Service With a Smile

“We hope you enjoyed giving us the business, as we enjoyed taking you for a ride.”  —Flight attendant’s announcement at the end of a nine hour flight to Rio

My sister retired from teaching special education after 35 years.  Congratulations to her!  Six teachers at my school are retiring at the end of our school year.  Congratulations to them!  Waa!  I want to retire!  All year long I longed to retire to a coffee shop writing all day, watching the hard working folks hustle past the window to their jobs.  But in these past two weeks events have connived to change my attitude back in gratitude.

I’ve always wanted to get back to the Bighorn Mountains in Wyoming and thought this would be the summer to do it.  I could camp for a week or so, then drive to Yellowstone.  I prefer to combine my solitude with some group time, so when I read an email from Wilderness Inquiry, an adventure group I’ve traveled with before, I considered their paddle and hike trip in Yellowstone.  They were asking for a trip assistant to help with a disabled person for a significant cut in the cost.  The timing was right for catching the wild flowers in Bighorn before meeting up with the WI group. 

After teeter-tottering for several days, I signed up, but without a deposit.  How’s that for commitment?  I learned the details of the trip: ten people, six of whom are disabled in some way.  That leaves four people and two trip leaders to care for the disabled people by picking up slack, helping them in and out of canoes or with balance and guiding on hikes.  It sounded like a disabled trip, real work and very little adventure.

“Are you crazy?” I said to myself.  My life hit me over the head; I spend seven hours a day, five days a week in service to special needs teenagers.  Then I scuttle off to service at my dad’s place where I wait on tables, act as an interpreter for the weak of voice and the hard of hearing, groomer, and an activities director taking my dad and Max out to the courtyard or leading my three Saturday night dates, the walker brigade, to the movies in the independent living area, then home to needy dogs that aren’t even mine!  “And now you want to spend your vacation in service too?  Are you crazy?”

Still I hadn’t ruled it out.  I envisioned walking alone through meadows of wild flowers, sitting by a mountain river watching a mother moose and her baby in the willows, building a campfire, and  saying, “Wow!  Look at that!” to no one.  The Yellowstone trip promised spots off the beaten path and paddling along rivers I’ve never seen in Yellowstone.  Maybe a week on my own would be enough to handle the service for six days.  Maybe.  And I told myself that many blessings come out of service.  Still, maybe.  Indecision is a disabling position.

Out of the mouths of babes came my dismount from the teeter-totter.  Every Friday we have sustained silent reading in all the reading classes.  I love this day because I get to get lost in a good book, too.  But in my second period class, I don’t get to read my own book.  I read with Pedro because he can’t really read anything past a first grade level.  We’re reading a book called Locomotion by Jacqueline Woodson.  It’s a novel written in verse with a variety of different poem forms, by an orphan whose teacher has asked students to keep a poetry journal.  It’s funny and sad and poignant.  When I read this haiku, I laughed out loud: 

Today's a bad day

Is that haiku?

Do I look / like I even care?

Pedro smiled, studying me.  I told Pedro about haiku and he flipped through the book searching for them.  He got out a piece of paper and wrote down the word haiku.  Last week he laughed even before I did at some parts.  And he explained a passage I didn’t understand.  On Monday Pedro asked if he could come to my fifth period class for extra help during his lunch.  I said it was a freshman class and we’re reading a different book, The Bite of the Mango.  He said, “We read that last year.  I remember you cried. Remember, Ms. Leghorn?”  I smiled.  Pedro said, “You read with heart, Ms. Leghorn.  Other teachers just read.  I mean, maybe they read with enthusiasm, but…I can’t explain it.  You put your heart into it.  That’s what I like about your class.”  I told him, “It takes one to know one, Pedro.”  He laughed.  When the bell rang I went to the bathroom and cried.  That evening I paid for my trip and booked my flight.

Pedro led the week of blessings.  Between compliments and thank yous from residents at my dad’s place, amazing speeches praising teachers for their important and dedicated work at the CPS teachers’ rally attended by more than five thousand CPS employees, and the comedy coming from students, I am welcoming the blessings of service.  This week I realize that I’m right where I want to be.  I may not be able to teach Pedro to read at the high school level, but I can show him how to love literature.  Likewise, I can’t meet the needs of all the residents at my dad’s place, but I can serve them coffee with a smile.  Henry Wadsworth Longfellow said, “Give what you have.  To someone, it may be better than you dare to think.”  I love my job.  I love my life.  I love being of service.  As my friend Jan said, “It’s who you are.”  It takes one to know one, Jan.

This recipe is for Jan, but this time her husband will be servicing her, as he’s the one who likes to cook.

Swordfish Steak with Mango and Squash Salsa

Fresh swordfish steak, enough for two or three people

½ large sweet onion, chopped

3 cloves garlic, sliced

1 stalk celery, sliced (optional, Jan)

½ red, yellow and orange peppers, chopped (organic since they’re on the dirty dozen list)

1 small zucchini quartered and sliced

1 small yellow zucchini (summer squash) quartered and sliced

½ large tomato, chopped

½ or more mango, cubed

about 1 T. chili powder

about 1 T. cumin

juice of ½ lime

salt and pepper to taste

Sauté onion, garlic and celery in oil until onions are translucent.   Add peppers, spices and lime juice.  Cover and cook for about 4 minutes.  You may need to add a little water so nothing sticks.  Add squashes and cover for about 3 more minutes.  Cover swordfish with salt, pepper, chili powder. I tried to rub it in but only ended up rubbing it off.  Maybe you’ll have better luck.  Stir in tomato.  Slide the veggies to the outside of the pan and place the swordfish in the middle.  Cover the fish with the veggies and cover the pan.  Add mango. Cook for about 4 or 5 minutes, then flip to the other side for 3 or 4 minutes. 

On a hot Sunday

Serve this up with sangria.

To your heart and health.  

Tears and Laughter

“I would not exchange the laughter of my heart for the fortunes of the multitudes, nor would I be content converting my tears . . . into calm.  It is my fervent hope that my whole life on this earth will ever be tears and laughter.”  Kalhil Gibran

Of all the things I’m most grateful for in life, tears and laughter are at the top of the list.  I’m lucky that both come so easily for me.

A friend, Little Karen, who is no longer alive, said, “Tears are the raindrops that water the soul.”  It’s true that the lighter, cleaner feeling after a good cry is like the fresh smell and new air that comes after a rain.  On Friday, my students followed along as I read the final words of the author from Our America, a memoir written by two boys growing up in a Chicago ghetto.  Even though I’ve read it several times, it still moves me to tears.  My voice cracked and I could barely get the words out.  From the corner of my blurry eyes, I could see my all male class checking me out.  Finally I gave in to my tears.  “Miguel, you read.”  He finished seconds before the bell rang and the boys all brought their books up to the desk.  Armando patted me on the shoulder and said, “I hope your day gets better, Ms. Leghorn.”  What he didn’t realize is it just doesn’t get any better than that.  The only thing better than sharing great and true literature with a group of high school kids, is opening my heart with them as well.  And lucky me, I got to read and water the garden of my soul in my three self-contained classes that day. 

A man I know once said, “Someday all those tears are going to dry up.”  I know he was offering encouragement, but I said, “I hope not.” 

While crying helps wash away the heavy heat and humidity, laughter jiggles through my body, warming my insides.  It feels delicious, right?  For sure not all laughter gets you to your core, but when it does, it’s the best exercise program, better than tai chi, yoga and aerobics.  Yesterday my friend Gina and I spent much of the day together, shopping for the healthiest foods known to researchers, watching my daughter’s dogs play—a constant cause for laughter—and eating dinner made from those healthy foods, then left over homemade carrot cake to counteract the benefits.  We laughed a lot.  We could have argued our contrary points because we don’t see eye to eye on much.  We can’t talk about religion, politics, abortion, gay rights or evolution/creation.  But we have a Laura and Millie kind of thing going.  “What are you doing now, Laura.”  “Nothing, Millie.  What are you doing?”  “Nothing, Laura.”  Our day was free of plans and expectations, so everything was frosting.  And speaking of frosting, we had to have more cake because there were only two pieces left, you see.  That wasn’t even the highlight.  Our best moment came near the end of the evening when we pulled out our cameras to compare the speed from snapping to capturing. It was too hard to tell, so side by side we slid into our DDD (Device Distraction Disorder, a term coined by the always clever and lovely Susan) and looked through our separate previous photos.  When I landed on one I took of pink blossoms covering a sidewalk, I said, “Look at this one, Gina.”  She looked and immediately giggled, “Look at this one, Lindsay!”  On her camera was a photo of pink blossoms covering a sidewalk!  We fell all over each other in the laughter of magical surprise.  Before I even got out of bed this morning I laughed deliciously remembering the moment.

 

How rich life is with laughter and tears and memory to keep it alive!

You’re probably ready for cake, but I’m going to give you the healthy recipe I cooked up for Gina and me instead.  Don’t do as I do; do as I say.  Stay strong. 

Lotus Root and Shiitake Stir Fry

1 T. sunflower oil

1 t. sesame oil or sesame oil with hot pepper

½ large onion cut in large canoe shaped pieces

3 cloves of garlic thinly sliced or pressed

15 or so slices of lotus root (peel and slice thinly)

1 medium bunch of broccoli cut into bite sized pieces

2 to 3 c. of shiitake mushrooms cut into bite sized pieces

4 to 6 raw chicken tenders, cut in bite sized pieces (tofu, shrimp, and any other critters you don’t mind killing and eating are OK, too.)

3 leaves of kale, chopped

2 T. of tamari

1 T. blue agave syrup

Salt, pepper and hot cayenne or red pepper flakes to taste

You can find lotus root at an Asian market in the produce section.  It’s a smooth peachy color, sometimes two attached end to end.  It has a starchy quality like a potato.  Heat oil and add onions, garlic and lotus root.  Brown a bit on both sides before adding the broccoli.  Add the mushrooms tamari, agave syrup and spices.  Kale needs only a minute or two.  Fold it in and watch how quickly if softens and fits in.

Serve over brown, red, or black rice.  Almost as delicious as laughter, and nearly as renewing as tears.

The Privilege of Motherhood

 Since on this Mother’s Day I’m a permanently motherless, temporarily childless mother, I’ve decided that mixed in with my grief, I’m going to sweeten up my day with meanderings of mother moments. 

It’s a given that the birth of a baby is a miracle.  But I was continually enthralled by the miracle of communication.  From about six months old my daughter helped me make coffee every morning.  I’d place the filter in the coffee maker and pour the water in the top.  Sitting on the counter, she’d reach over and turn it on.  One morning I said, “Turn it on.”  She looked at me and grunted.  I repeated, “Turn it on, Casey.”  She grunted louder.  Had she had words at six months, I would have heard, “Mom, you forgot to pour the water in.”  But our Timmy and Lassie intimacy was enough to warn me of my near caffeine catastrophe.

At about fourteen months, when my son could speak only one word at a time, my husband and I would take him in the stroller to the beach most Saturdays.  This was before I was so health conscious, so we’d stop and pick up doughnuts on the way.  One Saturday morning, while my husband ate his doughnut, bees gathered around him.  He swatted at one, then two then several and finally took off running with his doughnut.  Riley and I laughed so hard.  On the way home, several times, Riley laughed, swatting his hand back and forth and said, “Daddy?  Bees?”  For weeks he regaled us with the story of the time his dad frantically swatted and ran from bees at the beach.  “Daddy?  Bees?”

 

The rewards of motherhood are usually subtle and hard harvested.  It generally takes a real consciousness to value the little bonds, precious looks or learnings.  I remember sitting on our porch with my four year old son listening to the trees whisper in the wind, watching the balls off sunlight bounce around the porch.  The time was sweet and easy.  He asked me, “Hey Mom. If trees come from seeds, and seeds come from trees, then where did the first tree come from?”  I loved the question and equally loved that I didn’t have an answer.  We relished the wondering on the porch, just as I relish the memory of that time together.

Once in a while the rewards are right out there, handed to us.  Two little memories are this year’s Mother’s Day gifts from my absent kids.  When my daughter was just two and already potty trained, she came into the bathroom and sat down on the stool next to me, while I sat on the toilet.  She stayed quiet at my side for a minute or so, then asked, “Did you poop?”  I said, “Yes.”  She said, “Good job.”   I hadn’t been praised for that in over thirty years.

Another reward came from my son after a struggle together.  He had hair issues in fourth and fifth grade.  He had let his hair grow long only because he was afraid to cut it.  Change was scary to him, but when waiters would ask what my daughters wanted to order and I’d correct them, Riley would become more frustrated.  Finally one day he agreed to let me try to cut his hair.  At first I made a mess of things.  There were tears and breaks and new trials and more tears.  We got closer to something better and his horror melted into puddle of resignation.  I said, “Why don’t we go to a barber shop and they can just clean this up?”  He agreed.  The barber gave him a short boy haircut that looked fantastic.  On our walk home my son said, “Thanks for helping me through all that, Mom.”

Knowing Mother's Day was near, I've been missing my mom a lot.  I realize today that a big part of my grief over losing her is grounded in feeling sorry for her.  I feel sorry for my mother's struggles, her losses and her regrets in life.  She struggled with sleep and getting on top of tasks.  She grieved the loss of her ability to play her piano because of arthritis.  She regretted missed opportunities because of the choices she made in life.  I expressed this sentiment in a poem I wrote for her one Mother’s Day:

A Life

Dawn

From her mother’s womb

She gazes upon a chorus of colors

Harmony and dissonance strike

A fanciful chord of crimson

And she dances

Late morning

In her mother’s room

She rests alone on her settee

Shape and pigment fray

Into a single glaze of gray

And she wonders

Noon

Out in her mother’s garden

She prances barefoot among the poppies

Stamen and petal swell

To a full prism of pastel

And she dreams

Dusk

Within her mother’s walls

She pulls tight the screen door

Black and ivory wait

Above a murmur of mauve

And she grieves

Night

By her mother’s bedside

She folds the day’s linens

Fabric and fragrance mingle

The forgotten colors

She tries to sleep

I feel sorry for my mom because she didn’t know what hit her in her last week of life. And while I can’t change history, I can change what I choose to remember.  I remember that my mom was forgiving and continued to love me in spite of the heartache I caused her in my adolescence.  She was nurturing when we kids were sick.  I remember company and effort at bringing down my fever with a wet wash cloth that she repeatedly rinsed in a bowl of cold water.  I remember her dedication to teaching kids how to play the piano, and her professionalism at the recitals she held in our living room.  I remember the pleasure she got from playing Brahms and other pieces I recognize today can’t name.  I remember her friendship in my adulthood.  She listened, worried, felt sorry for me when I struggled, and even bought me a new kitchen when I divorced.  My ex-husband’s mother bought him a crock pot, I told her.  I remember her support when my daughter and I went through the horrors of teenage hell.  She never once said, “I know exactly how you feel,” having the grace not to rub what goes around comes around in my face.  I remember that she was my best fan of my art work and my writing.

If I think about my mom’s great success as a mother and friend, a musician and teacher, rather than a sufferer, I still grieve, but with more of a sense of celebration.  My mother lived a great life simply because she was a mother, a role of great privilege, a role she taught me a lot about, a role I’m cherishing more today because of these memories.  I’m going to work on writing another poem with that sentiment.  But for now I’m going to share a recipe for the dish she used to request on Mother’s Day and on her birthday along with a couple of Butt Poems for my best fan.

Veggie Quiche

That same old pie crust I use every time.

1 and 1/3 cups of low fat buttermilk

½ onion chopped

1 large package of white mushrooms, cleaned and sliced

1 small or ½ large red pepper chopped

1 package of frozen chopped spinach thawed

4 eggs

1 c. grated cheese like cheddar, swiss, gouda, jack, whatever you like

1 tomato thinly sliced

Salt and pepper to taste

Make that same old pie crust described in other posts.  You’ll have to find it because I’m too busy writing this right now.  Sauté onions, mushrooms and peppers with oil, salt and pepper. In a mixing bowl, combine eggs and buttermilk and whisk well with a fork.  Add veggies without the juice and cheese.  Squeeze out the liquid from the spinach and stir the spinach into eggs.  Pour into pie crust and arrange tomatoes on top.  Cook at 375 degrees for about 45 to 50 minutes or until it doesn’t wobble when you jiggle it.

Don’t eat too much of this high fat meal lest you plan to sprout a plump patooti. You may need to release the elastic around your waist.

Fancy Nancy

When Fancy Nancy

Dressed up for Easter

Her spastic elastic

Released her keister   

Too Much

Too much tutti-frutti

Makes you sprout a plump patooti

Too much fudgy ice cream

Builds a bulge across the beam

With too much chocolate mousse

You’ll produce a big caboose

So watch how much you eat

If you like your seat petite

Kids These Days!

I think there should be a twelve step program for adolescents so they can recover from themselves.  Can you imagine how that would go?  “Hi, I’m Jessica and I’m an adolescent.”  And the group would say in unison, “Whatever.”  I hear almost daily that this moment is boring, that weekends are boring, that I’m boring.  One student comes into class, sits down, and before taking out her supplies, or even taking a breath says, “I’m bored.”  I have a solution but she doesn’t want to hear it because that, too, is boring. 

Walking down the halls of a high school and hanging with kids for eight hours a day, I learn a new language.  I learn that ass is a suffix as in boringass class.  It’s thrown in everywhere and isn’t necessarily negative.  Get this one: “She’s a niceass teacher.”  I wonder if the suffix can be used before the noun: “A bigass ass.”  I also learn that the f-word has so many meanings that no one really knows what it means.  I’ve heard, for instance: “I took a fucking shower this morning.”  I wonder what happened in that shower.

I know I’ll sound like my mom here, but I can’t help it.  The music these days isn’t even music.  Kids use a computer program to make “beats” in which there is no melody and they think they’re musicians.  Like my friend pointed out, it’s instant.  It takes no diligence or patience, which is the sign of our instant gratification mentality today.  “Give it to me now and I’ll throw it away in a few minutes when I’m bored with it because it was so easy to get.”  I suppose boringass beats are better than the previous decade’s lyrics like “I wanna lick lick lick lick lick you from your head to your toe.”  That’s just a whole lot of slobber there.  What ever happened to the sweet songs of the 70’s: “Be sure to wear flowers in your hair,” and  “He ain’t heavy; he’s my brother?”

Just when I start to lose all hope for the future of our country, some lovely voices sing out through the barrage of boringass beats with patience and gratitude and inventiveness. 

I was privileged to chaperone a group of students on a field trip to watch a fantastic play performed by teenagers at the Albany Park Theater Project.  It was creatively conceived and performances were compelling.  While we sat waiting for the play to start, instead of being bored, the students initiated a game of I spy with my little eye.  We had great fun trying to outsmart each other.  The play blew students away, and we were all moved to tears.

This past week at school the Peace Club sponsored the Week of Peace.  A couple of girls and I gave out little thank you notes to everyone coming in the building and told them to write someone a note.  “It’s free!” we told them.  A few kids threw them on the floor and others said, “I don’t want to thank anyone.  What for?”  But most students took the cards with surprise and said, “Thank you,” like they had been handed an ice cream cone. Some asked for more.  Teachers wrote and received little notes, too.  One teacher pulled me aside late in the day and said how touched he was by a thank you note a student had written him.  The student thanked him for being a good teacher and added that he would make a great father for some kid.  Another student donated her time and creativity by making and selling her stunning peace jewelry.  Her efforts alone earned $600 dollars to be given to our sister school in Tanzania for the construction of a girls’ dormitory, a way to keep the girls in safe and school.

At our peace rally yesterday, hard working, diligent singers and guitar players gave us the sweet songs of the past.  The chorus teacher, who has modeled endless effort and patience, led students in Love Is All You Need and Imagine. 

Later in the afternoon, at an all-city peace rally, one of our students who frequently uses the f-word indefinably along with that oldie but goodie, douche bag, gave a short speech in front of about 1,000 CPS and DePaul students.  She chose more defining words for her speech, telling students about our morning peace rally where we talked about working together as one.  She said something like, “But this is just the beginning.  We have to keep on working together.”

Kids these days!  It’s easy to get irritated by the empty thank you notes on the floor, or the over use of crude words.  But life is so much more joyful when I focus on the sweet voices, the sincere thanks, the creativity of students and their messages that show us adults that they are learning the important things.  My friends, good news: there is hope.

Kids these days may not have the patience to bake bread, and you may rather have your bread machine do it, but I love the act of kneading.  You can try watching dough rise, but you won’t see it by staring.  You have to do what you can, leave it alone, and let it do its thing.  When you look in on it later, the growth will surprise you. 

Whole Grain Seeded Bread

1 ½ T. active dry yeast

1 ¼ c. water, warm temperature

¼ c. sunflower oil

1 ¼ T. salt

1/3 c. sugar

6 T. millet

4 T. cracked wheat, cooked in water for 10 minutes, then drained

4 T. poppy seeds

¼ c. walnut pieces

1 ½ c. bread flower

½ c. wheat bran

¼ c. millet flour

¼ c. rolled oats

¼ c. whole wheat flour

¼ c. brown rice flour

¼ c. of corn meal

3 heaping T. wheat gluten

In a small bowl, combine yeast, sugar and ½ c. of warm water.  Combine the remaining water, oil, salt, millet, cracked wheat, seeds and walnuts.  Let it sit for ten minutes.  Add the yeast, water and sugar mixture and stir well. Add the rest of the ingredients. Knead dough with floured hands on a floured surface for about ten minutes.  Place dough in an oiled bowl in a warm spot, maybe in the sun or in the oven with the light on for one hour until it’s hopefully doubled in size.  Punch it down.  That’s such a fun moment.  Turn the dough and let it rest, covered for 20 minutes.  Shape the dough into two small loaves, cover and let it rise in a warm spot again until doubled with hope.  Bake in a warm oven, 190 degrees for about 30 minutes.  Check after 25 minutes for a golden brown crust. 

This will take you most of the day so start early.  Get your dipping oil, cheese and wine ready.  The future looks good.