The Big Turn Around

Sometimes I worry that people will find out I’m not really a grownup.  The fact that I can order a glass of wine and not get carded doesn’t ease my fear.   Parenting, my job, my financial independence and certainly my wrinkles all point to being an adult, but mostly I don’t feel like one.

These past two weeks I’ve been thrown into Adulthood, an unfamiliar and dark place.  Making healthcare decisions for someone who, for almost twenty years, made them for me is just the beginning of the huge turn around.  It’s like the el train that gets to the end of the line, and the driving engine becomes the caboose; the caboose, the driving engine. I may be driving the train, but I’m just a little girl sitting on a stack of phone books so I can reach the wheel.

Reassuring my mom in her coma that we’ll handle it—“We’re going to take care of everything, Mom,”—is a scary promise.  Can we really?  Can we really make the right decisions about my dad’s care?  Can my brother and his wife really open their home, and even harder, their hearts to my parents’ crazy, unruly but much loved dog (think “Big Bird of the dog world” –Elia)?  Can I be the support for my dad when he’s depressed, sobbing over his many losses: his wife of sixty three years, his home, his memory and mental resources?  Can we make the right decisions about selling their home, keeping the things in the family that were important to them, informing their friends of these changes, and doing right by my dad financially and medically and remain kind to one another?

It’s amazing how a death brings family and friends closer together.  I’m so lucky that I’m not the only one driving the train.  I have two smart and sweet brothers and a sister that just doesn’t quit with her energy, family devotion and humor.  I have an eager and sensitive sister-in-law who steadies the wheel.  I have two children who listen when I cry.  And friends, flaggers in their glow vests, direct us along the track with their support and love.  Even my students know how to support.  When one of my students had asked why I was gone so much, I told her I lost my mom.  Understanding the magnitude, all she could say was, “Damn.”  While I cried with a co-worker in the hall at school, a student I see every day but don’t have in any of my classes asked, “Why are you crying?”  I told him I was sad.  He smiled, shuffled up to me and gave me a big-armed hug. 

 As I sit here now in the scent of flowers brought from a friend I hadn’t seen for a long time, I realize that the commitment I made to my mom is simple.  I just have to keep on loving, maybe a little bit more now that there’s one less person on earth to love, one less person loving. 

Moving up to the top generation is a scary spot.  Besides the fact that it means you’re next, it requires a commitment to doing what’s best for everyone even if it means setting aside what’s best for only me.  I guess that’s the grownup part: doing it all with love.  That’s the part I hope I can do.  I’m so grateful I don’t have to do this alone. 

Even though my mom won’t be here to coach me in the kitchen, my sister, my sister-in-law, and Riley, the next generation of lovers, are all pitching in.  I’m thankful I wrote down my mom’s cranberry instructions this past Thanksgiving so my sister can make them.  I have my hands full with more important things, like sweet potato pie.

Judy Leghorn’s Cranberries

2 bags of fresh cranberries

3 c. sugar (whoa!)

Just under two c. water

Mom said, “You have to pick out the bad ones first.”  She was a micro manager and watched to make sure you did it the right way.  “Then you bring everything to boil and you have to stir constantly until the sugar dissolves.”  Let them boil for about an hour uncovered and then simmer on low.  “How long, Mom?”  Now here’s where she loosens up.  “Oh, a half hour, or as long as you want.”  I cooked them for about two hours total.  Refrigerate them over night.  I don’t care much for cranberries, but my sister loves them.  It’s only right that she make them since she’ll do it with love.

Happy holidays and much love to friends and family.

Lindsay

Live By the Pen

“I wonder if people in the past knew they were living in the past.  Didn’t they know their clothes were old fashioned?”  —seven year old Frankie

Writing things down has been my saving grace.  First of all, my memory is not to be trusted.  When I create delicious dishes, I feel sure I’ll remember how to make them again.  Big mistake.  Grocery shopping is another example of my misguided self-confidence.  Sometimes I write down my shopping list and then forget it, or even challenge myself by leaving it my pocket until I hear, “That’ll be 97.02,” to which I grimace and say, “How did that happen?”  The clerk reminds me, “You’re at Whole Foods, Ma’am.”  Prices aside, I’m pleased to know I’ve remembered everything on my list.  Research tells us, we remember 10 percent of what we hear and 30 percent of what we hear and write, or something like that; I didn’t write the numbers down. 

But there are even more advantages to writing things down.  My dear friend Beth, who I’ve known since second grade taught me this tool.  She was visiting while my daughter was revving up her adolescence.  Casey was throwing one of her tantrums and I tantrummed right with her while Beth sat at my right side silent.  When Casey climaxed with, “I can’t live off of one pair of jeans for the rest of my life!” Beth’s eyes lit up gloriously.  Her shoulders shook in silent laughter; she grabbed a slip of paper and pencil and wrote down Casey’s announcement.  Writing it down twisted my anger into laughter, at least for the moment.  It didn’t fix the situation, but I had a fun moment. 

I’m reminded of my social work days when I interviewed the father of a patient and took notes on his interesting language.  He said his son had a “corrupted hunion,” which took me a minute to decipher as an erupted hernia.  When he asked me to “spang fuh what dee speak dat dere,” I asked him to repeat it.  Can you translate that one?  Yeah, it took me a while, too.  He wanted me to explain what I was saying.  Isn’t that charming?  Wouldn’t you want to write that down, too? 

The simple act of writing can twist an attitude just enough to move us out of anger or confusion or feeling out of control, and help us slide into joy, or be charmed, romanticizing a moment, or simply give us something to do to hide our powerlessness.

Obama taught me that last one.  During the presidential debates with McCain, Obama listened and jotted notes every time his opponent said something he disagreed with.  He remained composed when McCain attacked his ideas or record, and just made a note.  Obama could have been writing his shopping list for all we know.  The simple act of writing showed the viewers that he disagreed and had something to say about it, something noteworthy, therefore legitimate, and that he was smart and calm under stress.  Mature.  His opponent, on the other hand, rolled his eyes when he disagreed with Obama, showing the audience his irritation and adolescent mentality.  Likewise, when my students swear at me, refuse to move to their assigned seats, or disrupt the class and I am powerless, I find refuge in a clipboard and pen.  I emulate Obamian calmness.  My viewers get quieter and I hear whispers. “She’s writing something down.”  For a moment, at least, I smile on the inside because no one knows I’m impotent.  If they looked at my notes, they’d either see the perpetrator’s quote, or my shopping list.   

Here’s a short list of noteworthy quotes:

In last winter’s snow storm, my daughter phoned to say she was holed up in a shelter in Dixon, IL.  She and her friend were driving in the storm and, according to Casey, “We couldn’t see anything and then we got into a snowball.  I couldn’t even open my door.”

Mathew, a freshman was writing the vowels.  He left out the e.  I whispered, “Mathew, you’re missing one.”  He whispered conspiratorially, “Which one?”  I said, “I can’t tell you.”  He asked, “What’s it start with?”

Elvis, also a freshman, refused to work one day. The following day I asked, “Elvis, are you going to work today?”  He said, “Do I have to tell you?”  I suggested it would be in his best interest.  He said, “Well, I am going to work, but I’m not going to tell you.”

And finally, three-year-old Charlie loved trucks more than anything.  When his mother’s friend was visiting, she asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up.  He answered, “A garbage truck.”

And now for a shopping list of ingredients you’ll need for this twist on chili.

Green Chili

½ large onion, chopped

1 chayote squash, peeled, cored and chopped

1 yellow pepper, chopped (organic: on the dirty dozen list)

1 zucchini halved and sliced

1 yellow zucchini, same

1lb. ground turkey (free range if you care)

2 cans of cooked black beans, red or white kidney beans, or garbanzos, whatever you fancy

1 and ½ c. of salsa verde

2 t. cumin

1 T. chili powder (optional—the salsa verde is usually quite spicy on its own)

Salt and pepper to taste.

Sautee onion and chayote for about 7-8 minutes in vegetable oil.  Add yellow pepper and cumin and desired amount of chili powder, stir and cover for about 5 minutes.  Add zucchinis, stir and cover for about 3-4 minutes.  Add ground turkey, stirring and breaking it up as it browns.  Finally add the salsa verde and beans.  Cover and stir occasionally for another 5 minutes or so, until everything is hot and yummy.

Not sure which is mightier: the pen or this chili.

 

Winners

12-4-11

I’m surrounded by losers.  Not the capital L to the forehead kind of loser.  That’s just mean.  I’m talking about people who are living through loss.  My family, friends and neighbors are handling loss the best they can.  I once heard that we grieve the way we lives our lives.

My neighbor Michael lost his wife of over fifty years a year ago.  He breaks down when he talks about the moment she died in the hospital holding his hand.  He lives alone now, friendly to all, happy to show me his house, his pictures, his old Life magazines.  I see him in the school yard some days flying his kite, or on his porch listening to jazz, or in the park feeding the squirrels.

Another friend of mine is dealing with the loss of her husband and her abilities mostly in isolation.  She’s angry and resentful that he’s left her to deal with life and its burdens alone. She kept her life small and never quite figured out how to find consistent support from like minded people.  Now in her toughest time, she’s finding ways to seek help in her own time, on her own terms.

On a morning walk yesterday, I saw another neighbor John walking alone, without his dog Shorty.  “Where’s your four legged pal?” I called out to him.  When I met up with him he said, “He’s gone.”  He told me the night before his dog died, he lay on the floor with him, holding him, scratching his belly.  He said he knew then Shorty’s life would end soon.  We cried as he shared his grief.  He said, “I never want to go through this again.”  People told him he should volunteer at a shelter, but he said he’s too tenderhearted and would end up taking them all home.  I suspect I’ll see him within the next year walking another dog. 

In the early afternoon I drove out to see my dad, who, for the second time this fall is in a nursing facility for rehab.  When I visited him the night before, I was shocked and scared by his disorientation in time and place.  He asked me where I got the chair in his room and how much I had to pay for the blinds, as if it were my place.  He started off a sentence in the present and switched to include reality from forty years ago, as if it were now.  “I don’t think I’m going to go to work tomorrow,” he said.  When the aide came in to help him use the bathroom, I cried in his dismal room, listening to his loss of ability.  With more jumbled conversations, he started giggling, saying he talked like this to some women earlier and they didn’t know what to make of him.  He broke the barrier.  He had some awareness that he was confused and he could laugh at it.  I said, “Your thoughts are jumping all over the place.  You’re doing all sorts of time traveling, aren’t you?”  We laughed through the most of the visit.  I was tickled when he tried to use the remote, pushing a random button, hard, pointing it at the large painting on the opposite wall.  “Dad, that’s a painting.  The T.V. is over there.”  I was so grateful for this space of grace opening up, replacing my fear and grief.  During my visit yesterday, he was more oriented.  He advised me that it’s better to talk to people at the nursing home, “because you start to feel more comfortable being here.”  My dad even made a couple of jokes.  He said, as if I didn’t know, “Your mother has trouble with her back.  Part of it is sticking out and it gives her trouble.  She’s getting shorter.  Pretty soon she’ll be down here,” he said with a squeaky mouse voice, holding his hand a foot off the floor. “Then we’ll have to put her up on the table to talk to her.”

In the later afternoon, at my book group, the host was in sad shape.  Earlier that morning she lost her dog.  Her little family member had been with them for more than eleven years, a part of their home, always at their side, snorting her way through their lives.  Now my friend cried, as she’d been doing all day, saying her dog died in her arms, next to her heart, on the way to the vet.  She could have cancelled the book group, but she wanted her friends with her.  She lit dozens of candles and said we couldn’t leave until they all burned down. 

We’re all a bunch of losers.  It’s part of the human condition, something that connects us all.  Flying kites, mingling hugs and tears with friends and neighbors, finding help in our own time, grabbing on to humor, lighting candles: we all find our way to win through the loss.  I’m grateful for neighbors, friends and family who demonstrate losing with grace, how to be a winner.

12-11-11

Now, a week later, I hope I can learn from those around me.  After a six day tumble down a steep hill, my mom died yesterday.

I have no recipe.

Imagine Bridges

“Give what you can.  To someone, it may be better than you dare to think.”  --Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Keep in mind, today is Saturday, a day of rest, a day I get to start off with espresso from the best little coffee shop on the north side, infused with—isn’t that a silly word: infused?  Doesn’t it just mean mixed?—heated almond milk, and time to make a delicious eggless scramble.  Life just doesn’t get any better than that!  Monday is coming all too soon, and it’s likely to be infused with a less serene flow.

So the sweetness that I’m blown away by this morning, more than my special treats, has welled up from a little interaction two days ago and I realize just this morning that I have the greatest job. 

I was sitting in a second rate coffee shop with a first rate friend after school when a former student passing by knocked on the window and waved at me.  I matched his excited expression and he turned around and came in to see me.  “Miguel, you look like a grown up!” I called out when he approached.  He said, “Yeah, I am.”  I asked him how the card trick business was going, expecting to hear that he’d dropped that fleeting hobby.  He surprised me by saying he had a show coming up in a week or so.  Two years ago he was just a kid in my homeroom showing card tricks to anyone who would watch, usually me.  Four years before that he was a student with a mild learning disability in my special ed algebra class.  He dropped out his junior year, went to another country, then came back a year later and was assigned to my homeroom his junior and senior years.  He was a nut: funny, fast and smart.

And now Miguel stood next to me in the coffee shop, a young man with a plan.  He said he was going to see our high school play that evening and was hoping to see some teachers so he could ask them to write letters of recommendation for school.  “What school?” I asked.  He said he was trying to get into the School of the Art Institute in their audio production program, and that his grades weren’t high enough but if he could get some good recommendations he would be considered.  He didn’t ask me, but I offered to write him one.

This morning I thought about that letter looming over my head, and I realized I was looking forward to writing it.  I remember our interaction, the excitement we felt seeing each other, and felt so blessed for that.  We had built a bridge to one another in the little time we spent together, not an algebraic bridge, but a bridge fortified by trust, mutual respect and playful whimsy.  The magnificence of that bridge carries on to more and more constructions because once we learn how to build one bridge with a partner, we can stretch over deeper canyons and rougher rivers.  And believe me, with fifteen goofy special ed kids in not one, but two classes, I’ve got some pretty deep canyons this year, more like black holes.

I’m not so arrogant as to think that teachers have a corner on the bridge building market.  The beautiful thing is, no matter what our profession, everyone has opportunities to be bridge builders.  In fact, who needs to be employed to build bridges?  Every interaction has potential.  We rarely get to see the impact of the small things we do for others, so why not imagine the best of possibilities? The tender smile and thank to a stranger could be just the thing to snap them out of a slump and into the throws of creativity, or new research or kindness to someone else who was missing it and now can finish that last step in curing osteoporosis please.  Romantic, you say?  Yes!  Isn’t it delightful?

And if you’re lucky like me, once in a while you get to look back and see the beauty of your teamwork. 

Now I have an opportunity to be a part of the supply team for Miguel’s new bridges.  It doesn’t get any better than that.  Who knows?  Miguel, or any of my former students with whom I’ve built bridges, or the gal you smiled at passing on the street, they may be the very ones to build bridges between warring countries.  We may end war yet!

But for now, let’s just eat!

Potato Scramble Infused with Tofu (Oh now, that’s too silly)      

2 T. oil (sunflower is great and can take the heat)

½ a medium sized chopped onion with its tears

3 good sized red potatoes, chopped small for faster cooking

1 medium sized sweet potato, chopped like the potato

¾ of a cake of tofu, cubed about the same size as his friends

Salt and pepper to taste

In a skillet (cast iron is great) heat oil and add onions, tossing for a couple of minutes.  Add the potatoes and sweet potatoes, tossing until they’re coated with oil and oniony goodness.  Add salt and pepper and a quarter cup of water.  Cover, stirring occasionally for about ten minutes.  Add water when needed to prevent sticking.  Those darned potatoes!  Add tofu and more water if needed.  Cover, stir, cover, stir, cover until all is tender. 

While you’re fortifying your buttresses, or just part of your buttresses, feel free to sit under a bridge and imagine world peace.