Ebb and Flow

Fall finally arrived in the upper Plains. For some, the loss of summer is nearly unbearable. For others, it is a blessed relief. No surprise that I identify with the latter. As my long-suffering husband often hears me say, "If I wanted New Orleans weather, I would live in New Orleans." Unfortunately, he had to hear that statement two months longer than usual. Thank you, El Nino.

The change of seasons provides a soothing orderliness to those of us who are perched upon the northern latitudes of the Earth. And there is no better way to experience this than a vacation during the transition months. My husband and I attempt to schedule a getaway during late spring and mid-fall. The chance to submerge oneself into the sights and sounds of a shiny new season is a delicious experience.

Spring is filled with tree buds, warbling birds and scurrying little critters. The air is ripe with possibilities and the sensation of warmth nuzzles the dormant into life. Our back road travels reveal palettes that stun the eyes. Sunlight streams into our cabin window, giving us longer days as the Earth begins its tilt toward the sun. Frogs croak their love songs when daylight wanes. Twigs snap as creatures of the night begin their nocturnal business.  Stars sparkle on a black velvet canvas.

Tourist businesses are also infected with the potential of spring. Shops are spiffed up in anticipation of a new season. Clerks are friendly and eager to please. Conversations are inquisitive and complimentary. Shelves are stocked with an assortment of come hither goodness. Outdoor tables are shifted into place as the smell of grilled food drifts through the air. Fudge shops display their wares in street side window cases, enticing chocoholics to abandon all restraint.

Fall crackles forth with eye-popping brilliance. The air is ripe with the pungency of burning wood and decaying leaves. The sepia toned landscape is filled with brown subtleties and blood red splashes from sumac trees. Daylight hours dwindle as the Earth's northern axis turns its back on the sun. Shadows slide across our cabin windows with a reminder that winter is on its way. Crows and chickadees banter back and forth with their avian conversations.  The darkness of night is entwined with brisk air and the sharp light of the moon. The terrain prepares for its winter rest.

Tourist caterers also begin their fade into fall. Heavily discounted items are pulled to the front of shops. Shelves are minimally supplied and boxes are scattered around, awaiting their winter storage. Restaurants list the menu items that are no longer available. Clerks experience a fragility that reflects a long season nearing its end. Customer service becomes less urgent and more obligatory. Hours of business are tapered and "closed for the season" signs begin to pop up.

Many of us in the northern plains may never experience the froth of the sea pounding on our doorsteps or the subtle recession of waves pulling water away from the landscape. We do, however, understand the power of masses revolving in our universe. We know and feel the rhythmic surge of spring and the ebb of fall. And we are grateful for the wonder of it all.

A Gift

Some folks line up early for concert tickets. I line up early for a car wash. Recently, I scored a hit by being the first one in line. It was a Saturday morning and the OPEN sign hadn't started flashing yet. The kids with the pants falling down to their calves adjusted their earbuds and coughed up the phlegm of a morning that arrived a little too soon. One young lad was doing the hippety hop as he squished his feet into a pair of knee high rubber boots. The jumbo fans roared into action and the scrubbing mechanical dreadlocks started swirling around, awaiting their first grubby vehicle. Finally, the OPEN sign crackled on and a young man approached my window. I gave him my order and left my vehicle in the hands of the saggy pants boys and the chamber of soap and water.

As I handed my signed receipt to the cashier, I noticed that he took a special interest in my name. He looked up at me and said, "I thought I recognized you. You were my teacher." I studied the young man's metal studded face and responded as I have learned to do after so many years in my profession, "Wow." (slight pause) "Please forgive me, but you will have to remind me of your name." He introduced himself and fortunately, I remembered which school and grade level I was teaching when he was in my class. We enjoyed a brief nostalgic moment and I stepped aside so he could wait on the next customer.

My vehicle was getting its final wipe down when I noticed a little kerfuffle near my vehicle. Soon, a young man entered the waiting area and informed me that he was ordering my vehicle through the line again. "They didn't vacuum the hatchback area and there are still bugs stuck to the front." I thanked him for his thoughtfulness and told him that they had forgotten to vacuum that area the last time I was at their car wash. I didn't catch it until I got home and I didn't feel the need to go back and report it. "Well", he said, "We'll get it right this time."

I went back to reading my book as I awaited another car wash round, thankful for the chance to read a few more pages and have a clean vehicle, too. I read just a couple paragraphs when my former student stopped by my chair and handed me a card. "Here, this if for you and your inconvenience today." I looked at the card and it said: Good for one free car wash. I looked up at my student and saw that he was grinning from ear to ear. My heart was overwhelmed with gratitude and I told him that I didn't mind waiting because it gave me a chance to continue reading my book. He giggled a little and headed back to his station.

I left the car wash with another thank you to my student and a quick smile and wave to the attendant who took such good care of my vehicle. As I eased out into the street, I got a little misty-eyed. It is no secret that there are times when teaching sucks the life out of a person. Mischievous students, heart-breaking family dynamics, endless paperwork, demanding parents, overflowing e-mails and countless needs can make one very weary. Funny, how a little card for a free carwash from a former student can wipe all of that away.

Maybe, we do make a difference after all.

All I Really Need to Know

About twenty-five years ago, a small treatise entitled All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten was published. It sold over seven million copies and is still quoted in graduation speeches and motivational talks. As I entered my mother's assisted living facility a few days ago, it occurred to me that all I really need to know about life I am learning at her place of residence. I don't have the patience or skill to write a bestseller so I will condense my thoughts into a short list entitled, All I Really Need to Know I Learned at an Assisted Living Facility.

1) Dining is better done together--My mom has an assigned seat for all her meals and she is joined by five other residents at her table. They have become her dining family. They trade newsy facility gossip, talk about the weather and bemoan their aches and pains. And as with any good family, there are irritations. Mom still cannot abide by folks who do not eat their vegetables. Maybe that is why I love vegetables to this day. Well, maybe not eggplant.

2) Slow down--On a recent Saturday, I scurried into the facility with my hands full of stuff for mom. My mind was on overdrive as I ticked off items on my mental to-do list. Before turning down the hall to mom's room, I was greeted by the sound of a beautiful voice singing a favorite song of mine. I followed the sound and realized that a band was playing for the residents. I put my bags down and joined my mother. In between each song, mom leaned over and whispered, "Do you have time to stay?" Each time I replied, "It is this or go home to housework." She would giggle and we would enjoy the next song. Truth to be told, I didn't have the time to stay, I thought. But the music chipped away at my restlessness and I found myself lost in the joy of calm. We finished the concert with a hand clapping version of You Are My Sunshine. Some folks were awake for it, others were lost in their dreams, all were entertained.

3) Dress for comfort--Residents sporting elastic waistbands, Sass shoes and cozy sweaters are the fashionistas of the place. No stilettos or Spanx to be had. Mom says the only thing most residents have to worry about is a bad case of chair head so she dutifully runs her hair pick through her silvery hair each time we prepare to leave her room.  She is right. I have seen some serious cases of chair head in the place. It is to be feared.

4) Live in the moment--My mother is able to recall how many quarts of beans she canned each summer when she was raising all of us on the farm many years ago. But, she cannot remember what she said two seconds ago.  Loss of short-term memory has left her struggling to make sense of a world of appointments, checkbooks and recipes. So, we are learning to enjoy each moment as it happens. She still laughs at all my lame jokes as we sip Lady Grey tea together and she always says, "Thanks for stopping by" as she accompanies me to the veranda of her new home. She may not remember that I visited her, but she enjoys the time we spend together.

Feel free to use any part of my list in your next graduation speech. Just don't forget to wear your Sass shoes and comb your hair.