Cicada's Sigh

When the heat of August
is swept away
with welcome gusts of warm wisdom

From the tops of plush trees
a breath of breeze
eases the noisy momentum

Buzzing cacophony
calmed by love's honey
each union fulfilling their dreams

Couples leaving their mark
quieting the dark
completing the circle of schemes

Near silent September
a last burning ember
soft echoes, it echoes its plea:

"Have you all gone? I long for your song."

Oh, surely this is not a surly hiss.
Is this not a swirly kiss?
A beguiling tone, a lovelorn sigh
a solo desiring duet
luring some humming coquette?

"Alone I sway. Will no one stay?
Oh, hear my plea:
Meet me, meet me . . . in the Sycamore tree
before the turn of the maple leaves

Please . . . Please . . . Please"

The cicadas and I are approaching the end. They’re thinning out and that usually puts me in a state of mourning. School starts in four days. I’m feeling the impending loss of free time and sleep. I’m going to miss waking when the rest of the world stirs me. Now I’m stirred by another layer of sadness. In my last full week of freedom, I’ve taken on the care of family when I’d really like to write and dance and complete my own summer schemes. But I don’t think it’s just the loss of my free time that’s making me teary. Some other kind of sense of loss is lurking.

When I get in that state of self-pitying martyrdom, I take contrary action and write a list of all I’m grateful for. I realized my gratitude comes from things I did for others. Laurence Leamer, from King of the Night said, “The difference between a helping hand and an outstretched palm is a twist of the wrist.”

Here is a list of my twisty wrist gifts:

Before I left on vacation, my daughter called and asked, “Do you like living alone?”

I was so caught up in describing the loveliness of my solitude and serenity that I didn’t see it coming. You probably did, right?

I naively asked, “Why?”

She answered, “Never mind.”

Oh. I got it. I never in a million years thought she’d consider moving back in with me. We both worried what it would do to our relationship. Casey’s been here for nearly a month, and maybe it’s the honeymoon period, but I actually look forward to her appearances. I’m getting to know her as an adult and I’m so impressed by her maturity. We laugh and encourage and cook. Our relationship is developing into a friendship of equals. I’m falling in love with her all over again.

After my sister’s knee replacement, I drove down to her place four hours away to help her set up her classroom and get organized at home. It felt like a lot to give up those days of my shrinking summer, but once I decided to enjoy it, time flew. We were so efficient in her classroom. We got to spend time alone together, something we rarely fit in when she’s up here visiting family. We sang, cooked, ate and walked. Those are some of my best things and I got to do them in the company of my sister!

I took care of my daughter’s pup and his bud for several days. It definitely put a cramp in my freedom and plans, but they have brought me so much joy. Cooper is just about the cutest thing that ever stormed the dog beach. He’s attached to me which is so endearing. I gave up what I’d like to do to take him to the dog beach every afternoon. But my afternoons were filled with laughs and sun and water and conversation. Yeah, my car is filled with sand, but there is no joy so simple as dogs bounding over waves. I’m so happy for him when I see him blissfully being chased by three other dogs. If you’re ever depressed, go hang out at a dog beach.

I volunteered to bring my adult, mentally challenged niece to my home for two days. It meant driving out to the suburbs and giving up some longed for solitude, but with Lisa came some very rich blessings. I love Lisa’s curiosity and desire for connections with people and animals. She can make six phone calls in a day, asking friends and family about their lives. She walks up to complete strangers and asks them about their baby, or their pregnancy, or the name of their dog. She gives compliments to passersby. “I like your shirt.” Lisa introduced me to my own next door neighbor. She asks neighbors and visitors if they have brothers and sisters, how old they are, if they’re married, if they go to school, what they’re studying. I can’t tell you how many first dates I’ve been on where the man couldn’t seem to come up with one question about me. Even when directed to ask about me, they cop out with, “Uh, I don’t know. What do you want to tell me about yourself?” Lisa asks me in the morning how I slept. She asks me if I’m tired. She asks me if I’ve ever had the same experience she’s had. She asks me what I like, what I don’t like, and if I’m going to get my haircut soon. With Lisa I feel part of the conversation, part of the relationship. I feel connected and valued.

Back to the suburbs for a swap: I dropped Lisa off and picked up my dad for his three day visit. It gave him a bit of variety since his daily highlights at home are Judge Judy and Dr. Phil. It also gave my mom a break from caring for him, a difficult enough task for a healthy person, let alone someone who struggles with her own self-care. Going places was an ordeal because he’s so weak and tottery, but he walked more in three days than he’s done in months at home. He seemed driven by the challenge. I, on the other hand, was confounded by my own challenges. My gratitude was as thin as his old skin. I was amazed and disturbed by my dad’s preoccupation with candy bars, ice cream and pop. When I suggested that he only needed one candy bar a day, he snapped, “How do you know what I need?” After an argument, a Hershey Bar represented lunch. Luckily I packed a sandwich for our trip to the dog beach, because as soon as he got in the car he said, “I don’t think I had lunch today.”

Later we strolled and rolled in a wheel chair to Lincoln Square for the Thursday night concert. As soon as we got settled he said, “Why don’t you see if you can get some popcorn and pop.” I told him we’d get some when we got home. He then turned to the man next to him and asked, “Is there any place to get some ice cream around here?” Irritated, I explained that I didn’t have money with me and we had plenty of ice cream at home. Now don’t think I deprived an old guy of his pleasures. He was able to turn his focus on the music and we both got a big kick out of watching the kids dance and run. When we got home he ate all the garbage he wanted. After he got ready for bed and I reminded him to brush his teeth, he emerged from the bathroom and asked, “Got any more of that root beer?” Something shifted in me, and instead of being bothered, all I could do was laugh uncontrollably. All his previous junk food obsessions flooded me and added momentum to my private cacophony. He said he didn’t think it was funny. I tried to explain but he let it go and said good night.

The additional challenge of seeing the downfall of my dad, once such a big man in my eyes, now so small and frail, had set that sigh of sadness over me. His bicycle is replaced by a wheel chair. He is now lost in a city in which he once prided himself on being able to navigate and identify landmarks. “Is this Chicago, he asked on our way back from the beach. Once so quick witted and curious, he now forgets where the front door is or who my brothers’ wives and kids are. “Who’s Kate now?” he stops on his way toward her car, moments after seeing her.

But that shift into laughter helped me find resilient gratitude. I began thinking of all the gifts he’s given me, humor being the greatest gift of all. I think it’s a talent really, a way to connect to the world, or a skill to fall back on in the face of fear and uncertainty. He still has it. At a restaurant he ordered coffee and told the waitress, “…and make it snappy!” He laughed when she served the coffee and told him, “Now drink it up and get out of here.” My dad has given me the gift of music, an appreciation we shared on our visit, listening to and singing along with Ella Fitzgerald and Nat King Cole. He has been a model of determination when the chips are down, a quality now reserved mainly for junk food. I look forward to hearing stories from his past. I may hear the same story three times in a half hour, but I take them as gifts that I can hold and pass on to others.

How funny to see a week that starts out in self-pity end up with gratitude. I’m so rich to be able to reach out a hand and feel the gift in my own palm.

Greedy with my time, greedy with my food, I want the benefits of my hard work to last. But when I share my food with others, I not only get their company and my good food, I also get their praises.

Here’s a treat I don’t mind sharing and it’s guaranteed to bring praises. As my dad used to say, “It’s a good source of sugar and fat.”

The Best Carrot Cake in the World

2c. sifted flour

2 t. baking powder

1 ½ t. baking soda

2 t. cinnamon

2 c. sugar

1 ½ c. vegetable oil

4 eggs

2 c. grated carrots

8 ½ ounce can crushed pineapple in unsweetened juice really well drained. I like to save a bit of juice for the frosting. It’s a nice touch.

Two hands full of chopped walnuts

Combine wet ingredients. Sift dry ingredients and add to wet. Pour into 9” by 12” oiled and floured pan or three 8” round pans. I like it best in the one rectangular pan. It stays moister. Bake at 350 degrees for 40 to 45 minutes, or until it stands the fork test. Top with cream cheese frosting when it cools enough.

Cream Cheese Frosting

½ c. butter softened

8 ounce package of low fat cream cheese (Don’t use fat free; it’s a disaster.)

2t. vanilla

2t. drained pineapple juice

Powdered sugar—about ½ of a one pound bag. Sift in bit by bit and taste as you go.

This recipe is better than any I’ve had at any bakery. Everyone is sure to moan with pleasure which will truly be a gift in your own palm. No need to serve this cake with ice cream. Try telling that to my dad.

Remedy for Rejection

“Puberty is a phase... fifteen years of rejection is a lifestyle.” From Sex and the City

One of the great benefits of cooking for others is you rarely get rejected. But outside of the kitchen, rejection is my lifestyle. For eighteen years I’ve been receiving rejections from publishers. I have collected more than 125 of them now on different pieces I’ve written. I file those rejections under “W” for “What the hell are you people thinking!” I keep writing and submitting to the black void. Children’s publishing companies now rarely even respond, so I should feel lucky to get one of those form letters on a half sheet, or better yet, a quarter sheet: “Dear writer . . .”

But this disease has spread to other areas where I ask, “Do you want me?” Dancing, online dating and applying for jobs are fertile grounds for long term rejection infection.

When I go out dancing, the women outnumber the men. And possibilities of a dance are even slimmer if you want a partner who can clap to a simple rhythm. Cut your chances in half if you want a partner who isn’t a mouth breather, a blamer, or so sweaty your hands slip apart and you think for one hopeful moment that that’s the end of it, but it’s not. So if you want to get a good dance in, you have to ask someone, and fast. It’s funny to watch some obvious women observing their prey. They circle, stalk, then pounce. And off they go smiling in the arms of a good catch. The encouraging part is most people who have taken lessons are taught to always say yes. Too bad they aren’t taught to breathe through their noses. But, saying yes: isn’t that nice? Maybe world leaders should be required to take dance lessons and move around the room arm in arm to a poppy little number during discussions. After all, half of dancing is listening. But not all dancers are good learners and some say no. I stand alone, miffed and motionless while others glide past. Not being asked sometimes feels like a rejection too. One man I dance with is a fantastic lead. Everyone wants to swing, cha-cha or fox trot with him. At the end of most numbers together, he tells me what a good dancer I am. But he rarely asks me to dance. I can’t figure that out. I try not to take it personally, but sometimes it festers and needs emergency care. So I ask some pretty good standbys to dance and we have fun in spite of their sweat or tonsil display or sense of duty to critique.

The same protocol is true for online dating. If I don’t ask, I stand alone outside the circle. But since there is no class for online dating, no one has been taught to say yes, and many don’t even reply. First I think, maybe it’s my hair, my age, my wrinkles. But then I try to remind myself that it can’t possibly be because of me since they don’t even know me. I also remind myself that we’re dealing with men here. That softens things a bit, but for immediate relief from rejectional suffering, I deleted my profile. Enough of this nonsense! I’m in no hurry.

But now we come to my current outbreak. I’ve submitted two resumes and have not gotten a reply on either. One was for a job in middle school—a job I feel I was groomed for. Couldn’t they at least spare a quarter sheet of paper: “Dear loser . . .?” I know it is CPS, but that doesn’t excuse people from common courtesy. So now, where’s my soothing ointment for this one? I run through the possibilities: they already hired someone; they want a man; they want a new teacher who won’t cost as much; it can’t be my hair since they haven’t seen it yet. In the end, I can say, they don’t even know me.

But the burn of the disappointment stuck with me for days until yesterday. Three little blessings in one day helped me know, once again, that I have the right job.

The first blessing came while singing with four students who showed up to practice Blackbird for next week’s orientation. We sang in four parts and when we finally got it, we sounded beautiful. I was so excited to contribute to that beauty. I felt all aglow with health.

After practice, I stopped in the programmer’s office to find out what I’d be teaching when school starts in two weeks. He still didn’t know. But in his office I introduced myself to the new assistant principal and a young fellow from central office who said, “God bless you,” when I told him I taught special ed. Another administrator there surprised me by saying, in front of these hot shots, “She’s awesome. The kids love her.” Now I have no idea where she got her information or if she was just trying to get in on the conversation, but anyone who wants to compliment me in front of others, I’ll take it. I walked out of the office feeling like I’d just gotten a booster against rejectionitis.

The last blessing hit me while I sat at a red light in the afternoon. I stared at the corner of Ashland and Ridge and remembered something that had happened years ago. My daughter and I were driving north past that corner when we saw three kids beating up another. I pulled over and ran to . . . I don’t know what. But I ran and yelled and got close and screamed “Stop it! Stop it!” as these kids punched this guy in the face. He was down on his knees and wasn’t even protecting himself. Girls were standing around laughing. The three boys started to walk away when one said, “You think he’s had enough?” They turned back, “No,” and hit him one more time. I yelled again and they walked away, all puffed up, oblivious to my pleas. The victim just stayed there. I grabbed his papers that had spilled out and told him to hurry up and get out of there. I flagged a squad car and saw the three boys run off in all directions. I didn’t know at the time about gang initiation, but no matter what you call it, it was horrifying to see. The incident stayed with me and finally inspired me to leave elementary and teach in Chicago Public high school. I saw it as a chance to make a last ditch effort to help kids before they are set out on their own. Sitting at the red light, remembering that experience reminded me that I’m right where I’m supposed to be. I’m going to call on that when I face the many CPS struggles this year.

In the midst of this condition, this lifestyle of rejection, I am a lucky gal. I get to post some of my writing on this blog and my friends and family comment. Thanks, you guys. On the dance floor I’m lucky enough to have some musical and fun dance partners. And thank goodness I have a job that I feel is a calling. I’ll continue to ask “Do you want me?” because there is always hope and possibility that I won’t bang my head against the file cabinet reaching for “W,” that I’ll get to smile radiantly around the dance floor, and all the while I am nourished by friends and family and a few kind students who answer, “Yes, I want you.”

Last night I made a delicious dish that no one rejected. Naturally that strengthened my immune system.

Indian Curried Vegetables with Tofu

3 medium cloves of garlic

2 inch finger of ginger root peeled

½ large onion chopped

1 heaping t. turmeric

½ t. cumin

½ t. cinnamon

¼ t. cayenne pepper

¼ t. cardamom

¼ t. or less cloves

1 t. salt (or more)

½ t. pepper

2 medium ripe tomatoes

3 medium small red potatoes, chopped

3 carrots, julienne sliced about ½ inch thick

½ medium sweet potato, chopped

Handful of green beans, strings removed

1 lb. of tofu, cubed

1 zucchini, quartered and sliced about1/2 inch thick

5 or so stalks of kale, chopped

Heat oil (sunflower oil can stand high heat) in a large skillet. Grind ginger and garlic in a food processor and sauté with chopped onions. Puree tomatoes on the food processor. Hurry! Don’t let the onions and garlic burn! Add the spices and stir until it looks almost like a paste. Add the tomatoes and stir again. Stir in potatoes, carrots and sweet potatoes. Add about a ¼ c. of water, stir and cover. Cook for about 8 minutes, stirring occasionally. Stir in the green beans and tofu and cover for 4-5 minutes. If the veggies are sticking, add a bit more water. Stir in zucchini and cover 3-4 minutes more. Finally fold in the kale and cover for another 2 minutes.

You can serve over basmati rice or just alone. A dollop of plain, fat free yogurt adds a nice touch.

You’ll be dancing radiantly around your kitchen as your guests sing your praises in four part harmony.

Forgiveness: The Real F Word

Bullwinkle: I'd like to apply for a job as an usher.
Boris: What experience have you had?
Bullwinkle: I've been in the dark for most of my life.

I have a Bullwinkle mug. A friend, ah-hem, gave it to my ex-husband and me when our kids were little and we were a family. The cup is cursed. Every time I pull it out, I think better of it and with a private and quiet “Fuck you,” I put it back in the cupboard. Now, a word about this word. I never use it in public, and I am constantly telling my students not to use it. I explain that it is offensive to some people and we’re not in the business of trying to offend people. For that reason, it’s a word that makes me cringe so that as I walk through the halls at school, I must look like I have Tourettes. So for me to say it every time I see that Bullwinkle cup, means I really am not who I want to be. Like Bullwinkle, I’m still in the dark when it comes to forgiving.

Over the years I’ve worked on my resentment toward that friend who promised then betrayed. One of the tools I used was to make three columns. In column one I wrote what she did to me: She said she was in my corner. In column two I wrote my part in it: I trusted her rather than my instinct which told me something was up. In column three I wrote the life lesson it taught me: listen to my gut to keep my distance. Finally I wrote a little thank you note (never to be sent) for the experience.

Apparently it didn’t take because eighteen years later, it still has me spurting that dreaded obscenity.

So I thought I’d try something different: take contrary action. I used the cup all week. Each time I picked it up, my curses (foiled again) lightened up a bit. I still thought about that friend, but instead of seeing her as a tyrant, I started seeing her as someone who was pretty lonely, who struggled with relationships and never won the struggle. Finally, by the end of the week I was no longer swearing.

Someone once said, (brace yourself; I’m going to say it again) “The best fuck you is to make something of yourself.” Eighteen years have gone by and I love my rich life. That past friend may still be trapped in loneliness, or not. I hope not. Now I can feel some compassion for her, or at least who she was when I last knew her. Next week when I pull out the cup, I’ll think about the magic of life and say, “Hey Rocky. Watch me pull a rabbit out of my hat.” It may be the first time that trick will work.

Here’s a little healthy smoothie you can make right in your own Bullwinkle cup. No need to add the sugar, because fruit, and life, and the peace of letting go of resentments are sweet enough.

Fruit Smoothie

½ c. of plain, fat free yogurt

½ banana cut in small pieces

½ a piece of fruit or berries—pear, peach, fresh fig, strawberries, blueberries, whatever your fancy and whatever is in season. Ooh! Mango! That’s the best.

Mix with a spoon then blend with a submersible blender. It foams up nicely. For added protein and omega-3’s, throw in a T. of chia seeds.

To your health! To life!