Country Mouse

Even though I have spent the majority of my life in urban settings, I still consider myself a country girl. Modern day interpretations of what it means to be a country girl often imply all things wholesome and tenacious. My perception of such a classification differs a bit. For me, being a country girl is an awkward, naive feeling that bubbles up whenever I'm thrown into a situation that feels urban and sophisticated.

Mind you, the urban setting I started my married life in was a town of 1,000 people. Hardly a bustling metropolis, but worlds away from the country house I grew up in that looked out on to the prairie. Night sounds in the country were filled with the banging of hog feeder lids and the rustlings of wildlife scurrying about. A towering yard light was the sentinel of security and illumination on our farm place. The day began with hearty breakfasts, ended with satisfying suppers and included two lunches and a dinner in between. We didn't worry about eating fat, clearing sidewalks or wearing the wrong shoes after Labor Day. The demands of the day were dictated by the needs of a farm family. There were garden beans to be picked, chickens to be butchered, peaches to be canned and weeds to be subdued. Meal preparation relied on the farmhouse cache and the weekly trip to the nearest town's lone grocery store. Life wasn't glamorous. Just necessary and practical.

Life in the city has a different heartbeat. There is a communal interdependence that demands a skill set that occasionally baffles me. If snow falls, one has 48 hours to get it removed. The sidewalk you paid for doesn't belong to you, it belongs to the city. Vegetation is more aesthetic than utilitarian. Water, fertilizer and weed control are used to maintain the look that neighborhoods demand. Retail centers are tucked into every available space, beckoning all passersby to come in and make a purchase. Streetlights punctuate the night with never ending illumination and vehicles rumble by no matter the hour on the clock. Wildlife sounds are limited to a few chattering birds and an occasional barking dog. Daily meals can be easily accessed with a trip to the nearest drive-thru, upscale restaurant or neighborhood grocery store. Supper is called dinner, dinner is called lunch and lunch is called break time.

Truth to be told, my years of urban living have softened me. I do not kill chickens for my dinner. I buy them in prepackaged trays at a grocery store that is less than two minutes from my house. I don't worry about getting into town because of the latest snowstorm. Snowplows are scraping by my house within 48 hours of a winter weather event. I don't need to milk a cranky cow for my dairy requirements. I can choose from 1%, 2% and skim (nasty stuff, I might add). I can find a gas station every few blocks when my vehicle is rolling along on fumes. I don't need to call the fuel company to make a trip into the country to fill a bulk gas tank for me.

Every once in awhile, though, I am reminded that I am just a little country mouse visiting the big city. My package of pre-cut chicken never includes the gizzard, a favorite of mine. When I step outside my front door I know that I will mostly like encounter human beings other than my family so it's time to put on a happy face and say, "Hi, how are you?"  My backyard is not a section of cropland, it is a tiny rectangle of carefully manicured grass.

So, whether I am in the city or the country, it is probably wise to remember the advice of Aesop's little rodent, "It is better to have beans and bacon in peace than cakes and ale in fear."

Daybreak

There is a serene promise that comes with a sunrise. In the early morning glow of the soft velvety light, we have a sneak peek into the possibilities that are ours for the taking. No matter how long or dark or harsh the night hours are, a new day is kissed with the hope of better things to come. Yes, I love sunrises. Not the kind where I hike to the top of some plateau in Namibia and wait for a burst of solar epicness to appear before me. I'm more in love with that moment of the day when it is just me, my cup of coffee and the gentle washing of light sneaking in through the window panes.

The winter hours are best. There is plenty of time to have the coffee made and  all senses firing before dawn releases its first hiccup of light. The birds join me in revelry as they gossip away about the latest happenings in birdland. A few ravens announce their presence with piercing caws and fly-bys. Service trucks and buses rumble into action. Folks blearily grab newspapers off their front steps and dogs of all sizes tug at their leashes while their owners (servants) gingerly follow behind.

Sunrises on vacation are certainly the easiest to behold and savor. The start of a new day among the Ponderosa pines begins with the sprinkling of light filtering its way in with muted color palettes. Sunrises over the ocean glisten off the incoming waves with reflected contortions. Lakes provide the perfect mirror for a double exposure of light popping forth. Mountains play peek-a-boo with the first light of day while wide open prairies give ostentatious views of the action on the horizon.

My most memorable sunrise, however, did not happen in any place exotic or particularly notable. It was on a Saturday morning in the parking lot of my local grocery store. I like to finish my weekly grocery shopping trip before the rest of the city wakes up. That means I am meandering down the bread aisle visiting with the delivery folks before the break of day. One particular morning, I exited the grocery store and was immediately greeted by an array of color tones that I believe are impossible to create by human hands. The colors enshrouded the car wash across the street, changing the ubiquitous building into a work of art. The swirl of radiance was jaw-droppingly glorious and challenging to the senses. I stopped for a moment and inhaled the beauty of the moment, thanking my Creator for such a wondrous gift during such a mundane task.

Life is funny that way. We bump along through our everyday tasks, doing whatever is on our to-do lists and then suddenly, without warning, we are greeted with the light of newness. Sometimes it happens in bursts of grandeur, but more often than not, it slips in through our windows with unpretentious potential, reminding us that it's okay to let the darkness go for awhile.

Piano Lessons

My very wise mother made sure that I, as well as my brothers and sisters, took at least a few piano lessons so we wouldn't be completely illiterate in the world of music. I don't want to point fingers, but I'm afraid some of her money was wasted on a few of us (sorry, little bro). I must confess that I, too, had moments of rebellion as I occasionally posted "I Quit" signs around the house, hoping my mother would reconsider her investment on such a recalcitrant child. Alas, she ignored my pleas for keyboard freedom and for that I am forever grateful. To this day, playing piano is one of my greatest joys.

Not to say that the journey was easy. My first round of lessons began with a short hike from my elementary school once a week to an old two-story house. I was always sure lightning was going to strike me at any moment as I entered the creaky, dimly lit, smoky interior. Mrs. S. had been teaching little Mozartlings for many, many years by the time I arrived on the scene and I think she was beginning to wane in enthusiasm. I handed her my quarter and started what I hoped would be a successful rendition of My Birthday Party from John Thompson's bright red Teaching Little Fingers To Play. Sometimes I performed my lessons with all the finesse of a fourth grader who had practiced before my arrival and other times, it was quite obvious that I had been lax in my obligations. One particular memory involved me struggling away on a piece that I had no love for (Song of the Volga Boatman, ugh) and just as I was about to hit one more misguided note, I saw Mrs. S. reach for my hand and quickly give me a rap on the wrist. I guess she had hit her quota of sour notes for one day and I was the lucky target. Needless to say, I proceeded with caution after that event.

Two more teachers followed Mrs. S. and I learned more than just piano lessons from each of them. Mrs. VB. made sure my sister and I knew how to play piano without looking down at our fingers. We were given a bib-like drape that covered our hands and asked to play one of our pieces for her. This was before Snapchat so there are no pictorial records of such a fashion statement. I think the bib marked the end of one of my sister's musical career, however. I learned that not all of us are born with the same gene for piano practicing. I moved on to the next teacher by myself.

Mrs. St. was my final piano teacher. She introduced me to the incessant and unwavering tick-tock of the metronome. Rhythm is and always will be my nemesis. I prefer a more free-spirited approach to the keyboard, rubato if you please. Despite my protests, I began each lesson with a series of scale repetitions, synchronized with an ever increasing metronome speed. I probably deserved a few raps on the wrist for my feeble attempts in the beginning, but I somehow managed to work my way through a few years of a very disciplined approach to the art of playing piano. I learned that playing Chopin doesn't start with Chopin. It starts with good old-fashioned drill and skill. Lots of it.

I regret that I never took the time to thank my past teachers (and my mother!) enough for their contributions along the way. In fact, I probably did more grumbling than was necessary. Let me say it publicly now.

Thanks, Mrs. S., Mrs. VB., Mrs. St. and Mom for believing that I could make music out of 88 keys. My years of playing for choirs, soloists, church bands and entertaining in nursing homes are the result of a few good women who invested time and money in my future.

D.C. al fine......

One Hundred

Two years ago, on a hot steamy August afternoon, my fingers started moving across my computer keyboard, writing my first blog post. I still have no idea why this happened. I had never entertained the idea of being a blogger and up until that point the number of blogs I had personally read numbered in the low single digits. Truly, I have no business entering into the world of cyberspace writing. But, here I am, fingers still pecking away at a keyboard as I write my one hundredth post.

I suppose this is the part where I announce a grand giveaway drawing for a free harpsichord or curling iron to reward you, my faithful readers, for being a part of my blogging community. Alas, there will be no drawings or free trips from this chick. Be assured, however, that I would love to reward all of you for your words of encouragement and willingness to look the other way when my grammar is less than stellar, my spell check fails me and my love of commas takes over. You are, indeed, a kind group and for that I am grateful.

I am not sure if I have another one hundred posts in me or not. Honestly, after each post I write, I am always quite sure that there will be no more. My muse is a fickle one and I am either inspired by a turn of events or I am staring at a blinking cursor, wondering why nothing is happening after the first sentence. Perhaps it is time for me to buckle down and establish a true focus for my blog (I think that is a Blogging for Dummies basic rule). Here are a few suggested possibilities.

1) Politics--Oh, gag me. I know enough about this subject to fill a tea bag. I am a faithful and loyal voter, but I am not ready to get aboard the HMS Partisanship. It is best for me to let others lead the charge in this arena.

2) Cooking--Intriguing idea due to my love of all things culinary. Unfortunately, I do not have the patience or photography skills to snap a photo of the 38 steps it takes to make dinner. I would also have to start measuring ingredients and that's a deal breaker for now.

3) Travel--ummm, gotta go places for that one. I greatly enjoyed writing my Oregon mini-blog series but once our vehicle was parked in the home garage, it's been back to reality. Work and...and....and....work. Hard to drum up a story with that route.

4) Teaching--certainly rife with new material. It is best, however, for me to keep things a bit more diverse. All work and no play makes Jill a dull girl and sometimes I just need to step off the hamster wheel for a few moments.

5) Old lady stuff--obvious. Doesn't take much thought on my part for my age to seep into my writing. I'm up front about my advancing place on the number line but I'm not sure I want to write a series of blog posts about flu shots and early onset dementia (quite sure I have that one).

6) Arts and Crafts--giggle. I am aesthetically challenged and certainly not known for creating anything more than a dust storm when I finally get around to cleaning. I will continue to admire the works of others.

So, where does that leave the future of my blog? Do I continue to wander in the wilderness of blurred focus? Is it time to shut the whole business down? Is there a lucrative book deal looming on the horizon (another giggle) that will take me away from all of this nonsense?

I suspect my blog will continue as it always has. One post at a time with me still wondering what it is that makes my fingers move across the keyboard.

You have been warned.

 

Keep Driving

Teaching is hard. Very hard. Each year is like playing a card game. There are years when the hand you are dealt is manageable. And then there are years when you are given a hand that you are quite sure will need a miracle intervention in order to survive. This year is one of the challenging ones. I have been blessed with a couple of relatively good years so it is my turn in the cosmos of educational card decks to hit the speed bump. The phrase “Hit me” has taken on new meaning. There are days when I would rather take a physical hit or two than face down one more session of thirty students who need more than one person could ever possibly provide.

Let me describe a sample middle school class period.

Topic: How to use a dichotomous key.

Level of difficulty: Effort and application of a new skill required.

Me: Working like a mad woman, trying to demonstrate, explain, model and guide.

Student One (30 seconds into the lesson): "I don't get this."

Student Two: "Can I to go to the bathroom?"

Student Three: "Student One is looking at me."

Student Four (moving into to my personal space): "I feel like I’m going to throw up."

Student Five (head down on the desk): "I’m not going to do this."

Student Six (giving me the stink eye and muttering under her breath): "This sucks."

Student Seven: "I don’t have a pencil."

Student Eight (sneaking one more round of Cookie Crush on his Chromebook): "I still don’t know what you’re talking about."

Student Nine (walking in late): "I lost my binder."

Student Ten: "Student Seven just said a bad word."

Student Eleven: "I don't have an eraser."

Student Twelve (tapping pencil furiously): "What time does this class get over?"

Me (still teaching like a mad woman): "I believe we can do this. Let's try again."

Well, you get the point. It’s exhausting and I wish I was making this all up. I’m not. That was Friday. I've blanked out the other four days of the week.

Before you feel too sorry for me, please know that I willingly signed up for this gig and, by Gumby, I intend to persevere. Teaching is not for the faint of heart and despite the fact that I have at least one day a week that I long to be the sample lady at my local grocery store, I still believe in my profession. I also have many little peeps who are counting on me to provide them with an education that will take them into a future they aren't even sure about yet. For every "I don't get this", there is a "I want to know more." 

No surprise that the squeaky wheel is louder than the smooth rolling, fully functioning tires. It is my job to find a way to safely and productively drive this vehicle to the end of another academic year, speed bumps and all. 

Student Thirteen (intently following along): "You know, I think we're just having trouble with this because it's Friday."

Thank you, Student Thirteen. I'm going to cling to your words of encouragement and continue to believe in another new day.

Virtual World

Our school district recently adopted a 1:1 technology initiative. Translation: each student now has his or her own techno device. The little peeps are using I-Pads, the middlers are using Chromebooks and the oldsters are bringing their Chromebooks home like checked out library books. Gone are the days of teachers scrambling for a limited number of computer labs. No more early morning intercom announcements, "Whoever has mobile lab C, please return it immediately." Missing are the spicy e-mails scolding the boorish behavior of those who use mobile labs and neglect to plug them in so they are charged up for the next day.

Despite the obvious advantages of having student troughs filled with technology, I am mourning the loss of simpler times. For years I watched angst ridden middle schoolers wobble their way through the halls, leaving a trail of pencils, gum wrappers and scraps of paper. Now, they flash fearful eyes as they precariously balance a computer on top of their worldly possessions. One misstep and they know they are in for more hurt than just a skinned knee and bruised pride. Many have resorted to carrying yet another bag to protect the god-of-all-knowledge-and-goodness.

Unfortunately, many of the students view computers as game dispensers rather than educational tools. They are baffled by usage procedures that don't involve instant gratification. It's natural for them to post responses such as, "hey girl, what's up" or "LOL, check this YouTube video." It's not so natural for them to be assigned websites filled with actual paragraphs of information that need to be read and digested.

It's easy for me to go down roads of fear as I worry that someday I might be lying on a gurney with a doctor googling, "Where is the spleen?"  This generation has no problem texting every thought that comes to mind, instagramming all their memorable moments and downloading apps that entertain them into the wee hours of the morning. The line between virtual and real can be blurry at best.

A poignant moment occurred when I announced to my class that we would be going outside for a classification activity. Usually, such an announcement is met with cheers as we leave the confines of our classroom. This year, a young man stopped me on the way out and asked, "Do I have to do this? Can't I just GoogleEarth it and call it good?" My jaw dropped in a speechless stupor. It never entered my mind that one could use a computer to feel the wind or touch a dragonfly's exoskeleton.

Yes, indeed, it's going to be an interesting year as we meander our way through technology land. I'm going to take a cue from my students and download the coolest wallpaper background possible, watch a YouTube video of someone eating chocolate and wait for my troubles to melt like lemon drops. If you're not sure what any of that means, I think you can google it.

The Birds

Growing up in a world without video games, Facebook and televisions with a thousand channels meant my siblings and I had to make our own fun with what was available.  I was not an outdoorsy kid but I quickly discovered that if I wanted a break from folding mounds of diapers and performing other household chores I would have to escape into the spaces beyond my front door. My sibs and I made up our own games like “Hide the Can” in our grove of trees where we imitated treasure seekers of old and searched for each other’s hidden cans. We crunched along on gravel roads with our creaky old bikes, destinations to be determined. Wild plums and mulberries beckoned us when they were in season and we filled our stomachs full of their rich juices. We poked around the old cemetery near our farm and scared each other with creepy tales.

One of my favorite activities was bird watching. My mother purchased a field guide of North American birds and suddenly a new world of opportunities opened up. We would head out into the fields with our little book and a pair of binoculars, hoping to see or hear a new bird to identify. I loved hearing the beautiful trill of the Eastern Meadowlark and watching the flight patterns of the Red-Winged Blackbirds as they flitted from fence post to fence post. We didn't have to set up fancy bird feeders because our backyard was one gigantic feeder with everything our rural birds needed.

Since that time, I have lived in urban settings, often without any established trees and I abandoned my overt birdwatching habits. That is, until the horrific ice storm we endured last spring. I felt so sorry for our feathered little friends that I put out an old cookie sheet with some bread crumbs and hoped that I could help just a few of them find a meal.

Now I’m hooked. I was only going to help them out during the ice storm but they convinced me otherwise. Truth to be told, we need each other. I can think of nothing more calming than watching and listening to birds. The little chickadees chatter away while they pick at the tray of seeds. The male cowbirds puff up as they try to woo the somewhat unimpressed females. The bossy blackbirds bully their way into the crowd and have their way with the food choices. The mourning doves plop themselves down on the feeder and take an after dinner nap. The cardinals make their presence known with their bright colors and loquacious manners. The goldfinches bippety-bop their way to the feeder for a snack and quickly flit away. And of course, the squirrels move in like playground bullies, taking away the lunch money of others.

My garage sale field guide is now dog-eared and always at the ready as I reacquaint myself with my in-flight neighbors. I hope to graduate to something more high tech than a cookie sheet for my feeder, but so far, the birds haven’t complained. After all, that same pan fed us with many delicious treats so why not continue the tradition with my new found friends?

Bon appetit!