer proof below that he has not.

      A discussion on ACU's campus in 2008 led by Dr. Shaun Casey on the role of religion in the public square influenced and reshaped the function of the office [Office of Faith Based and Neighborhood Partnership] under the Obama administration. Casey ('81) is an ACU alum and professor of theology at Wesley Theological Seminary in Washington, D.C. He is an adviser to the Obama administration on religious affairs. 

            http://www.acu.edu/legacy/news/2012/120516-white-house-briefing.html

         

--I cringed when I heard specific jokes for which there was no apology made about women, knowing that family member--including myself--have been victims (yes, that is the word) of sexual advances and assault.  (For the record, I also cringed in 1998 when another politician demeaned his position along these same lines).

--I felt disillusionment knowing that political ideologies, not a collective litmus test of character, seemed to sway our judgment.

--I felt ashamed that I could not share why I related more to Hillary (someone who has paid the price for questionable decision-making but who at the core has spent most of her life in true public service) because I, too,  have made bad decisions which have adversely affected others. Yet I know in my heart I am not a liar, a cheater, or a crook.   I thought of students who may have been told at home or by fellow classmates or by other teachers that they are stupid and dumb and eventually how those students begin to believe that....when they are not. The formula worked:  say something or write something often enough, and soon people will believe it unconditionally. 

--Finally, I felt frustrated that reason and common sense did not surface for healthy discourse on the issues that we care about.  It's a given that we are going to disagree on how to solve problems. Sadly, there appear to be no Henry Clay types anymore to orchestrate the necessity of compromise.  I will never be convinced that issues such as abortion, immigration, or the use of public restrooms could not be worked out with education and common sense and decency.  The letter of the law--the very thing we loathe about the Pharisees and Sadducees--obviously still has a tight grip.

      My desire?  To see this country find a way to fight fair and fight intellectually (because I am not against fighting--a debate coach never would be).  Go read any book about the Continental Congress's meetings in 1776 or the Constitutional Convention in the hot summer of 1787.  Those statesmen were often at each other's throats; it was rarely congenial.  But the job got done well, and we live with the end result over 200 years later: the end result being a peaceful transfer of power on November 8 and culminating with President-elect Trump's Inauguration Day in January 2017.

     No recount is needed.  But no Twitter based on the false claim that "millions of illegal immigrants voted" is either.  Grow up, America.  We are better than this.  I long for the common sense that will encourage all citizens to cherish what is good, to restore wisdom, and to move forward in ways that reflect a kinship with the world.  Yes, we must physically protect our nation, but we must also protect our honorable reputation for championing good instead of evil.  Yes, the government needs to consider funding social programs, but it has a fiscal responsibility to be good stewards as well.  This is not partisan.  This is common sense.

      At the beginning of this blog, I dedicated this to Mrs. Reiss.  She and I have emailed for a few years now after having taught her novel, The Upstairs Room, to my Sixth Graders.  She is a Holocaust survivor who, as a young girl,  went into hiding for over two years in the 1940s because she was Jewish. She came to this country after the war, married, raised two daughters, and is a U.S. citizen.  I have channeled her thoughts and words many times in the past few months--and will do so in the years to come.  Because history, not Facebook or Twitter or news sites, is my teacher.  Her history is a part of ours.

        ****************

        I will miss reading your good news of family, your funny posts, your beautiful pictures. And, as an artist and writer, I will have a tremendous void at not having a broad outlet such as Facebook to share my travels, my classroom experiences, and my stories. (You can still access some on Instagram where I will post photos).

                         Call this a manifesto.  

                         Call it my Waterloo. 😏

           

          Two roads diverged.  I am simply taking the one that will help me go fight the windmills. 

   

Common Sense Manifesto/Farewell to Facebook

--Dedicated to Johanna Reiss, my author friend (The Upstairs Room, The Journey Back, That Fatal Night, and A Hidden Life)

I am broken. For now.

Not that broken that curls me up in a ball at night or keeps me from eating (obviously). 

Not the kind that makes me cry or give up.

It is the kind of broken that Alonso Quixado felt on his deathbed.  

The Don Quixote in me has retreated.

Like many of you--or I hope like many of you--the past sixteen months have been spent studying and researching and determining how my vote would be cast on November 8, 2016.  I worked hard because citizenship is hard work.  I did not assume anything.  As with any campaign season, bias runs its course.  Spin on news comes with the territory--we grow up spinning excuses about our finances or our relationships or our health or child rearing. Why are we critical of the media or talking heads when they do it?  If we truly do our homework, we can filter.  

But something was different in 2016.  And it broke me.

Before you quit reading, thinking this is cry-baby mode about the election result, I challenge you to continue.   

Beyond any November outcomes, I am broken because of what transpired last spring and into the fall and even today.  It is not that a certain candidate lost or that another won.  It is the path we took to that result that knocked me down.

--I saw hate.

--I read hate.

--I heard hate.

--I struggled to find my idealism when I read people had discovered they could profit from fake news sites.

         http://www.nytimes.com/2016/11/25/world/europe/fake-news-donald-trump-hillary-clinton-georgia.html

--I was deflated when I watched news interviews or read comments of those who falsely said our President and his family had taken faith out of the White House.  I offer proof below that he has not.

      A discussion on ACU's campus in 2008 led by Dr. Shaun Casey on the role of religion in the public square influenced and reshaped the function of the office [Office of Faith Based and Neighborhood Partnership] under the Obama administration. Casey ('81) is an ACU alum and professor of theology at Wesley Theological Seminary in Washington, D.C. He is an adviser to the Obama administration on religious affairs. 

            http://www.acu.edu/legacy/news/2012/120516-white-house-briefing.html

         

--I cringed when I heard specific jokes for which there was no apology made about women, knowing that family members--including myself--have been victims (yes, that is the word) of sexual advances and assault.  (For the record, I also cringed in 1998 when another politician demeaned his position along these same lines).

--I felt disillusionment knowing that political ideologies, not a collective litmus test of character, seemed to sway our judgment.

--I felt ashamed that I could not share why I related more to Hillary (someone who has paid the price for questionable decision-making but who at the core has spent most of her life in true public service) because I, too,  have made bad decisions  which have affected others. Yet I know in my heart I am not a liar, a cheater, or a crook.   I thought of students who may have been told at home or by fellow classmates or by other teachers that they are stupid and dumb and eventually how those students begin to believe that....when they are not. The formula worked:  say something or write something often enough, and soon people will believe it unconditionally. 

--Finally, I felt frustrated that reason and common sense did not surface for healthy discourse on the issues that we care about.  It's a given that we are going to disagree on how to solve problems. Sadly, there appear to be no Henry Clay types anymore to orchestrate the necessity of compromise.  I will never be convinced that issues such as abortion, immigration, or the use of public restrooms could not be worked out with education and common sense and decency.  The letter of the law--the very thing we loathe about the Pharisees and Sadducees--obviously still has a tight grip.

      My desire is to see this country find a way to fight fair (because I am not against fighting--a debate coach never would be).  Go read any book about the Continental Congress's meetings in 1776 or the Constitutional Convention in the hot summer of 1787.  Those statesmen were often at each other's throats; it was rarely congenial.  But the job got done well, and we live with the end result over 200 years later: the end result being a peaceful transfer of power on November 8 and culminating on Inauguration Day in January 2017.

     No recount is needed.  But no Twitter based on the false claim that "millions of illegal immigrants voted" is either.  The United States is better than this.  I long for the common sense that will encourage all citizens to cherish what is good, to restore wisdom, and to move forward in ways that reflect a kinship with the world.  Yes, we must physically protect our nation, but we must also protect our honorable reputation for championing good instead of evil.  Yes, the government needs to consider funding social programs, but it has a fiscal responsibility to be good stewards as well.  This is not partisan.  This is common sense.

      At the beginning of this blog, I dedicated this to Mrs. Reiss.  She and I have emailed for a few years now after having taught her novel The Upstairs Room to my Sixth Graders.  She is a Holocaust survivor who, as a young girl,  went into hiding for over two years in the 1940s because she was Jewish. She came to this country after the war, married, raised two daughters, and is a U.S. citizen.  I have channeled her thoughts and words many times in the past few months--and will do so in the years to come.  Because history, not Facebook or Twitter or news sites, is my teacher.  Her history is a part of ours.

        ****************

        I will miss reading your good news of family, your funny posts, your beautiful pictures. And, as an artist and writer, I will have a tremendous void at not having a broad outlet such as Facebook to share my travels, my classroom experiences, and my stories. (You can still access some on Instagram where I will post photos).

                         Call this a manifesto.  

                         Call it my Waterloo. 😏

           

          Two roads diverged.  I am simply taking the one that will help me go fight the windmills. 

   

Sweet Allie

Sweet Allie

     There really never was a time when Julie and John did not have Allie.  In only their second year of knowing each other, my daughter and her then boyfriend did what college kids do when they think they may have met the love of their lives:  get a dog together.  

     Puppies are the first engagement rings.  Not quite as expensive.  A good primer for the challenges that will come in the years ahead should the couple stay together.  Their Allie taught them about patience, commitment, loyalty, and love.  All of those the ingredients they would need to grow not just in their love for her but in their love for each other.

     For fourteen years, this beautiful Boxer faithfully followed their regimen and routine (except when I came to visit and let her jump up in my bed after they went to work--it was fun disobeying Julie). The rest of the family swore that sometimes Allie's paw made this motion to salute when Julie walked by.
    But, oh, how Allie was loved by two individuals who were as bound to her as she was to them.
    They were family.      
    A family that is now smaller, as Allie's 14 years of curling up at the end of their bed are over.
 
    May they remember Allie's puppy-ness that in the beginning gave them a common focus, her wagging stub of a tail that greeted them every day when they walked in the door, and her unconditional devotion to her favorite people on this earth.

    "I want old love, the kind that takes years, to turn to gold love...."

     I pray Julie and John will experience this kind of love with each other fifty years from now.
     And they can thank the sweetest Boxer that ever lived for preparing them for their own golden moments.

When the Baby of the Family Turns 50

On September 5, 1966--which was also a Monday and a Labor Day (a double entendre for Mother Lillie)--Sabrina Anne Sullivan rounded out the line-up for our family.

She broke the gender tie as the girls were now up 3-2 with no chance for the boys to make a comeback. Our family--started in 1954 with Scotty's entry--was now complete, other than the numerous animals that would turnstyle through our backyards.

Today, this baby turns 50, and we are in denial.

The youngest in the family is supposed to be ageless, isn't she?  Sabrina kept Christmas toyfest going longer for all of her siblings.  If she believed, we all got the goods. If she cried when hurt, it could be a nice diversion for a teenager who was on the cusp of some serious scolding for a totally unrelated situation.  Little girl Sabrina had gymnastics, dance, softball--good excuse for teenage siblings to ask for a car in order to develop our altruistic gifts.  Of course.

Sabrina and her older brother by only 19 months--that would be Mr. Shane, pictured below licking a fudge pan as he still does to this very day--kept us all young. That was their job.

I don't want her to catch up with her aging siblings.  Give us that Danskin look, that ducked head with a shy smile,  those sleepy eyes lying in bed with her "Whitey," the beloved stuffed animal that one night just "flew away."  I want to relive hearing little feet hitting the floor, running from the room to get Mother because her prankster sisters were throwing up, which of course we were not (but mine and Sara's sound effects were excellent).   Sabrina fell for it every time, at least until Mother did not think it was so excellent to be interrupted from the only 15 minutes of alone time that she probably had at night.

Because Sabrina refused all suggestions, requests, pleadings, and threats from her siblings to throw her a big party, we are not celebrating together.  Unlike her siblings who enjoy any chance to shine through entertaining or performing, Sabrina just left town with her family.  That's what babies do--get their own way.  She wasn't like that as a real baby.  She was so placid and peaceful and quiet and even keel and compliant (as noted in the above story about vomit).  Actually, today, she carries many of those same beautiful qualities, although I have witnessed her get a bit rowdy when her Atlanta Braves are playing.  

Nope, I am not ready for Sabrina to reach this milestone.  Partly because it makes me feel older, which I am by a longshot, but also because she is our last thread to childhood.  To youth.  To days of playing outside and watching out for her. Sabrina is our reminder of the happiness we lived on Hill Avenue before we all grew up....the youngest who handed out Christmas presents with an assist from Shane, the last to attend East Elementary before it was torn down, the last to get her driver's license, to go to prom, the one who drove off to college signaling an end to our family's public school attendance from 1960 to 1985.    

 As a middle school history teacher extaordinaire, Sabrina's age is now a bonus for the students fortunate to be in her classes. Her older perspective, experience, and passion for history are now adding up to give her "babies" the best educational experience they can imagine.  She is almost old enough to retire. Did I just write that?  Time will not honor my request for this Labor Day baby to remain young in years, nor should it because her wisdom is serving to help so many students during those challenging middle school years.

Think I'll  request an audience with the birthday girl when she gets home from The Calculated Escape, act like a baby myself and say, "Hey, your Braves are in last place by 25 games. Happy Birthday!" That's what she gets for skipping out and also for not being a Yankees fan.

Gene Wilder, For You

Sometimes, I just need to acknowledge characters who make me think of childhood (Willie Wonka) and things that make me happy (fudge).

Gene Wilder, For You

Gene Wilder, For You

Sometimes, I just like to think of characters that remind me of childhood (Willie Wonka) and things that make me happy (fudge).

Gene Wilder, For You

A Golden Legacy

Mrs. Jarrett.

Not sure two other words in the English language evoke more respect, fear, appreciation, and love for those of us who knew this classroom matriarch. 

She was that teacher you did not interrupt.  

She was that teacher on task, who did not suffer slackers lightly.

She was that teacher who set the tone, who taught by the book, and who basically wrote the book on taking care of business, both literally and figuratively.  

Netta Lou Hubbard Jarrett--you can see in the the photo above with Brice Key (BHS '87 and TTU MBA 2011)--that the gal was chic.  She wore it well, whatever it was.  But that photo is more about what she wore in her heart than on her sleeves because she loved, loved her former students.  When Brice was working to get his graduate degree, it would be her letters with encouraging words that pushed him on. "We love you and we believe in you." Staying in touch with her students mattered;  staying in touch with her mattered to her students.

 

 Not long ago when Mrs. Jarrett was in the hospital in San Angelo, she was surrounded by BHS students from the 60s, 70s, 80s, and even two students graduating in 2016 who knew of her.  We tried to make it a point on most of our Austin UIL trips to stop by and see Mr. and Mrs. Jarrett.  It was important for today's students to know who paved the way, especially in competitive UIL.   That phrase I use often is so applicable to the relationship that the current UIL academic program had with the Jarretts:  remembering that "who we are is who we were." 

I cut my teeth on UIL academics watching Mrs. Jarrett--the lady brought it every year in those now-ancient contests of Shorthand and Typing. In 1985,  I coached my  first UIL qualifier.  That trip was memorable for many reasons, but I soon learned to adapt and defer to the lady who knew what she was doing.  It was all business until Saturday night after the competition was over.  That method worked for Mrs. Jarrett;  we respected the discipline and focus, and the results showed.  State Champions, state medalists, state qualifiers--it was her norm.

  

The next year, 1986, I got to tag along again.  You can tell in the photo (far left), that I was still learning the ropes.   Look at Mrs. Jarrett--she had the pose. She had the bow.  She had the photogenic smile.  Mrs. Jarrett tried, she really tried, to mentor me.

 

Mr. and Mrs. Jarrett retired in 1989, having dedicated most of their young adulthood and middle-aged years  to Borden County ISD.  Yearbooks, beauty pageants, class sponsoring, senior trips, Dallas Cowboys discussions in the smoky teachers' lounge on Monday mornings, that shrill laugh, the intense look, the start-class-right-when-the-bell-rings and end-class-when-the-bell-rings regimen, and a genuine love for wanting to help students learn skills that could help them down the road.

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


The three administrative couples who led the way in 1978 when I first came to Borden County were my bedrock, the wise guardians who guided me at the start of my  teaching career.  Mrs. Jarrett is now with Mr. and Mrs. McLeroy, whose presence I still feel and whose voices I still miss.  It is hard to explain to teaching friends outside of Borden County what pillars of men and women I had lifting me up in the beginning.  Along with Mr. and Mrs. McMeans, they composed  an educational triumvirate that changed the course of my life.


Tonight, I remember Mrs. Jarrett.  As the yearbook sponsor for years, she would hopefully approve the following dedication I give to her from all of us at Borden County:
 

For your professionalism and integrity, we honor you.

For your graceful and dignified manner of teaching and living, we thank you.

For unmatched dedication to your profession and to your students, we will remember you.

For all things Mrs. Jarrett, we love you.

     My little world is blessed with two sons-in-law.  John was the first, married to my firstborn, Julie,  11 years ago.  He is a man all men should be. I knew it in 2005; I believe it even more today. 

     Emily (above) married Zach in 2013 to complete our family dynamics until Lillie came along last summer.  The past year has not only taught me about the joys of grandparenting but reinforced the answered prayers of a mother-in-law.

      ***********

      A man's home is his castle.  A man's home is not meant for a mother-in-law to live in. 

    However, during the first two weeks of Lillie Jane's life, my second son-in-law opened up his castle and gladly welcomed me.  The three of us rotated shifts, changed diapers, walked the floor as we teamworked our way through the typical concerns of first-time parents, first-time grandparent. 

     Privy to this young couple's partnership those first few days at home, I sometimes stepped back just to observe them navigate.  Zach woke up for Lillie's feedings just to reassure and calm Emily and Lillie during breastfeeding.   Lillie's little 8-pound body was often cradled in her dad's arms, rocked to sleep on his chest.  He proactively fathered, not shying away from calls to doctors or nurses with questions and took off work to accompany his girls for doctors' visits.  Zach slept very little and worried a lot those first few days, even weeks, as the reality of fatherhood set in.

    ***********

       Lillie is, of course, a magnet for this first-time grandmother, so I show up often just to get my fix. Throughout these past 11 months, Zach has not once made me feel unwelcome on the many visits I have made to their home. He and I have waded our way through the boundaries that are in place, and today we respect and know how best to proceed.  We may even be approaching the "relief" sigh when I show up--it's good to feel wanted.

    ***********

       In the years to come, I believe with all my heart that Lillie has a father who will listen to her, who will challenge her, who will teach her to be compassionate and understanding....a father who will discipline and then make sure she understands why.  Zach will nurture her faith--whatever faith she chooses--because he recognizes that is the best way for Lillie to grow.  She will have a Dad who is a constant presence, one who makes her a priority. 

     Best of all, Lillie has a father who loves his wife and is devoted to her. Zach honors Emily; Zach cherishes Emily.  Daily, he tries to live the vows he made to her three years ago.
                                         

  In other words, Lillie's father loves Lillie's mother. 

  I think that makes me a mother-in-love.
  

  

The Ones Left Behind

As an extracurricular academic coach, so many rewarding opportunities have presented themselves when it comes to watching students achieve their goals.  In the case of the small town school that's been my employer now for many years, the trip to Austin for state-wide competition has been the pinnacle.

And so it was this past week as we enjoyed a contingency of 11 such students, all of whom experienced the chance to compete at the highest level.

And compete they did.  And compete with honor they did.  And honor their school and family by their behavior they did.

So, I come home tired tonight, another state trip in the books, with pride and joy for these kids and their families.  

End of blog.

Except for one thing:  the ones left behind.

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

Many years ago as a young teacher/coach, this academic competition was about me. Me showing how hard  I worked, how smart I thought I was. Me showing how competitive I was.  Me, the people pleaser and overachiever, wanting to add something to my resume.         Me. Me. Me. I. I. I.

Somewhere along the career path, The Morph took place. For these past many years, the focus has been where it needed to be all along: on the children.  

Coaching will always be about results. Accountability has its place, and when those results are measured in medals, it just seems everyone is a bit happier.  

Unfortunately, for every student we took to Austin, there were just as many back home who had worked hard, some maybe even harder.  There were early Saturday mornings and late Saturday nights for speech tournaments and academic meets.  From September to April, the grind to study and prepare and speak were mixed in with the demands of regular education and other extracurricular events such as FFA, athletics, a part-time job, or all three.  

I want the pinnacle for all of them.  I do not like to leave anyone behind who has put in the work and given everything he or she possibly could and yet still comes up short.

This is how I  know I have evolved.  In the early years of my career when a school year started, I always hoped I would have one student get ME to Austin so that I could miss school, eat well, stay in a hotel, and basically receive the accolade.  Shameful but necessary to admit. It is daily self-evaluation that helps us grow, no matter our ages.

Thankfully,  I  now see individual students with unique talents and gifts which need to be nurtured and channeled to a certain academic event or speaking event or FFA program or to a certain sport or instrument and say "get after it." I am here to support them on the way to their pinnacle, God love them, not mine.  

Confessing this should explain now why I am sad, even after being on a recent trip with 11 students. Some others stayed home and missed the opportunity.  They will have to wait.  If they are seniors, the chance is over.  I carry the disappointment for so many talented writers and speakers and test-takers who never made it to Austin, in part because I did not give quite enough.  

This personal shortcoming is partially what drives me to continue coaching with the passion that I do, but more than anything it is the joy I want  students to experience that pushes me to challenge them. I do not want to leave them behind because I know what lies ahead:  their chance to shine and their opportunities to experience

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

The young man in the photo worked after school and on weekends.  He had no suit of his own; three were given to him by the family of a former speaker/debater.  He went to every tournament he could. He came to tutorials for help.  He read his ballots.  He tried to write his own speeches.  He stayed in the background many times while our future state champion won most all of the time.  He listened. He watched.  He learned.  But, he got left behind after losing in the semi-finals at regional, one win away from state competition.  

I know I could have done more. I know, said his coach.

I should have done more.  I should have, said his teacher (who is also his coach).

So, 2016--here's to what went right in our pursuit of excellence.

And to you, 2017--dedicated to making things right for those left.......behind no more.

"If you do a good job for others, you heal yourself at the same time because a dose of joy is a spiritual cure."  

A Musical Blog

Since You Came Along

A Musical Blog

Since You Came Along

Since You Came Along

Since You Came Along

Keeping Up with the Kids (or, The Children Really Are All Right)

     These are our children.

   A collective assortment--some with talent still untapped, many with gifts yet to be unwrapped, a few with intellect that surpasses that of those twice their age, and all with the desire to learn.  

   To learn.

   In the small, rural school setting, our children practice  on county roads for cross country meets, avoiding snakes and rabbits. Our children line up on the field in a six-man football game, on a track for a 400m relay, or at a concession stand window to take orders. They wear  make-up and costumes in one-act plays and boots and starched jeans/shirts for stock shows of FFA judging contests.  

     To learn.

     After late-night-two-nights a week basketball games, they get up early (as in 5 a.m. early) to ride on a bus to speech and academic meets.  After those meets, our children find their second wind and talk all the way home just to keep their sponsor awake.  They talk about music and taco stands and what homework is due on Monday after their very, very short weekend.

     To learn.

    More often than not, our students have academic coaches who  

One of our children--the one who taught himself Computer Science--
 whose mother was also one of
our UIL children in the late 1990s.

are not experts in the contests in which these students participate.  Rather than gripe and complain, they choose to  own their education with independent study, research, and practice in order to learn.

     Our children meet students from other schools who may be competitors but are mostly comrades.  Friendships among students from other schools of all sizes, those based first on respect, are a trademark highlight of many of our students, especially those who compete in speech and debate.  They revel in the fact that   

 they have finally found others like themselves--the ones who want to score the touchdown on Friday night but also want to read Poetry on  Saturday morning. They are introduced to open minds and rational argumentation.  They  often forget their awards on the bus because the medals and ribbons  are not the day's highlights--it is the experience 

of learning.

     Finding their niche--from their fashion sense to their choice of extracurricular events--our children are searching for 

and finding answers.... and then asking even more questions so they can learn.

     Whether individual or group, our children come to understand the necessity of a balanced work ethic--a mantra that insists upon the principle that it is possible and preferable to have fun and to reap joy in the pursuit of knowledge.  Because work and fun can go hand in hand when it is fun to learn.

    

The two on the right have
fathers who were also "our children."

Our children sometimes grow up to become our bosses. Sometimes our children  have children of their own who will take old sponsors down memory lane as they see the child in the parent....and smile because the parent made it a priority for his son or daughter to learn.

After teaching the "child" in the middle over 35 years ago,
I now refer to him as Mr. Principal.  The sponsor on the
right is married to another former student.

    

                     As seasons of events end and new ones begin, we witness our children moving from one arena

to another, their mental and physical stamina far greater than ours.   From a baseball or softball diamond to a eight-lane track and then on to a stage or podium or court, our children are our noblest investment. From them, we learn. 

"The best thing for being sad," replied Merlin, "is to learn something.  That's the only thing that never fails.  You may grow old and trembling in our anatomies....you may miss your only love, you may see the world about you devastated by evil lunatics, or know your honour trampled in the sewers of baser minds. There is only one thing for it then--to learn. Learn why the world wags and what wags it. That is the only thing which the mind can never exhaust, never alienate, never be tortured by, never fear or distrust, and never dream of regretting.  Learning is the only thing for you.  Look what a lot of things there are to learn." -- T. H. White, The Once and Future King

Dear Erma Bombeck, Wherever You Are

Dear Mrs. Bombeck,

I realize that I neglected to write you this letter while you were still alive.  Totally my bad.  Please accept my apologies for this oversight; there is enough belief in the system to know that somewhere, somehow, someway you are going to read this overdue thank you and not return it unopened. 

Your syndicated column appeared in the area newspaper that the Sullivan Family received in its flower bed or wet lawn or rock garden (anywhere but the porch) every morning:  The Abilene-Reporter News.  The only part of the paper I would read was the sports section because, back then, sports sections covered more local athletic events.  I knew who quarterbacked the Cooper Cougars and the Abilene High Eagles as well as the Sweetwater Mustangs and my hometown, the Snyder Tigers.  I knew those quarterbacks' parents' names, if they were in the National Honor Society, and how much they weighed.    I read line scores for basketball, the box scores for baseball, as well as golf's leaderboards (always skimming for Arnold's finish).

It was somewhere during the junior high years that your writing entered my arena.  My mother (my mother of five children aging from 0-12)  was often at her wit's end by the end of the day.  As it turned out, that was the name of your column.  You gave my mother a voice!  Now she could laugh at herself instead of losing what was left of her mind when it came to matters of laundry, cooking, child-rearing, and her favorite:  housecleaning.  When you wrote, "My idea of housework is to sweep the room with a glance,"  I could just see my mother's shoulders relax and hear a soft sigh.   After that, Mother would just stare into the living room piled with kids on the sofa or sprawled on the floor mesmerized by The Three Stooges, Lost in Space,  or Mighty Mouse.  We got it.  Mom was in a zone, surveying her domain, and feeling much better about this new method of tidying up.   Overall, we were happy that our mother had found peace, even though her glance became a trance at times, and we would have to get Shane to stand on the bar stool and snap his little fingers at her to bring her back from wherever she had gone.  (probably a lawn chair in the garage, with a margarita, crossword puzzle, and five books).

Mom would not be the only one appreciative of your column's sound advice.  We voted recently at a mini-family reunion held online and agreed unanimously that "No one has ever died from sleeping in an unmade bed."  We used that line......once.  Dad just wasn't as amused as Mother.

You were a writer, a mother, a wife and you were funny--but even humor had its balance.  It would not be until years later that I understood that "it takes a lot of courage to show your dreams to someone else."   

I think I'm writing to tell you thanks now because you made our mother laugh.   Even as a child, there was something safe and reassuring about hearing her get tickled--sometimes hysterically and sometimes muffled with a smile, on days she was really tired.  She was really tired. A lot.

Mother will celebrate her 85th birthday soon. Her children still usually make their beds.  Her grandchildren, who knows?  But, their Nana/MaMaw could care less.  She knows what matters, and I feel certain she knew in the 1960s and 1970s--she just felt compelled to do what housewives did then often just to keep up appearances.  Somehow, a clean home equated to being a good mother.  (Not that a clean home means someone is NOT a good mother, and Lillie would be the first to attest).

What you were trying to accomplish all those years ago worked.  You reassured mothers that their identities went beyond clean linens and dustless window sills. You granted them clearance to spend more time being the comforter, the mediator, the audience, the healer of hearts, the sounding board, and the believer of dreams.  Our mother took you to heart--times five--as she performed those tasks so effortlessly though it took a great deal of strength to be Mother to Scotty, Sue Jane, Sara, Shane, and Sabrina.  

Beginning in 1954 until she gave birth for the last time in 1966, Mother (and Dad) wanted to bring five little Sullivans into this world.  Each time was different; and, yet each the same.  "Giving birth is little more than a set of muscular contractions granting passage of a child. Then the mother is born." You were right about that--our mother was born anew each and every visit to  Root Memorial Hospital.

Her children plan to have her around for many more years--as far as we're concerned, she's on a lifetime warranty. We take her in for the occasional tune-ups to get her running smoothly.  A few minor repairs here and there, but overall she's wearing the mileage well.  The day will come though, and Mother has already given permission for humor to be present when we say good-bye, yet another indicator that you, Mrs. Bombeck, used your talents well.

At that appointed time, it will only be fitting that our mother be honored the way you wanted to be remembered:

"When I stand before God at the end of my life, I would hope that I would not have a single bit of talent left and I could say, I used everything that you gave me."

for Mother and Erma, my maternal heroes

Check Plus

There are just times when my joy level spills over.  

While looking at these photos on my wall and credenza tonight, the dam broke. 

I was paying bills--which is seldom on my joy radar--when I got up to dig through a drawer to find a receipt. Muttering at my filing system (it's a drawer, for Pete's sake, so I just throw things in there and call it good), I glanced up and saw these three faces.

A review of my life's major moments reflected back at me:

--married, check

--got a job, check

--had children, check

--prepared delicious meals often, no check

--entertained socially, checked out

--made the best homemade Butterfinger ice cream ever, oh yeah check

--took care of my money, overdrawn check

--grew a garden once, check
--smoked a cigar, check
--got a tattoo, check
--wished I could get rid of that tattoo, check
--witnessed someone take his last breath, check minus
--heard three first breaths, check plus

Emily (top), her daughter/ my granddaughter Lillie (middle), and my firstborn Julie (bottom) are those three.

Isn't it wonderfully ironic that the ordinary miracle of birth, which happens over 350,000 times a day on this planet, has the power to take our breath away.

Breathtaking.  That's it.  These three, two of whom are now very much past the two-teeth stage, still move me in a way nothing or no one else can do--even when I'm sending Honda Financial Services a car payment.

As it should be, stopping in the midst of the mundane to remember that baby days are fleeting.  Stopping while logged in to www.allstate.com to smile at how fortunate I  have been to grow older with these babies-no-more.  Stopping to look into these faces and knowing those smiles came so naturally.

Checkmate.

Bathtime

a daily routine
anything but
as she unsteadily slides in the chair
the chair used for old people

my mother is not old
not this one who knows things
--balancing             books
    --speaking    languages--technical, foreign,      domestic
--what     medicines not to take  with      others
    --what phony looks like

the cloth and soap and water move over her,
a tired body soaking and sighing as heat relieves,
still
the lines and spots and wrinkles do not disappear
         the way I want them to.

*******

a nightly routine
anything but
as she squirms and giggles her way to the water
the duck tub used for little people

my granddaughter is not a baby
she speaks
her own language
she rules the waves with her new found palms
willing her slippery self to stand
                    only to have my damp arms net her

lavender lather
is both the Eraser and the Siren
      as the day's remants disappear down the drain
she is called to bed
       new again
the way I want her to stay forever.
     
*******

miles apart, joined by name, and juxtaposed by time
their bare truth:
     nothing washes away my memory of this day.
     a moment to see the source of me
     a moment to see the heart of me
     Lillie and Lillie

   

The Mending

            I lived an Easter story this past week.

          The details matter not.  It is enough to write that the holy moment included a painful death in addition to a miraculous resurrection--divine formulas for both being forgiven as well as sharing forgiveness.

       *******

        Lord knows (literally, the Lord knows) that Sue Jane Sullivan has needed and often accepted forgiveness.  (Thank goodness the details still matter not, to you dear reader).  I have had my socks knocked off a time or two by the sheer magnitude of what it is to be forgiven.  Grace and mercy are shock paddles that revive us when we have staggered along precipices.  

          When we are inclined or perhaps even feel we have the right to push someone off that same precipice for hurting us, a funny thing usually happens on the way to the cliff.  We realize we too were once holding on for dear life.  Rather than push, we pull--extending a hand to bring someone back from the ledge.

         *******

          The original Easter story is perpetual.  Death followed by resurrection.  Sin followed by forgiveness.  A broken heart followed by healing.  Day in and day out, our own crosses call us to accept forgiveness and to offer forgiveness.  If we don't, we might as well just officially make Easter all about chocolate bunnies and Peeps.

             A twenty-two year hurt in my life was mended last week as Passover concluded and Good Friday came.  All things were made new--the old things were passed away.  This Easter Sunday 2016, there is a good chance that the message will resonate in a way it never has.  

                 

               

Spring Break 2016: Release the Brakes

What did I just do?

 

Basically, I drove coast to coast, if you simply look at mileage. Or to Lima, Peru.  I checked that one, too.

 

On the surface, if you followed my Facebook account last week, it appears that I truly did drive the perimeter of the State of Texas.  That was my goal.  After getting home, I discovered I indeed missed one, that dang Dallam County in the northwest corner of the Texas Panhandle.  At midnight on March 19,  I drove through Hartley and mistakenly thought it was in Dallam County. 

 

This means one of two things:  (1) I can arbitrarily change the rules and declare myself an official Texas Iditarod finisher or (2) do it again one day. 

 

I spent just under a $1,000 with most of that on lodging at Holiday Inn Express along the way.  Ate one good meal per day, drank tons of water, and bought only a couple of souvenirs.  My vehicle averaged 32 mpg. Score. I paid admission to only one museum. Most were free with suggested donations.   Only twice did I have a sit-down-in-the-restaurant occasion (Harlingen and Presidio).   Only twice did I have a face-to-face with the DPS, and both times I had pulled over to text or take a photo; they were simply checking on me.  Thoughtful and sweet. 

So, there's the surface.

What did I really just do?

I did something for me. 

I stopped when I wanted to. 

I paused to see, to hear, to feel.

I smiled at people I did not know.

I played music that made me smile to remember old loves.

I played music that made me sad to think about what has been lost.

I played country.  I played rock.  I sang to Broadway soundtracks.

I saw beauty in a dilapidated, abandoned place.

I saw beauty in a midnight sky on the panhandle plains.

I saw kindness in others that gave me hope.

I did not plan but simply, spontaneously, and spiritedly drove my way around the Lone Star State.

I achieved a goal; I finished a self-imposed challenge.

And I simply was in the moment, every moment, for six straight days. 

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

Before the Texas Iditarod (my name for the road trip), I visited a high school and college friend who now lives in Kaufman.  This was Monday, March 14, the day after my 60th birthday, so we held an impromptu birthday breakfast at the local Denny's. As if a muse who knew her role on this particular occasion, Raleen gifted me with a phrase that lingered the entire trip.  It was from a  story she had read, written about a well-known author's  "indescribable appointment" with her Creator.  The story is long, but the gist of the encounter was the call to "Feed my sheep."  It came clearly and boldly.  And, it could be said that the vision changed the author's life.

 

So, man, all during the trip I am in search of the homeless, the poor, the downtrodden, the sad.....I am inspired to stop and help and share and love and do what I can do. Yeah, Yeah, Yeah. And that is exactly what I had hoped for.  I was riding a high.  But, unlike the author, no vision came.  No moment to be the Great Feeder.  I kept looking, kept hoping. 

 

And then it happened. After the trip.

 

On Sunday morning before heading home, my daughter Julie and John and I were going to brunch in an old section of Dallas Oak Cliff.  There huddled in a corner, covered with a blanket, reading a Bible was Erica.  She was reading in 1 Samuel about "wahs and kings and people jis killin' each other because they don't knows the Lard." 

 

I sat and listened and told her about a happy story she could read if she wanted--and oh, now how I wished I would have sat down and read it to her.  Ruth.  I previewed the beautiful message in the Old Testament book of a widowed daughter-in-law's honorable love for her widowed mother-in-law.  I told her it had a very, very happy ending.....because it would be Ruth's lineage who would give the world Jesus.

 

Boy, did I feed her.

 

Wrong.  Dead wrong.  This 3,046.9 mile trip wasn't about what I could do--it never is--it was and is about how we engage each other with the understanding that the Spirit does the real labor.

 

Because you see, when I mentioned Jesus's name, her toothless smile fed me.  Erica was at the end of my trip to complete the purpose for the journey:  feed and be fed. 

 

I was inspired to write about this trip on social media.  I think some of you were entertained and encouraged, and then I noticed that you would engage each other, strangers on Facebook, with wonderful ideas or memorable stories.  We were, in essence, feeding each other.

 

The Texas Iditarod took on a life of its own. 

 

May we keep "traveling" so that we can embrace the many ways we can nurture mankind.....including ourselves.  The possibilities are as numerous as the miles I drove. 

 

All we really ever have to do is release the brake and go.