I used to keep written journals for years. Ever since I started Creative Ink (six months ago!), I’ve put many (though certainly not all) of my deepest thoughts here instead. Some people say it takes courage to write about the things I do, but I don’t see it that way. This is my safe place to explore what’s on my mind. Like the quote from Joan Didion says at the top of this page, I write to find out what I’m thinking and even about my fears. Ultimately, I write because I have something to say and sometimes that something is just for me.
While paging through some old journals recently I couldn’t help but notice that my pace of life was as hectic in 1997 (with only two children) as it is now. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad. I know myself well enough to know that I thrive off of activity. But as I get older, I’m also hoping that I can channel my efforts on the things that truly matter most.
Maybe that’s why I’m getting so much out of reading the spirituality books for reviews. The bits and pieces of wisdom I’m finding are helping me to figure out who I am, where I am and where I hope to be in the future.
This year has been amazing for many reasons. Certainly I’m glad to be doing the work I enjoy, but I’m also glad to have had the time and the outlet to learn more about myself. As silly as that sounds, I think I was a stranger (and enemy) to myself for most of my adult life. I constantly fight the feeling of having wasted time. I know I haven’t wasted time, but I'm just searching for an authentic life, even as I’m unsure exactly what that means.
I suppose I want to feel that what I do matters, that my voice is heard and that I don’t simply vanish into sea of strung-out moms desperately clinging to scraps of their individuality. I want to find a way to keep it all real—life, love, parenting, writing, joy, fulfillment. Life is a big question mark, a riddle that will never be answered. But that’s okay, because the joy—and real personal growth—is found in the journey.
The remarkable byproduct of all this self-awareness is that I really feel it’s making me a better person, particularly as a mom. There is so much of me—and my energy—in my boys that at times I am overcome by the joy they bring me. If I know anything for sure, it’s that I’m setting a model (hopefully a good one) for my sons on what is a modern woman. It’s so important to me, more important than anything else that they grow up to be loving, compassionate, supportive, giving men with strong characters.
When my neighbor and I groused the other night about playing traffic cop in the mornings and evenings, directing everyone to school, sports, homework, showers, etc., always mindful that we’re 10 minutes behind schedule, she said to me we have to take comfort in knowing that we are raising fine young men who will really understand how important it is that a woman fulfill her many sides. She is so right. And when I was feeling badly about wanting to take advantage of a professional opportunity, she was the one to tell me that it’s important that our boys understand that moms can take their careers seriously, explore opportunities and still be good moms. Some day the boys will look back and value what their moms did both for them (the boys) and for themselves. Thanks for that, Patty Banks.
“Things won are done; joy’s soul lies in the doing.” — William Shakespeare
Wednesday, September 22, 2004
Monday, September 20, 2004
Moyers' speech
I promised to post Bill Moyers' incredible speech from the SPJ National Convention here when it was made available. And here it is. It's a long speech, but a good read. Moyers will be retiring in three months and said, "I cannot imagine a better turn into the home stretch than this morning with you." His delivery was akin to that of a southern preaching, delivering his sermon to the faithful gathered in the revival tent.
Here are two excerpts to spur you to read on:
"Journalism has been a continuing course in adult education–—my own; other people paid the tuition and travel, and I've never really had to grow up and get a day job. I made a lot of mistakes along the way, but I've enjoyed the company of colleagues as good as they come, who kept inspiring me to try harder.
"They helped me relearn another of journalism's basic lessons. The job of trying to tell the truth about people whose job it is to hide the truth is almost as complicated and difficult as trying to hide it in the first place. Unless you're willing to fight and refight the same battles until you go blue in the face, drive the people you work with nuts going over every last detail to make certain you've got it right, and then take hit after unfair hit accusing you of 'bias,' or these days even a point of view, there's no use even trying. You have to love it, and I do."
He concluded his speech with this:
"We have it so easy here in this country. America is a utopia for journalists. Don Hewitt, the creator of 60 Minutes, told me a couple of years ago that 'the 1990s were a terrible time for journalism in this country but a wonderful time for journalists; we're living like Jack Welch,' he said, referring to the then CEO of General Electric. Perhaps that is why we weren't asking tough questions of Jack Welch. Because we have it so easy in America, we tend to go easy on America -- so easy that maybe (former Baltimore Sun reporter David) Simon's right; compaired to entertainment and propaganda, maybe journalism doesn't matter.
"But I approach the end of my own long run believing more strongly than ever that the quality of journalism and the quality of democracy are inextricably joined. The late Martha Gellhorn, who spent have a century reporting on war and politicians -- and observing journalists, too -- eventually lost her faith that journalism could, by itself, change the world. but the act of keeping the record straight is valuable in itself, she said. 'Serious, careful, honest journalism is essential, not because it is a guiding light but because it is a form of honorable behavior, involving the reporter and the reader.' I second that. I believe democracy requires 'a sacred contract' between journalists and those who put their trust in us to tell them what we can about how the world really works."
Here are two excerpts to spur you to read on:
"Journalism has been a continuing course in adult education–—my own; other people paid the tuition and travel, and I've never really had to grow up and get a day job. I made a lot of mistakes along the way, but I've enjoyed the company of colleagues as good as they come, who kept inspiring me to try harder.
"They helped me relearn another of journalism's basic lessons. The job of trying to tell the truth about people whose job it is to hide the truth is almost as complicated and difficult as trying to hide it in the first place. Unless you're willing to fight and refight the same battles until you go blue in the face, drive the people you work with nuts going over every last detail to make certain you've got it right, and then take hit after unfair hit accusing you of 'bias,' or these days even a point of view, there's no use even trying. You have to love it, and I do."
He concluded his speech with this:
"We have it so easy here in this country. America is a utopia for journalists. Don Hewitt, the creator of 60 Minutes, told me a couple of years ago that 'the 1990s were a terrible time for journalism in this country but a wonderful time for journalists; we're living like Jack Welch,' he said, referring to the then CEO of General Electric. Perhaps that is why we weren't asking tough questions of Jack Welch. Because we have it so easy in America, we tend to go easy on America -- so easy that maybe (former Baltimore Sun reporter David) Simon's right; compaired to entertainment and propaganda, maybe journalism doesn't matter.
"But I approach the end of my own long run believing more strongly than ever that the quality of journalism and the quality of democracy are inextricably joined. The late Martha Gellhorn, who spent have a century reporting on war and politicians -- and observing journalists, too -- eventually lost her faith that journalism could, by itself, change the world. but the act of keeping the record straight is valuable in itself, she said. 'Serious, careful, honest journalism is essential, not because it is a guiding light but because it is a form of honorable behavior, involving the reporter and the reader.' I second that. I believe democracy requires 'a sacred contract' between journalists and those who put their trust in us to tell them what we can about how the world really works."
The urge to bake
Can’t believe I hauled out my little space heater today and it’s not yet October. I have a little problem with poor circulation and incredibly cold feet. The temperature need only dip into the 60s and I’m in need of some wool socks. But I’m not complaining. No sir. Fall is my absolute favorite time of year.
Once I was able to muster up the courage this morning to leave my bed, I sprinted to the closet to grab my favorite oversized Irish sweater. Could practically see my breath when I let the dog out today. But I’m not complaining.
I’m ready to dig out the down comforter, put the sandals away for another season, throw on a fuzzy warm sweater and take a walk with the dog. This is my time of year. I’m completely energized by the crisp air, and (soon) the changing colors of the leaves. Today is an ideal day for apple picking. Too bad I have much work to do. I’ll have to settle for an apple for lunch instead.
Fall reconnects me with my kitchen, good news all around for my family. I have an overwhelming urge to bake (went so far as to buy ingredients). I may need to open a bottle of wine and whip up some seafood risotto this weekend. Can’t make a really fine risotto without the ritual of sipping on a glass of wine. Maybe I’ll surprise the boys by baking some cookies (and not the slice-and-bake variety).
Once I was able to muster up the courage this morning to leave my bed, I sprinted to the closet to grab my favorite oversized Irish sweater. Could practically see my breath when I let the dog out today. But I’m not complaining.
I’m ready to dig out the down comforter, put the sandals away for another season, throw on a fuzzy warm sweater and take a walk with the dog. This is my time of year. I’m completely energized by the crisp air, and (soon) the changing colors of the leaves. Today is an ideal day for apple picking. Too bad I have much work to do. I’ll have to settle for an apple for lunch instead.
Fall reconnects me with my kitchen, good news all around for my family. I have an overwhelming urge to bake (went so far as to buy ingredients). I may need to open a bottle of wine and whip up some seafood risotto this weekend. Can’t make a really fine risotto without the ritual of sipping on a glass of wine. Maybe I’ll surprise the boys by baking some cookies (and not the slice-and-bake variety).
Thursday, September 16, 2004
Magical moments
I'm not sure I'll ever be able to write about my most recent trip to NYC. So many wonderful, surprising things happened. There was plenty of work to be done and I found myself energized by the many hallway and lobby meetings that sprung up in between the scheduled meetings. Here are some of the highlights of SPJ NYC:
1) Walter Cronkite is frail and elderly, but still commands the respect of fellow journalists. And who knew that Brian Williams has a sense of humor?
2) I nearly flipped when the program chair of the convention turned to me and said, "It was your idea to bring (William) Zinsser here, why don't you introduce him?" What a thrill! I'm still feeding off of the high of meeting him.
3) A night-time cruise down the Hudson River gave us three spectacular sights——the Manhattan skyline at night, the ghostly illumination of the Twin Towers on the eve of the third anniversary of the attacks and an up-close-and-personal view of the State of Liberty.
4) So much time was spent inside the conference hotel that I welcomed the chance to walk over to TIAA-CREF on Third Avenue. The woman I was meeting asked if I wanted to sit outside. "Sure," I replied, "I've spent the past 24 hours in a conference hotel." And so we took the elevator to the 25th floor and out onto a spectacular rooftop patio. The sun was shining and the sky was crystal clear. A slight breeze kept us cool in the sun. I could've tilted my head back and just savored the sun and relative silence on that patio. Not a bad way to spend a Friday afternoon in Midtown Manhattan.
5) Enjoyed $12 Cosmos and fine Italian food with some friends from Cincy, OU and Florida. Though we suffered sticker shock from the price of our drinks, we had a ball sharing war stories.
6) Bill Moyers spoke to our group for an hour in what can best be described as a Revival. We were all born-again into the field of journalism and Moyers received a lengthy standing ovation from his peers. If I can track down a copy of his speech somewhere, I'll be sure to post a link. A signed copy of his speech was auctioned off later that night for $2,500, benefiting SPJ's Legal Defense Fund.
7) Finally, and perhaps most important, I got to spend some time getting to know like-minded people who share my passion for writing and connecting with others. It was a memorable, exhausting, exhilarating week and one filled with amazing experiences.
New York is like a drug and I'm already trying to figure out how to get back there next month for another fix.
1) Walter Cronkite is frail and elderly, but still commands the respect of fellow journalists. And who knew that Brian Williams has a sense of humor?
2) I nearly flipped when the program chair of the convention turned to me and said, "It was your idea to bring (William) Zinsser here, why don't you introduce him?" What a thrill! I'm still feeding off of the high of meeting him.
3) A night-time cruise down the Hudson River gave us three spectacular sights——the Manhattan skyline at night, the ghostly illumination of the Twin Towers on the eve of the third anniversary of the attacks and an up-close-and-personal view of the State of Liberty.
4) So much time was spent inside the conference hotel that I welcomed the chance to walk over to TIAA-CREF on Third Avenue. The woman I was meeting asked if I wanted to sit outside. "Sure," I replied, "I've spent the past 24 hours in a conference hotel." And so we took the elevator to the 25th floor and out onto a spectacular rooftop patio. The sun was shining and the sky was crystal clear. A slight breeze kept us cool in the sun. I could've tilted my head back and just savored the sun and relative silence on that patio. Not a bad way to spend a Friday afternoon in Midtown Manhattan.
5) Enjoyed $12 Cosmos and fine Italian food with some friends from Cincy, OU and Florida. Though we suffered sticker shock from the price of our drinks, we had a ball sharing war stories.
6) Bill Moyers spoke to our group for an hour in what can best be described as a Revival. We were all born-again into the field of journalism and Moyers received a lengthy standing ovation from his peers. If I can track down a copy of his speech somewhere, I'll be sure to post a link. A signed copy of his speech was auctioned off later that night for $2,500, benefiting SPJ's Legal Defense Fund.
7) Finally, and perhaps most important, I got to spend some time getting to know like-minded people who share my passion for writing and connecting with others. It was a memorable, exhausting, exhilarating week and one filled with amazing experiences.
New York is like a drug and I'm already trying to figure out how to get back there next month for another fix.
Monday, September 13, 2004
Catching up and following up
There's nothing like the invigoration that comes from spending a weekend of learning with like-minded individuals. I'm still processing all of the wonderful experiences from SPJ in NYC and will share them this week as time permits. Here are a few gems that capture the theme of this weekend...
It is clear from both speakers and participants that writing is a vocation. After all, as the author Leo Rosten said, "The only reason for being a professional writer is that you can't help it."
Writing is hard work. But the joy comes in learning, perhaps over a lifetime, that you can discover many things about life, yourself and the world through the process. And there's a deep satisfaction that comes from knowing you've written well. You may not feel it often, but when you do it's the drug that will keep you hooked. "Inspiration is wonderful when it happens, but the writer must develop an approach for the rest of the time... The wait is simply too long."
Leonard Bernstein
People are energy and light personified. And as the great Edith Wharton says, "There are two ways of spreading light: to be the candle or the mirror that reflects it."
And so the bottom line is that, "You owe it to us all to get on with what you're good at." — W. H. Auden
It is clear from both speakers and participants that writing is a vocation. After all, as the author Leo Rosten said, "The only reason for being a professional writer is that you can't help it."
Writing is hard work. But the joy comes in learning, perhaps over a lifetime, that you can discover many things about life, yourself and the world through the process. And there's a deep satisfaction that comes from knowing you've written well. You may not feel it often, but when you do it's the drug that will keep you hooked. "Inspiration is wonderful when it happens, but the writer must develop an approach for the rest of the time... The wait is simply too long."
Leonard Bernstein
People are energy and light personified. And as the great Edith Wharton says, "There are two ways of spreading light: to be the candle or the mirror that reflects it."
And so the bottom line is that, "You owe it to us all to get on with what you're good at." — W. H. Auden
Thursday, September 09, 2004
Frances in NYC
Hurricane Frances has settled in New York City. Not even the remnants of a hurricane can dampen my spirits. It's great to be back. Today is packed with meetings, starting this morning when I'm meeting with Digna Sanchez, executive director of Learning Leaders, a volunteer organization serving the needs of New York City public school children. Had just enough time to grab coffee and the Times, check e-mail and head to the Subway.
They say if you stand in the middle of Grand Central Station at 5 p.m. you'll run into someone you know within 10 minutes. I hadn't even walked into the building yesterday at 5:15 and I heard my name called. It was Bruce Cadwallader, SPJ's Region 4 director and a reporter at the Columbus Dispatch. Pretty cool...
Enjoyed a glass of wine with Marcello at the Oyster Bar. He told me that people come to his little nook to smooth the transition between the city and their real life at home in the suburbs. Bartenders are great observers of life, philosophizing on the human race as seen from the wide-angle view available behind the bar. Marcello's only rule at the bar is no ringing cell phones. If your phone rings, you have to buy a round of drinks.
Gotta catch the Lexington No. 6 local downtown.
They say if you stand in the middle of Grand Central Station at 5 p.m. you'll run into someone you know within 10 minutes. I hadn't even walked into the building yesterday at 5:15 and I heard my name called. It was Bruce Cadwallader, SPJ's Region 4 director and a reporter at the Columbus Dispatch. Pretty cool...
Enjoyed a glass of wine with Marcello at the Oyster Bar. He told me that people come to his little nook to smooth the transition between the city and their real life at home in the suburbs. Bartenders are great observers of life, philosophizing on the human race as seen from the wide-angle view available behind the bar. Marcello's only rule at the bar is no ringing cell phones. If your phone rings, you have to buy a round of drinks.
Gotta catch the Lexington No. 6 local downtown.
Wednesday, September 08, 2004
September 8, 2004
For years I clipped this out of the PD and pasted into my journals, so it seems only fitting that this year I post on my blog.
FOR WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 8, 2004
If today is your birthday: You have an unusually creative and dynamic way of expressing yourself, which surprises many and delights others. You express your uniqueness. Partnerships reflect this very same eccentricity. Give up your ideas of how others should be. As a result, you will flex and gain. Network and make new friends. During 2005 you might reach one of your financial peaks if you walk a conservative path.
And from today’s Washington Post:
IF SEPTEMBER 8 IS YOUR BIRTHDAY: . . . you are more interested in defending what is important to you than in other people's views today. There is a boost in your physical energy and the ability to lead others now, but you may have a tough time maintaining the momentum. Work fast if you have irons in the fire. Expect to receive rewards for your hard work in January and an important improvement in your life. By next spring, a new factor could affect your life, and a compelling partnership may become the center of your universe.
I’m off to New York City today for five days packed full of great stuff—networking, seeing New York, meeting my idols, catching up with SPJ friends and meeting new friends…
FOR WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 8, 2004
If today is your birthday: You have an unusually creative and dynamic way of expressing yourself, which surprises many and delights others. You express your uniqueness. Partnerships reflect this very same eccentricity. Give up your ideas of how others should be. As a result, you will flex and gain. Network and make new friends. During 2005 you might reach one of your financial peaks if you walk a conservative path.
And from today’s Washington Post:
IF SEPTEMBER 8 IS YOUR BIRTHDAY: . . . you are more interested in defending what is important to you than in other people's views today. There is a boost in your physical energy and the ability to lead others now, but you may have a tough time maintaining the momentum. Work fast if you have irons in the fire. Expect to receive rewards for your hard work in January and an important improvement in your life. By next spring, a new factor could affect your life, and a compelling partnership may become the center of your universe.
I’m off to New York City today for five days packed full of great stuff—networking, seeing New York, meeting my idols, catching up with SPJ friends and meeting new friends…
Tuesday, September 07, 2004
On the eve of another flight
"I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning how to sail my ship."
—Louisa May Alcott
—Louisa May Alcott
Thursday, September 02, 2004
My boy loves school!
Sitting in the brand-spanking new cafeteria of the Bay Middle School last night I found myself near tears. It was open house for the sixth grade and my first at Ryan's new school. My fears of him not making the transition were unfounded to say the least. He came home the first day and proclaimed, "Mom, the middle school is the best thing that's ever happened to me in my life!" Pretty strong words from my boy who dreaded school for the past two years.
To be sure he's in stunning physical surroundings. Students and teachers moved into the new school in January, but they spent the second semester last year co-existing with a barrage of workmen finishing up the school. This year, it's done. The library's giant windows face a gorgeous view across Cahoon Park to Lake Erie. The art rooms are finer than those I remember from college days. And the technology program is simply incredible—not only do the kids learn keyboarding, word, excel and powerpoint, but they also get to spend time in a modular lab exploring graphic design, aerospace, human genetics, video production and editing and other possible career paths.
The school is amazing, but it was my first exposure to Ryan's teachers and the curriculum that moved me nearly to tears. Though it may seem normal to those who have fine educational experiences, this level of energy, enthusiasm and educational creativity is NOT at all what we experienced over the past two years.
Core subjects (math, language arts, social studies and science) are taught in hour-long segments. Within the block, teachers have the flexibility to use more or less time, depending on the preparation for that day. For example, if the math teacher is preparing students for a big test, she can use 75 minutes instead of 60 minutes! And built in to their schedule is 45 minutes for academic support. We used to call it study hall, but this is far more structured. Students may complete homework assignments or meet with one of their teachers for more instruction. Students receive no more than an hour's worth of homework (total) each night. If they spend more than 20 minutes on an assignment, parents are to write a note to the teacher and the teacher will accept the homework because (and this is the real kicker), if it took the student too long, the teachers feel as if they didn't explain it well enough.
The spokesperson for Ryan's team was Mr. I, the science teacher. He's a young guy (my son's first male teacher) and full of humor and energy. He actually studied the yearbook photos of the kids (as fifth graders) so he would know their names when they first stepped into his classroom!!!
Equally amazing were his two language arts and social studies teachers who—and this is when my jaw nearly dropped to the floor—teach the two subjects in concert!!! This is the year for learning about the ancients and language arts assignments are linked to what the students are learning in social studies. My heart be still, we're actually connecting the dots!!!!
And then Ryan's math teacher stood up, with a chicken puppet plopped on her head. She uses it to help students let go of their fear of math. In talking with her afterward I explained that Ryan's math experience over the past two years has been mind-boggling horrid. I'm not even sure what he has learned or retained from fifth grade. Of all his subjects, this is the one in which he is alarmingly behind. She reassured me that Ryan is very enthusiastic about math and assured me that he would soon catch up with his classmates.
She's making math fun and has set up a system of organization that makes my heart sing! The only method of communication his fifth grade teacher at the parochial school employed was screaming, even when a student asked for help. She was so horrible at teaching math that she is no longer teaching it this year. That someone who so clearly does not enjoy children is still teaching AT ALL is such a tragedy for those who must endure her this year.
Ryan is so excited about school this year. He leaps out of bed every morning, has written down all his assignments in great detail (and even his after-school practices, etc.) and finishes all his homework before football practice. I was always amazed at how our students (and boys are particularly bad about this) were expected to master organization between their fourth and fifth grade years at parochial school. It's a nice goal, but it's an ongoing goal. And his new teachers understand that kids still need time to LEARN organizational skills, not just be expected to possess them.
As I walked back to my car last night, I called Ryan on the cell and told him how cool his teachers are and how happy I am that he is in a place where he can thrive. He responds to teachers who treat him with respect, who make learning fun (and not simply rote), and who are engaging his young mind in ways I know will cause him to succeed.
I slept soundly last night knowing my boy is where he needs to be.
To be sure he's in stunning physical surroundings. Students and teachers moved into the new school in January, but they spent the second semester last year co-existing with a barrage of workmen finishing up the school. This year, it's done. The library's giant windows face a gorgeous view across Cahoon Park to Lake Erie. The art rooms are finer than those I remember from college days. And the technology program is simply incredible—not only do the kids learn keyboarding, word, excel and powerpoint, but they also get to spend time in a modular lab exploring graphic design, aerospace, human genetics, video production and editing and other possible career paths.
The school is amazing, but it was my first exposure to Ryan's teachers and the curriculum that moved me nearly to tears. Though it may seem normal to those who have fine educational experiences, this level of energy, enthusiasm and educational creativity is NOT at all what we experienced over the past two years.
Core subjects (math, language arts, social studies and science) are taught in hour-long segments. Within the block, teachers have the flexibility to use more or less time, depending on the preparation for that day. For example, if the math teacher is preparing students for a big test, she can use 75 minutes instead of 60 minutes! And built in to their schedule is 45 minutes for academic support. We used to call it study hall, but this is far more structured. Students may complete homework assignments or meet with one of their teachers for more instruction. Students receive no more than an hour's worth of homework (total) each night. If they spend more than 20 minutes on an assignment, parents are to write a note to the teacher and the teacher will accept the homework because (and this is the real kicker), if it took the student too long, the teachers feel as if they didn't explain it well enough.
The spokesperson for Ryan's team was Mr. I, the science teacher. He's a young guy (my son's first male teacher) and full of humor and energy. He actually studied the yearbook photos of the kids (as fifth graders) so he would know their names when they first stepped into his classroom!!!
Equally amazing were his two language arts and social studies teachers who—and this is when my jaw nearly dropped to the floor—teach the two subjects in concert!!! This is the year for learning about the ancients and language arts assignments are linked to what the students are learning in social studies. My heart be still, we're actually connecting the dots!!!!
And then Ryan's math teacher stood up, with a chicken puppet plopped on her head. She uses it to help students let go of their fear of math. In talking with her afterward I explained that Ryan's math experience over the past two years has been mind-boggling horrid. I'm not even sure what he has learned or retained from fifth grade. Of all his subjects, this is the one in which he is alarmingly behind. She reassured me that Ryan is very enthusiastic about math and assured me that he would soon catch up with his classmates.
She's making math fun and has set up a system of organization that makes my heart sing! The only method of communication his fifth grade teacher at the parochial school employed was screaming, even when a student asked for help. She was so horrible at teaching math that she is no longer teaching it this year. That someone who so clearly does not enjoy children is still teaching AT ALL is such a tragedy for those who must endure her this year.
Ryan is so excited about school this year. He leaps out of bed every morning, has written down all his assignments in great detail (and even his after-school practices, etc.) and finishes all his homework before football practice. I was always amazed at how our students (and boys are particularly bad about this) were expected to master organization between their fourth and fifth grade years at parochial school. It's a nice goal, but it's an ongoing goal. And his new teachers understand that kids still need time to LEARN organizational skills, not just be expected to possess them.
As I walked back to my car last night, I called Ryan on the cell and told him how cool his teachers are and how happy I am that he is in a place where he can thrive. He responds to teachers who treat him with respect, who make learning fun (and not simply rote), and who are engaging his young mind in ways I know will cause him to succeed.
I slept soundly last night knowing my boy is where he needs to be.
Tuesday, August 31, 2004
The twilight zone
I took one look at my mom today and instantly knew she was operating in the twilight zone that surrounds life in a hospital. You don't know what day it is, whether it's day or night, if you've eaten a meal or which doctor told you what news.
Unfortunately, we know this particular experience at Metro well. My dad received a hip replacement there seven years ago. It was November and I was with my mom during the surgery. When we saw a man wheeled out of the recovery room, she got up to follow. "That's not dad, that's an old man," I said. But it was my dad. His sparse salt-and-pepper hair was swirled in what looked like a bad combover. And his complexion was gray. He had lived with hip pain for so long that it was a near miracle to arrive at their house on Christmas Day (a mere five weeks after surgery) and see Charlie hauling a load of firewood in from the garage with his trademark red sweater and khakis, all robust and grinning.
My mom was operated on for cancer at Metro on Feb. 1, 1999. We received the news from her surgeon saying that her diagnosis was changed from ovarian to lymphoma, and that lymphona was a "better" cancer. (Better meaning there were more treatments available.) When they wheeled her into her room, barely concious, she looked like a child, with her petite frame taking up only about half of the bed. Charlie was crushed as he looked at her, a giant incision running from her breast bone to her lower abdomen. It was all any of us could do to hold ourselves together—for mom and for dad.
Charlie looks at my mom, after 41 years of marriage, and still sees the young women he met in the 8th grade and fell in love with at 19. Until recently, he carried her measurements (circa 1963) to assist in any shopping. Jen and I had to finally break the news that, though his mind's eye had held her at a size 4, she was in fact no longer.
I was scheduled the day after mom's surgery to deliver my Michael at Fairview Hospital. I still have a National Geographic map of Ireland, Scotland and Wales that has written on the back side in my dad's beautiful penmanship, "Michael Charles, 10:23 p.m., 7 lbs., 12 oz." Dad was my only visitor (besides Danny and the boys) in the hospital. He arrived early the morning after I delivered and sat holding Mikey, his fifth grandson and namesake, and soaking up his newborn smell in the quiet of the maternity ward. The nurses knew my mom was in Metro and took many extra Polaroids for my dad to share with her. It was one of the great, peaceful moments in an incredibly harried time.
And now he's back in Metro again, this time in CICU. As I looked at him sleeping today, I remembered how he could make me feel so special, with a squeeze or a comment. We were vacationing in Virginia Beach and had spent the day swimming in the ocean. I was freshly showered and sitting at a picnic table outside our camper by the light of the kerosene lantern. Dad, Chris and I were going to play cards. He looked at me and said, "Wendy Ann, sea water becomes you." What a beautiful thing to say to an awkward teenager. Charlie always was good with words...
Unfortunately, we know this particular experience at Metro well. My dad received a hip replacement there seven years ago. It was November and I was with my mom during the surgery. When we saw a man wheeled out of the recovery room, she got up to follow. "That's not dad, that's an old man," I said. But it was my dad. His sparse salt-and-pepper hair was swirled in what looked like a bad combover. And his complexion was gray. He had lived with hip pain for so long that it was a near miracle to arrive at their house on Christmas Day (a mere five weeks after surgery) and see Charlie hauling a load of firewood in from the garage with his trademark red sweater and khakis, all robust and grinning.
My mom was operated on for cancer at Metro on Feb. 1, 1999. We received the news from her surgeon saying that her diagnosis was changed from ovarian to lymphoma, and that lymphona was a "better" cancer. (Better meaning there were more treatments available.) When they wheeled her into her room, barely concious, she looked like a child, with her petite frame taking up only about half of the bed. Charlie was crushed as he looked at her, a giant incision running from her breast bone to her lower abdomen. It was all any of us could do to hold ourselves together—for mom and for dad.
Charlie looks at my mom, after 41 years of marriage, and still sees the young women he met in the 8th grade and fell in love with at 19. Until recently, he carried her measurements (circa 1963) to assist in any shopping. Jen and I had to finally break the news that, though his mind's eye had held her at a size 4, she was in fact no longer.
I was scheduled the day after mom's surgery to deliver my Michael at Fairview Hospital. I still have a National Geographic map of Ireland, Scotland and Wales that has written on the back side in my dad's beautiful penmanship, "Michael Charles, 10:23 p.m., 7 lbs., 12 oz." Dad was my only visitor (besides Danny and the boys) in the hospital. He arrived early the morning after I delivered and sat holding Mikey, his fifth grandson and namesake, and soaking up his newborn smell in the quiet of the maternity ward. The nurses knew my mom was in Metro and took many extra Polaroids for my dad to share with her. It was one of the great, peaceful moments in an incredibly harried time.
And now he's back in Metro again, this time in CICU. As I looked at him sleeping today, I remembered how he could make me feel so special, with a squeeze or a comment. We were vacationing in Virginia Beach and had spent the day swimming in the ocean. I was freshly showered and sitting at a picnic table outside our camper by the light of the kerosene lantern. Dad, Chris and I were going to play cards. He looked at me and said, "Wendy Ann, sea water becomes you." What a beautiful thing to say to an awkward teenager. Charlie always was good with words...
Monday, August 30, 2004
Close to his heart
Charlie had a heart attack tonight. My dad is only 62 and has always been a pretty healthy guy. My sister and I always loved the old photo of him doing a back bend while my petite mom stood on his stomach. I can still see his graceful swan dive off the high dive at Berea municipal pool while we stood by the side of the pool cheering him on. And the way he give us whale rides in the ocean, gliding smooth as silk through the water. He still takes meticulous care of his yard and golfs at least once a week. So it was quite a shock to hear my mom's shaky voice on my cell phone telling me that he had been admitted to MetroHealth and was undergoing heart catheterization.
In times of family trouble, I take on the role of sibling-in-charge. My first order of business was to get home, pick up my rosary (because I knew my mom would need it) and head down to the hospital to be by her side.
As I headed downtown I called my Gram for any news. I complained about being stopped by a train and she nearly shouted at me, "Wendy Ann, that's God's way of telling you to slow down!" And so I did, sort of, and then called my brother and sister in Columbus to let them know I would share any news.
After many twists and turns, I found my mom in the waiting room in the cardiac care unit. She had her head against the wall and USA Today in front of her, but she wasn't reading. Her eyes were closed and I'm sure she was praying.
"Mom," I said gently. She jumped up to hug me and told me she felt so bad. Apparently he was feeling ill yesterday, too. Mom works at Metro and today was her first day back from vacation so she wasn't home with my dad when he went to the doctor.
"Did you blow it off, mom?"
"Yes!" she exhaled. "We thought it was heartburn," not an uncommon occurrence with heart attack symptoms.
We sat together, holding hands and comforting each other. I gave her my rosary and she said, "You knew." I did. My mom's faith is awe-inspiring and I knew she would need its comfort. Before long, my younger brother, Scott, arrived—all six feet two inches and 220 pounds of him visibly shaken.
We didn't have to wait long before the cardiologist came to tell us that dad had 80 percent blockage in the main artery on the right side of his heart. They were able to clear the blockage and insert mesh stents to support his weakened arteries. He has 100 percent blockage in a branch artery on the left side of his heart, and the doctor said it would cause more damage to try to remove the blockage. Since it's a branch artery, they weren't as concerned. The good news is that we seem to have dodged open heart surgery.
What is concerning, however, is how my dad, who had a clean bill of health 16 months ago, could suddenly develop coronary artery disease. According to the doctor, it doesn't take much time for blockages to develop (weeks, sometimes days).
I went in to see Charlie once he was in his room. He had to lie flat and had his glasses folded on his chest. Tubes, probes and monitors were attached all over him. But as I walked to the bed he grabbed my hand, squeezed it tightly and said, "Hey, sugar." I kissed his balding head as I've done since I was a little girl. "Dad, what happened?" I teased.
Although I'm sure there are some who think me a Daddy's Girl, I've never been the type to fall into "little girl" mode when I'm with him. He's always appreciated, respected and encouraged the grown woman in me. We have a relationship that is both loving and teasing. He and I are simpatico intellectually, politically and culturally. He taught me early on that I should never let anyone hold me down because I'm a woman. He was my earliest and biggest fan, still is. He laughs louder at the antics of my sister and I than anyone. And he shares our love of reading, history and period films. He introduced us kids to the wit of Benny Hill and the grace and beauty in a perfect drive down the fairway.
He has a passion for Civil War history, never able to pass up a Civil War site or old cemetery. He filled our car rides with what we believed was useless trivia, but which I have found myself repeating to my own children ("What's the geographic center of the state of Ohio? Centerburg!"). And he turned the Sunday Drive into an art form. "Circleville is just over the next hill, kids," he'd say after what seemed like hours of driving "just over the next hill."
He taught me to dream big and that it is okay to be serious about what you love.
During our one tumultuous family fight, my mom proclaimed that she wondered if any of us would miss dad if he died. Well, tonight, my younger brother and I were at his beside. And as I gave the report to my brother and sister in Columbus on my drive home, they both said—without hesitation—"I'm coming up in the morning. I need to see dad."
So I guess you could say we're all holding him close in our heart but, more importantly, we long to be close to his.
Love ya, Charlie. We're praying for ya.
In times of family trouble, I take on the role of sibling-in-charge. My first order of business was to get home, pick up my rosary (because I knew my mom would need it) and head down to the hospital to be by her side.
As I headed downtown I called my Gram for any news. I complained about being stopped by a train and she nearly shouted at me, "Wendy Ann, that's God's way of telling you to slow down!" And so I did, sort of, and then called my brother and sister in Columbus to let them know I would share any news.
After many twists and turns, I found my mom in the waiting room in the cardiac care unit. She had her head against the wall and USA Today in front of her, but she wasn't reading. Her eyes were closed and I'm sure she was praying.
"Mom," I said gently. She jumped up to hug me and told me she felt so bad. Apparently he was feeling ill yesterday, too. Mom works at Metro and today was her first day back from vacation so she wasn't home with my dad when he went to the doctor.
"Did you blow it off, mom?"
"Yes!" she exhaled. "We thought it was heartburn," not an uncommon occurrence with heart attack symptoms.
We sat together, holding hands and comforting each other. I gave her my rosary and she said, "You knew." I did. My mom's faith is awe-inspiring and I knew she would need its comfort. Before long, my younger brother, Scott, arrived—all six feet two inches and 220 pounds of him visibly shaken.
We didn't have to wait long before the cardiologist came to tell us that dad had 80 percent blockage in the main artery on the right side of his heart. They were able to clear the blockage and insert mesh stents to support his weakened arteries. He has 100 percent blockage in a branch artery on the left side of his heart, and the doctor said it would cause more damage to try to remove the blockage. Since it's a branch artery, they weren't as concerned. The good news is that we seem to have dodged open heart surgery.
What is concerning, however, is how my dad, who had a clean bill of health 16 months ago, could suddenly develop coronary artery disease. According to the doctor, it doesn't take much time for blockages to develop (weeks, sometimes days).
I went in to see Charlie once he was in his room. He had to lie flat and had his glasses folded on his chest. Tubes, probes and monitors were attached all over him. But as I walked to the bed he grabbed my hand, squeezed it tightly and said, "Hey, sugar." I kissed his balding head as I've done since I was a little girl. "Dad, what happened?" I teased.
Although I'm sure there are some who think me a Daddy's Girl, I've never been the type to fall into "little girl" mode when I'm with him. He's always appreciated, respected and encouraged the grown woman in me. We have a relationship that is both loving and teasing. He and I are simpatico intellectually, politically and culturally. He taught me early on that I should never let anyone hold me down because I'm a woman. He was my earliest and biggest fan, still is. He laughs louder at the antics of my sister and I than anyone. And he shares our love of reading, history and period films. He introduced us kids to the wit of Benny Hill and the grace and beauty in a perfect drive down the fairway.
He has a passion for Civil War history, never able to pass up a Civil War site or old cemetery. He filled our car rides with what we believed was useless trivia, but which I have found myself repeating to my own children ("What's the geographic center of the state of Ohio? Centerburg!"). And he turned the Sunday Drive into an art form. "Circleville is just over the next hill, kids," he'd say after what seemed like hours of driving "just over the next hill."
He taught me to dream big and that it is okay to be serious about what you love.
During our one tumultuous family fight, my mom proclaimed that she wondered if any of us would miss dad if he died. Well, tonight, my younger brother and I were at his beside. And as I gave the report to my brother and sister in Columbus on my drive home, they both said—without hesitation—"I'm coming up in the morning. I need to see dad."
So I guess you could say we're all holding him close in our heart but, more importantly, we long to be close to his.
Love ya, Charlie. We're praying for ya.
Friday, August 27, 2004
Peeling back the layers
The house is quiet except for the hushed whir of the fan that is always on in my bedroom and the occasional groan from the dog as she stretches and flops position. I’ve conducted my flurry of cleaning up the kitchen after breakfast, opening the blinds and hanging up towels (something my boys have great trouble remembering). This is the moment I’ve been craving … the kind of quiet you only get when you’re physically alone.
My desk is a mess since I’ve worked so many nights this week, including a virtual all-nighter on Wednesday, trying to make it through some intense deadlines. Though I still have much to do today, I’ve got to take a moment to straigthen up and refocus my brain. And the quiet, the contemplation, is just what I need.
Finished a book my sister loaned me a while ago called “Bread Alone,” by Judith Ryan Hendricks. I’m not sure how to describe it other than to share this little excerpt near the end of the book:
“If I were writing a story about myself, it would begin: ‘In her thirty-second year, she discovered her Right Livelihood…’ Or as CM would say, I’ve discovered what I am. I’ve peeled off the outer layers one by one—my father’s daughter, David’s wife, a divorcee—and I find, at the core, a baker of bread. A woman who likes working while the rest of the world sleeps. Who enjoys living alone, who doesn’t own a car or a house. Who’s happiest in jeans and a flannel shirt. Who chooses friends for the pleasure of their company, not their usefulness. Who’s open to love. Or would be, if she could learn to recognize it.”
Maybe it's just an awareness that comes with age, but I find myself peeling back the outer layers of all those labels we accumulate over time. It's so easy, particularly for women, to become their labels, to subsume to a culture that says "a wife does this," "a mother does that." What can get lost along the way is a woman's individuality, all those marvelous qualities that made her, her. It's just that loss that causes a woman to wake up one night and say, "But I was going to be and do so much more!"
What I seek is authenticity in life. I believe the authentic me, my "immaterial essence," is still there, she's just swaddled in the many layers of being wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend that all comprise my life. Certainly I am all those things and more, the trick is conveying that I am not just a wife or just a mom or just a daughter. It's becoming increasingly necessary for me to ebmrace all those elements while also remaining true to the woman within.
The journey of life is always full of surprises and opportunities if only we're quiet enough to listen to what is calling. Somtimes it takes courage, other times tremendous strength of will. But the spiritual satisfaction that comes from pursuing what you were called to do holds within a peace unlike any other.
Maybe you knew what you were meant to do, but you weren't listening to its power. You were busy trying to be something else or to fulfill someone else's dreams or expectations for you. If I can teach my sons anything at all about life it would be this: to find something you truly enjoy doing in life, even if it's unconventional, and pursue it faithfully and authentically. We owe the world and ourselves nothing less.
There’s so much static in life, interfering with or mixing up signals trying to reach our hearts and brains. The only way to hear what our heart desires is to build in enough quiet moments to listen. And that's why I'm enjoying the peaceful quiet and solitude of the house.
Call it prayer, call it meditation, call it reflection, but just make sure you take the time … to listen, unclutter your mind and discover what's in your soul.
I don't bake bread, I search for the meaning of life in words. And I find this quote a good recipe for living from one who knew herself so well.
"In spite of illness, in spite even of the archenemy sorrow, one can remain alive long past the usual date of disintegration if one is unafraid of change, insatiable in intellectual curiosity, interested in big things, and happy in small ways." — Edith Wharton
My desk is a mess since I’ve worked so many nights this week, including a virtual all-nighter on Wednesday, trying to make it through some intense deadlines. Though I still have much to do today, I’ve got to take a moment to straigthen up and refocus my brain. And the quiet, the contemplation, is just what I need.
Finished a book my sister loaned me a while ago called “Bread Alone,” by Judith Ryan Hendricks. I’m not sure how to describe it other than to share this little excerpt near the end of the book:
“If I were writing a story about myself, it would begin: ‘In her thirty-second year, she discovered her Right Livelihood…’ Or as CM would say, I’ve discovered what I am. I’ve peeled off the outer layers one by one—my father’s daughter, David’s wife, a divorcee—and I find, at the core, a baker of bread. A woman who likes working while the rest of the world sleeps. Who enjoys living alone, who doesn’t own a car or a house. Who’s happiest in jeans and a flannel shirt. Who chooses friends for the pleasure of their company, not their usefulness. Who’s open to love. Or would be, if she could learn to recognize it.”
Maybe it's just an awareness that comes with age, but I find myself peeling back the outer layers of all those labels we accumulate over time. It's so easy, particularly for women, to become their labels, to subsume to a culture that says "a wife does this," "a mother does that." What can get lost along the way is a woman's individuality, all those marvelous qualities that made her, her. It's just that loss that causes a woman to wake up one night and say, "But I was going to be and do so much more!"
What I seek is authenticity in life. I believe the authentic me, my "immaterial essence," is still there, she's just swaddled in the many layers of being wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend that all comprise my life. Certainly I am all those things and more, the trick is conveying that I am not just a wife or just a mom or just a daughter. It's becoming increasingly necessary for me to ebmrace all those elements while also remaining true to the woman within.
The journey of life is always full of surprises and opportunities if only we're quiet enough to listen to what is calling. Somtimes it takes courage, other times tremendous strength of will. But the spiritual satisfaction that comes from pursuing what you were called to do holds within a peace unlike any other.
Maybe you knew what you were meant to do, but you weren't listening to its power. You were busy trying to be something else or to fulfill someone else's dreams or expectations for you. If I can teach my sons anything at all about life it would be this: to find something you truly enjoy doing in life, even if it's unconventional, and pursue it faithfully and authentically. We owe the world and ourselves nothing less.
There’s so much static in life, interfering with or mixing up signals trying to reach our hearts and brains. The only way to hear what our heart desires is to build in enough quiet moments to listen. And that's why I'm enjoying the peaceful quiet and solitude of the house.
Call it prayer, call it meditation, call it reflection, but just make sure you take the time … to listen, unclutter your mind and discover what's in your soul.
I don't bake bread, I search for the meaning of life in words. And I find this quote a good recipe for living from one who knew herself so well.
"In spite of illness, in spite even of the archenemy sorrow, one can remain alive long past the usual date of disintegration if one is unafraid of change, insatiable in intellectual curiosity, interested in big things, and happy in small ways." — Edith Wharton
Thursday, August 26, 2004
Back to kindergarten
Kindergarten teachers are by their very nature a nutty bunch. They have to be in order to spend their days with an average of 40 spirited 5-year-olds day in and day out.
They are the people who wear brightly colored outfits that match the seasons and the holidays, sporting jumpers and cardigans with all manner of appliques depicting apples, chalkboards, letters and numbers. And their effervescent personalities can cause cynical parents to mutter, "sheesh" out of the corner of their mouths.
But the reality is that they are a special breed of loving people who hold in their hands your child's educational future. It's not an exaggeration. The experience your child has in kindergarten can set the tone for his or her love of learning for years to come.
I spent this morning in kindergarten with Michael. We walked into Normandy Elementary and were greeted by so many administrators, board members and teachers bending down to welcome my little guy to his first elementary school. I was touched by their presence because not only was this experience new for Michael, but for me as well.
Mrs. Eaton greeted us as we walked in the door with her vivacious smile and exuberant personality. "You must be Michael Hoke," she said. She taught with my sister-in-law, Mary Beth, for a number of years so she knew our name. "Michael, would you like to shake hands or hug," she asked. Michael stuck out his hand. Once we put all his supplies away in his cubby, we toured the classroom in all its primary-color, hyper-stimulating glory.
Mrs. Eaton is now in her 36th year of teaching kindergarten and she has as much enthusiasm and energy as a first-year teacher. She talked to parents about summer workshops she attended and her teaching philosophy. And I'm convinced that she's just the kind of first teacher Michael needs.
I'm not sure what he'll learn this year, but I do know that he'll grow to love learning. What better foundation can a parent ask for?
They are the people who wear brightly colored outfits that match the seasons and the holidays, sporting jumpers and cardigans with all manner of appliques depicting apples, chalkboards, letters and numbers. And their effervescent personalities can cause cynical parents to mutter, "sheesh" out of the corner of their mouths.
But the reality is that they are a special breed of loving people who hold in their hands your child's educational future. It's not an exaggeration. The experience your child has in kindergarten can set the tone for his or her love of learning for years to come.
I spent this morning in kindergarten with Michael. We walked into Normandy Elementary and were greeted by so many administrators, board members and teachers bending down to welcome my little guy to his first elementary school. I was touched by their presence because not only was this experience new for Michael, but for me as well.
Mrs. Eaton greeted us as we walked in the door with her vivacious smile and exuberant personality. "You must be Michael Hoke," she said. She taught with my sister-in-law, Mary Beth, for a number of years so she knew our name. "Michael, would you like to shake hands or hug," she asked. Michael stuck out his hand. Once we put all his supplies away in his cubby, we toured the classroom in all its primary-color, hyper-stimulating glory.
Mrs. Eaton is now in her 36th year of teaching kindergarten and she has as much enthusiasm and energy as a first-year teacher. She talked to parents about summer workshops she attended and her teaching philosophy. And I'm convinced that she's just the kind of first teacher Michael needs.
I'm not sure what he'll learn this year, but I do know that he'll grow to love learning. What better foundation can a parent ask for?
Wednesday, August 25, 2004
Mania and mother guilt
So it’s the eve of the first day of school and all is quiet in the house, except for the crazed mom who is still working to meet an insane deadline. It will be worth it since I’ll get to spend the next two days getting my boys off to a good start for the school year.
I owe it to them for a less-than-stellar summer. Tremendous amounts of mother guilt are oozing from every pore as I think of the lengths I’ve taken to balance motherhood and business. I’m not proud of my efforts. In fact, I should be sporting the bag of shame after some marvelously maniacal episodes.
At one point I was in my office on a phone interview and I heard Michael screaming downstairs at his brother. As he started up the stairs I ran to shove my foot against the door so he wouldn’t come in. So there I was on the phone with an EVP from Office Depot, my laptop spun around so I could take notes, the phone cradled between my shoulder and ear and one leg bracing against the door as Michael wailed, “Mom! I want to play Playstation!” with his little fists banging on the floor outside my office door.
Uggh! It was a horror of horrors. And did I get off the phone and give some lovin’ to my little Mikey? No sir. I flung the door open and screamed, “You CAN-NOT do that when I’m the phone.” Mikey wasn’t the only recipient of my wrath that day. I reamed the older two for not appeasing their baby brother by letting him play when they knew I was on the phone.
My house is the prime spot for the neighborhood to congregate. The mom in me enjoys keeping tabs on what’s going on, but the businesswoman in me cringes at the sheer volume of little boys ages 5-12 running around the yard and the house. At one point they were having a fierce game of war and one of the favorite ambush spots was in the hedge just under my office window, which is always open. And so in between screams of, “Joe, you can’t do that I was in the safe zone” and “Mikey you’re out of ammo” and the dog barking and, well, let’s just say it wasn’t optimal for writing, let alone thinking.
So I would sit at my computer with my head in my hands and just feel the tension rising throughout my body. Usually that would be about the time I’d get an e-mail from a client looking for about 20 different things ASAP. Those were the moments when I had to strap on the running shoes and blow off stress and steam with a long run.
Last night as we reviewed the household budget for September, my husband and I had a “spirited” discussion about Michael going to after-school care every day after kindergarten. After my experience of this summer, I think it’s only fair that he be able to play with his friends and have fun without his stressed out mom trying to balance the two. Because the hard, cold reality is that, without the assistance of a babysitter or nanny, it’s impossible. You can’t be both mother and businesswoman at the same time. Something has to give and I’m afraid it’s usually both.
But tonight we’re in a different place. All three boys are so excited about starting school tomorrow. I teased my older two that I haven’t seen them this excited to start since they were in kindergarten. So before I turn to finishing a column that was due on Monday, I decided to take a moment, put on the headphones and listen to my summer soundtrack and remember that the start of the school year is always a new beginning—a chance to do it all better…
I owe it to them for a less-than-stellar summer. Tremendous amounts of mother guilt are oozing from every pore as I think of the lengths I’ve taken to balance motherhood and business. I’m not proud of my efforts. In fact, I should be sporting the bag of shame after some marvelously maniacal episodes.
At one point I was in my office on a phone interview and I heard Michael screaming downstairs at his brother. As he started up the stairs I ran to shove my foot against the door so he wouldn’t come in. So there I was on the phone with an EVP from Office Depot, my laptop spun around so I could take notes, the phone cradled between my shoulder and ear and one leg bracing against the door as Michael wailed, “Mom! I want to play Playstation!” with his little fists banging on the floor outside my office door.
Uggh! It was a horror of horrors. And did I get off the phone and give some lovin’ to my little Mikey? No sir. I flung the door open and screamed, “You CAN-NOT do that when I’m the phone.” Mikey wasn’t the only recipient of my wrath that day. I reamed the older two for not appeasing their baby brother by letting him play when they knew I was on the phone.
My house is the prime spot for the neighborhood to congregate. The mom in me enjoys keeping tabs on what’s going on, but the businesswoman in me cringes at the sheer volume of little boys ages 5-12 running around the yard and the house. At one point they were having a fierce game of war and one of the favorite ambush spots was in the hedge just under my office window, which is always open. And so in between screams of, “Joe, you can’t do that I was in the safe zone” and “Mikey you’re out of ammo” and the dog barking and, well, let’s just say it wasn’t optimal for writing, let alone thinking.
So I would sit at my computer with my head in my hands and just feel the tension rising throughout my body. Usually that would be about the time I’d get an e-mail from a client looking for about 20 different things ASAP. Those were the moments when I had to strap on the running shoes and blow off stress and steam with a long run.
Last night as we reviewed the household budget for September, my husband and I had a “spirited” discussion about Michael going to after-school care every day after kindergarten. After my experience of this summer, I think it’s only fair that he be able to play with his friends and have fun without his stressed out mom trying to balance the two. Because the hard, cold reality is that, without the assistance of a babysitter or nanny, it’s impossible. You can’t be both mother and businesswoman at the same time. Something has to give and I’m afraid it’s usually both.
But tonight we’re in a different place. All three boys are so excited about starting school tomorrow. I teased my older two that I haven’t seen them this excited to start since they were in kindergarten. So before I turn to finishing a column that was due on Monday, I decided to take a moment, put on the headphones and listen to my summer soundtrack and remember that the start of the school year is always a new beginning—a chance to do it all better…
Monday, August 23, 2004
1983 Me
While sitting at my parents’ kitchen table yesterday afternoon my older brother, Chris—in town for his 20th high school reunion—and I reminisced about high school. We were only a grade apart and knew so many of the same people. Still we struggled to remember names, until my mom helped out by providing us with my 1983 yearbook, which I didn’t realize she still had.
1983 was my sophomore year, my first year in high school. As I thumbed through the pages, I became the girl who, the day before her class picture was taken, had her braces removed (after 3-1/2 years) and to her horror discovered that her teeth were very large. “They’re beautiful,” my mom assured me. But I was looking in the visor mirror crying, “They’re gargantuan!” What our teenage minds do to us can sometimes last a lifetime. I’m still sensitive about the size of my teeth.
I was on the volleyball team, the track team and band. But pictured in those pages was also my toothy mug lying prone on the floor (complete with topsiders) in front of the Focus staff. The Focus was our high school newspaper, which only managed to produce one or two issues due to lack of funding and interest. The caption under our staff photo reads: “Mr. Keith ‘Where’s My Circulation Money?’ Lare gives Wendy Lewis a lesson on the fine art of lining up type.” We were described as a “small, but fanatical, staff.” As I look at the photo I realized I was one of two underclassman surrounded by a group of highly literary seniors. Wonder whatever happened them?
One of the seniors that year was my first crush, Chris Mustain. He was an incredibly bright guy and always saw something in me that I could never see in myself. I met him when I was in eighth grade and my family gave him a ride home from a camp he attended with my brother, Chris. He was so smart and funny and I remember him giving off the intoxicating aroma of Deep Woods Off.
I was just a kid then, but eventually he and I would become very close. He told me, when I was only 15 years old, that I would grow to become a remarkable woman. I don’t know if that’s true, but that he saw potential in the awkward, unsure me when I was so ill equipped to see it myself said something about his maturity and vision. We kept in touch while I was in college, but I lost track of him during the ’90s.
Even as I embraced the high school life there was a side of me that always felt slightly out of place. Though I enjoyed my honors classes, I had to work hard to do well in them. Many of my classmates were so gifted intellectually that it seemed as if they didn’t need to lift a finger. That probably wasn’t the case, but that’s how it felt to me.
In the mid-90s I had written an article in Avenues magazine talking about the impact of favorite teachers on notable Cleveland personalities. Though mine wasn’t published, I wrote and sent a letter to Ms. Strawser, my junior and senior year English teacher, along with a copy of the magazine.
In it I told her how she helped give me the confidence to pursue writing as a career even in the face of some pretty intimidating company. I confessed to pulling all-nighters on my essays, even as I was convinced my piece on Solzhenitsyn’s “One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich” would never hold a candle to that of my classmates. I suppose she was the first person to give me permission to pursue my life’s work.
Not long after I sent that letter, I found myself sitting in the auditorium at Berea High School watching my sister conduct her choir. As we got up to leave the auditorium, there was Ms. Strawser. Her daughter was singing that night. She told me how much my note had meant to her and that she always knew I would do well since I was more serious than most about writing and because I worked at it so intensely. In a way she validated all those late nights spent agonizing over papers for Senior Honors Seminar and I was grateful to have bumped into her again.
Reunions can be strange animals. I’ve never been to one of mine own and I think, despite my excuses (of which I have many), deep down I didn’t want to be in front of those who could always make me feel so inferior academically, athletically and socially. As I get older, those fears have started to fade and I think it’s primarily a function of knowing myself.
Who knows, maybe I’ll consider attending my 20th high school reunion next year….
1983 was my sophomore year, my first year in high school. As I thumbed through the pages, I became the girl who, the day before her class picture was taken, had her braces removed (after 3-1/2 years) and to her horror discovered that her teeth were very large. “They’re beautiful,” my mom assured me. But I was looking in the visor mirror crying, “They’re gargantuan!” What our teenage minds do to us can sometimes last a lifetime. I’m still sensitive about the size of my teeth.
I was on the volleyball team, the track team and band. But pictured in those pages was also my toothy mug lying prone on the floor (complete with topsiders) in front of the Focus staff. The Focus was our high school newspaper, which only managed to produce one or two issues due to lack of funding and interest. The caption under our staff photo reads: “Mr. Keith ‘Where’s My Circulation Money?’ Lare gives Wendy Lewis a lesson on the fine art of lining up type.” We were described as a “small, but fanatical, staff.” As I look at the photo I realized I was one of two underclassman surrounded by a group of highly literary seniors. Wonder whatever happened them?
One of the seniors that year was my first crush, Chris Mustain. He was an incredibly bright guy and always saw something in me that I could never see in myself. I met him when I was in eighth grade and my family gave him a ride home from a camp he attended with my brother, Chris. He was so smart and funny and I remember him giving off the intoxicating aroma of Deep Woods Off.
I was just a kid then, but eventually he and I would become very close. He told me, when I was only 15 years old, that I would grow to become a remarkable woman. I don’t know if that’s true, but that he saw potential in the awkward, unsure me when I was so ill equipped to see it myself said something about his maturity and vision. We kept in touch while I was in college, but I lost track of him during the ’90s.
Even as I embraced the high school life there was a side of me that always felt slightly out of place. Though I enjoyed my honors classes, I had to work hard to do well in them. Many of my classmates were so gifted intellectually that it seemed as if they didn’t need to lift a finger. That probably wasn’t the case, but that’s how it felt to me.
In the mid-90s I had written an article in Avenues magazine talking about the impact of favorite teachers on notable Cleveland personalities. Though mine wasn’t published, I wrote and sent a letter to Ms. Strawser, my junior and senior year English teacher, along with a copy of the magazine.
In it I told her how she helped give me the confidence to pursue writing as a career even in the face of some pretty intimidating company. I confessed to pulling all-nighters on my essays, even as I was convinced my piece on Solzhenitsyn’s “One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich” would never hold a candle to that of my classmates. I suppose she was the first person to give me permission to pursue my life’s work.
Not long after I sent that letter, I found myself sitting in the auditorium at Berea High School watching my sister conduct her choir. As we got up to leave the auditorium, there was Ms. Strawser. Her daughter was singing that night. She told me how much my note had meant to her and that she always knew I would do well since I was more serious than most about writing and because I worked at it so intensely. In a way she validated all those late nights spent agonizing over papers for Senior Honors Seminar and I was grateful to have bumped into her again.
Reunions can be strange animals. I’ve never been to one of mine own and I think, despite my excuses (of which I have many), deep down I didn’t want to be in front of those who could always make me feel so inferior academically, athletically and socially. As I get older, those fears have started to fade and I think it’s primarily a function of knowing myself.
Who knows, maybe I’ll consider attending my 20th high school reunion next year….
Thursday, August 19, 2004
Of Englishwomen and Mozart
Here are two don’t-miss articles in today’s New York Times—one because of its subject matter, the other because of its writing.
It seems the National Portrait Gallery in London has an exhibition of 60 portraits of women travelers on view through Oct. 31. A small show by exhibition standards, “Off the Beaten Track: Three Centuries of Women Travelers” sounds like a book in the making.
Though their portraits never graced the walls of England’s clubs, the exhibition and catalog show these female travelers all had “a preference for living far from a damp, cloud-covered island where the place of women was clearly defined.
“Their reasons for leaving were, variously, health, curiosity, research, religion, marriage and scandal. Their reasons for staying away were weather, power, freedom, excitement, love - and again, scandal.”
And their contributions in the fields of science, literature and human relations could fill volumes.
How can you tell if a violin is really, really happy? Listen. Or read this review in today’s NYT by reviewer Jeremy Eichler. It’s pure poetry, concise and beautiful. Here’s a sampling:
“The German violinist Christian Tetzlaff may have been exhausted by the end of his two performances at the Mostly Mozart Festival on Tuesday night, but one imagines that his violin was supremely happy. After all, the instrument had scaled two peaks of the literature in a single night: Mozart's Sinfonia Concertante and a Sonata and a Partita by Bach. It's hard to speculate about the meaning of bliss for a box of wood with strings, but this combination of music might be pretty close.
“The Mozart work is the kind that draws expressions of knowing delight from connoisseurs and pleasant surprise from newcomers … in one of the loveliest musical dialogues ever written. The two instruments find endless ways of calling and responding, interweaving their gracious lines and exploring disparate worlds, though always in relationship to each other.”
It seems the National Portrait Gallery in London has an exhibition of 60 portraits of women travelers on view through Oct. 31. A small show by exhibition standards, “Off the Beaten Track: Three Centuries of Women Travelers” sounds like a book in the making.
Though their portraits never graced the walls of England’s clubs, the exhibition and catalog show these female travelers all had “a preference for living far from a damp, cloud-covered island where the place of women was clearly defined.
“Their reasons for leaving were, variously, health, curiosity, research, religion, marriage and scandal. Their reasons for staying away were weather, power, freedom, excitement, love - and again, scandal.”
And their contributions in the fields of science, literature and human relations could fill volumes.
How can you tell if a violin is really, really happy? Listen. Or read this review in today’s NYT by reviewer Jeremy Eichler. It’s pure poetry, concise and beautiful. Here’s a sampling:
“The German violinist Christian Tetzlaff may have been exhausted by the end of his two performances at the Mostly Mozart Festival on Tuesday night, but one imagines that his violin was supremely happy. After all, the instrument had scaled two peaks of the literature in a single night: Mozart's Sinfonia Concertante and a Sonata and a Partita by Bach. It's hard to speculate about the meaning of bliss for a box of wood with strings, but this combination of music might be pretty close.
“The Mozart work is the kind that draws expressions of knowing delight from connoisseurs and pleasant surprise from newcomers … in one of the loveliest musical dialogues ever written. The two instruments find endless ways of calling and responding, interweaving their gracious lines and exploring disparate worlds, though always in relationship to each other.”
Wednesday, August 18, 2004
Back-to-school jitters
As we walked into Westerly School for new student orientation, the faces were sullen as the group gathered in the lobby shuffled their feet awaiting the principal’s arrival. I’m not talking about the students who will be new to the school this year I’m talking about the parents.
It didn’t hit me until just that moment that not only are Ryan, Patrick and Michael starting over, making new friends and navigating their way around a new school, but so are Danny and I.
Our decision to switch our children from Catholic school to public school this year was an arduous process—rife with plenty of fear, stereotypes and what ifs. Just as we would derive a certain level of comfort with our decision, we would be at an event with parents we knew and comment on how much we enjoy—and would miss—their company. Many of our friends have boys both Ryan and Patrick’s age, so we became a pretty tight-knit group. Since when is our social network more important than the educational success of our children?
And so we’d come back to the fundamental reason for the switch—the desire to see our boys thrive academically and athletically in the Bay Village City Schools. We are fortunate to live in a small town with a small district that has been nationally recognized for student achievement. I know the boys will do well. They have already made a ton of new friends this summer. And Michael will know no other school than the public schools.
That leaves Danny and I. We’re in a no-man’s land this summer, caught between the life we knew at St. Raphael and the life to come at Bay Schools. It’s an odd place and I think it’s caused a bit of stress for everyone.
I drop Ryan off at football practice at St. Raphael and see the cadre of parents I’ve known for seven years. We’ve spent so much time together on the sidelines, in the classroom and at church functions. I hope we can continue that on some level. And here's why: It's not easy to develop friendships as you get older, but we've done just that with some pretty special people.
For example: The wives of Danny’s fellow baseball coaches and I had a good laugh at our husbands’ expense the other night. The trio went out for A beer (Like Lay's potato chips, can you ever really have one?), supposedly to discuss the rankings of their baseball team. We were assured that they would pick up the boys at football practice at 7. But the phone rang right at 7. “Uh, we’re still here. Can you pick up the boys?”
And of course they were there for a few more hours. Rick, Bob and Danny are all big talkers so we should have known. They’ve coached together for a few summers and truly enjoy each other’s company. Gail, Susan and I got a charge out of the three as they developed their own shorthand during the game. You’d see them huddle together for a brief moment and then burst apart laughing hysterically. I don’t even want to know what they said, but I know them well enough to know it wasn’t about baseball.
My husband loves to give people nicknames. To his credit, he’s pretty original in his choices. A few summers ago he started calling our friend Bob (who is nearly 7 feet tall), Zimmer, as in Don Zimmer. Bob is a masterful coach, incredibly well organized. While warming up the kids in the outfield, Danny turned to see Bob’s lanky frame sitting on the dugout bench working on his lineup, something he takes quite seriously and with careful deliberation.
Danny, definitely more of a “wing-it” kind of coach, yelled to him from the outfield, “Hey, Zimmer, how’s the lineup coming?” Over the years that name has evolved into Zimmy, Zimeister, Zim-man, etc. We’ll be driving through Bay and see Zimmy and Mrs. Zimmy walking down the street and Danny can’t wait to roll down the window and scream “Zimmy!” at the top of his lungs. Bob gives him a wave and a big smile. And now Bob has taken to calling our Michael “Little Zimmy.” Helps to keep the kids straight when we’re all together because they also have three boys—Michael, Patrick and Jimmy.
Bob and Danny are like great girlfriends. They can talk on the phone for an hour, recapping a game or the assessment of player talent. Throw Rick into the mix and the storytelling reaches epic proportions. We’re still involved with CYO athletics this year. Danny is working with the fourth-grade boys basketball program at St. Raphael. Maybe that will serve as a nice transition for us.
But that doesn't change the fact that we’re being pushed outside our comfort zone starting not one, but three new schools. I think the boys are going to be fine. They’re very excited about their new schools. Now Danny and I have to step up to the plate to expand our social network. I just hope we can do that and find a way to maintain friendships with the terrific group of parents with whom we've already shared so much.
It didn’t hit me until just that moment that not only are Ryan, Patrick and Michael starting over, making new friends and navigating their way around a new school, but so are Danny and I.
Our decision to switch our children from Catholic school to public school this year was an arduous process—rife with plenty of fear, stereotypes and what ifs. Just as we would derive a certain level of comfort with our decision, we would be at an event with parents we knew and comment on how much we enjoy—and would miss—their company. Many of our friends have boys both Ryan and Patrick’s age, so we became a pretty tight-knit group. Since when is our social network more important than the educational success of our children?
And so we’d come back to the fundamental reason for the switch—the desire to see our boys thrive academically and athletically in the Bay Village City Schools. We are fortunate to live in a small town with a small district that has been nationally recognized for student achievement. I know the boys will do well. They have already made a ton of new friends this summer. And Michael will know no other school than the public schools.
That leaves Danny and I. We’re in a no-man’s land this summer, caught between the life we knew at St. Raphael and the life to come at Bay Schools. It’s an odd place and I think it’s caused a bit of stress for everyone.
I drop Ryan off at football practice at St. Raphael and see the cadre of parents I’ve known for seven years. We’ve spent so much time together on the sidelines, in the classroom and at church functions. I hope we can continue that on some level. And here's why: It's not easy to develop friendships as you get older, but we've done just that with some pretty special people.
For example: The wives of Danny’s fellow baseball coaches and I had a good laugh at our husbands’ expense the other night. The trio went out for A beer (Like Lay's potato chips, can you ever really have one?), supposedly to discuss the rankings of their baseball team. We were assured that they would pick up the boys at football practice at 7. But the phone rang right at 7. “Uh, we’re still here. Can you pick up the boys?”
And of course they were there for a few more hours. Rick, Bob and Danny are all big talkers so we should have known. They’ve coached together for a few summers and truly enjoy each other’s company. Gail, Susan and I got a charge out of the three as they developed their own shorthand during the game. You’d see them huddle together for a brief moment and then burst apart laughing hysterically. I don’t even want to know what they said, but I know them well enough to know it wasn’t about baseball.
My husband loves to give people nicknames. To his credit, he’s pretty original in his choices. A few summers ago he started calling our friend Bob (who is nearly 7 feet tall), Zimmer, as in Don Zimmer. Bob is a masterful coach, incredibly well organized. While warming up the kids in the outfield, Danny turned to see Bob’s lanky frame sitting on the dugout bench working on his lineup, something he takes quite seriously and with careful deliberation.
Danny, definitely more of a “wing-it” kind of coach, yelled to him from the outfield, “Hey, Zimmer, how’s the lineup coming?” Over the years that name has evolved into Zimmy, Zimeister, Zim-man, etc. We’ll be driving through Bay and see Zimmy and Mrs. Zimmy walking down the street and Danny can’t wait to roll down the window and scream “Zimmy!” at the top of his lungs. Bob gives him a wave and a big smile. And now Bob has taken to calling our Michael “Little Zimmy.” Helps to keep the kids straight when we’re all together because they also have three boys—Michael, Patrick and Jimmy.
Bob and Danny are like great girlfriends. They can talk on the phone for an hour, recapping a game or the assessment of player talent. Throw Rick into the mix and the storytelling reaches epic proportions. We’re still involved with CYO athletics this year. Danny is working with the fourth-grade boys basketball program at St. Raphael. Maybe that will serve as a nice transition for us.
But that doesn't change the fact that we’re being pushed outside our comfort zone starting not one, but three new schools. I think the boys are going to be fine. They’re very excited about their new schools. Now Danny and I have to step up to the plate to expand our social network. I just hope we can do that and find a way to maintain friendships with the terrific group of parents with whom we've already shared so much.
Tuesday, August 17, 2004
Remembering the hammock
When my sister and I were growing up, summer meant reading excessively and obsessively. Jen and I would lie on the hammock in the backyard head to foot and gently sway under the shade of the maple trees, heads cocked to opposite sides and simply riveted by our books.
If the weather was bad, we’d hole in up our sunny yellow room with the hum of the window air conditioner and lie on our beds with our legs propped on the wall (I’m not sure why, but sometimes we’d stop reading to compare the size and shape of our legs).
Although we may have been in separate literary and imaginary worlds, we also were in perfect communion in our love of reading. We never stopped to shove a foot in each other’s face (as my boys are apt to do). I’m sure our compulsive reading exasperated my mom. She would shout out the back door, “Girls, please check the laundry!”
“In a minute, just have to finish this chapter,” we would respond. Now as a mother I realize the words “in a minute” can evoke rage, but then we thought it no big deal. It was nothing for us to read into the wee hours, suddenly erupting with laughter or sharing a passage aloud. We could pore through the entire V.C. Andrews collection in a week or two.
Jen and I could spend a part of every day silently perusing the library for our favorite authors or for anything that jumped at us from the shelves. It’s a habit she and I still have today. Any trip to a bookstore involves several hours, lots of quiet contemplation, careful selection and then the chance to share what we’ve found over coffee. I’m nearly through the pile of books I borrowed when I last visited her in April.
I miss her for many reasons, but for companionship above all.
We spent our childhood living together, sharing the same room. I was devastated when I learned that I would have a single room my freshman year in college. I had never had my own room and didn’t know how I felt about being alone in college. Now we live two-and-a-half hours away from each other. The hectic nature of our lives—with husbands, children, homes and jobs—means we don’t often get to see each other. Even when we do, there are myriad distractions keeping us from ever really having the chance to chat.
And so that’s how I found myself thinking about Jen and about summer’s past, while eating my yogurt on the deck, reading a bit of my book (her book, actually) and listening to the wind in the trees. It felt oh-so familiar like a summer day on the backyard hammock, and yet lonely, too. Guess I just need to talk to my sister.
If the weather was bad, we’d hole in up our sunny yellow room with the hum of the window air conditioner and lie on our beds with our legs propped on the wall (I’m not sure why, but sometimes we’d stop reading to compare the size and shape of our legs).
Although we may have been in separate literary and imaginary worlds, we also were in perfect communion in our love of reading. We never stopped to shove a foot in each other’s face (as my boys are apt to do). I’m sure our compulsive reading exasperated my mom. She would shout out the back door, “Girls, please check the laundry!”
“In a minute, just have to finish this chapter,” we would respond. Now as a mother I realize the words “in a minute” can evoke rage, but then we thought it no big deal. It was nothing for us to read into the wee hours, suddenly erupting with laughter or sharing a passage aloud. We could pore through the entire V.C. Andrews collection in a week or two.
Jen and I could spend a part of every day silently perusing the library for our favorite authors or for anything that jumped at us from the shelves. It’s a habit she and I still have today. Any trip to a bookstore involves several hours, lots of quiet contemplation, careful selection and then the chance to share what we’ve found over coffee. I’m nearly through the pile of books I borrowed when I last visited her in April.
I miss her for many reasons, but for companionship above all.
We spent our childhood living together, sharing the same room. I was devastated when I learned that I would have a single room my freshman year in college. I had never had my own room and didn’t know how I felt about being alone in college. Now we live two-and-a-half hours away from each other. The hectic nature of our lives—with husbands, children, homes and jobs—means we don’t often get to see each other. Even when we do, there are myriad distractions keeping us from ever really having the chance to chat.
And so that’s how I found myself thinking about Jen and about summer’s past, while eating my yogurt on the deck, reading a bit of my book (her book, actually) and listening to the wind in the trees. It felt oh-so familiar like a summer day on the backyard hammock, and yet lonely, too. Guess I just need to talk to my sister.
Monday, August 16, 2004
I'm not ready for this…
My oldest son Ryan hasn’t seen his buddy, George, in a while because he’s been away at camp or at his family’s summer lake house. Some day George will either be a politician or he’ll run a company (a very real possibility given his family legacy). I love that he’s incredibly polite, maybe even a bit of a schmoozer. “Hi Mrs. Hoke. How are you? Did you get your haircut?” That’s better than many of the boys who manage to mutter a ‘hey” without even looking in your direction.
Georgie is a charmer, though. I adore the kid even as I sense the mischievous in him. Last fall during football carpool he tried to get Ryan (and by default, me) to host a boy-girl Halloween party. “Come on Mrs. Hoke, it will be a blast. Everyone will be there.” Precisely why I said no way.
This time though, George, who still has the chubby hands and rosy cheeks of a little boy, sat in the van, grinned with his eyebrows raised and said, “So Ryan, how’s your summer been?” Ryan, who is about a head taller, lean and looks two years older than George, replied, “Ah, it’s been okay.”
“Have you talked to Lindsay?”
What??!!! My ears perked up and I nonchalantly turned down the volume on All Things Considered so I could eavesdrop.
“Nope,” said Ryan.
“You haven’t seen her or called her or Instant Messenger-ed her?” asked George.
“Nope,” said Ryan.
“Ah man I met this sweet girl at Culver named Chloe. I’ve got to show you the pictures. She’s beautiful.”
Ryan just nodded.
So it’s Lindsay. I remember him talking about her in the winter when all the kids would go to open skate at Rocky River Ice Rink on Friday nights. Once this summer while I was changing the sheets on his bed I found an adorable picture of Ryan and Lindsay that someone must have taken at school. He was hiding it, but I put it out on his dresser where it remains today along with his mouth guard and jock strap. (Sorry, Lindsay.)
One night I told him it was a cute picture, but Ryan just shrugged his shoulders. And then tonight, after I dropped him off at practice, Lindsay called. Girls have never called our house before (except for the neighborhood tormenter calling to tell me that Patrick ignored her—AGAIN!).
When Ryan got home from practice I told him Lindsay called. I was very cool, very nonchalant. He nearly ripped his football helmet from his head and yelled, “What?”
“Lindsay called. I told her you’d call her back.”
“Mom! Why did you say that?” he barked.
“Um, I don’t know, because it’s the polite thing to do. And besides, I thought you liked her.”
“I do, but I don’t want to talk to her.”
Ohhhhh, I get it. We’re at that I-like-you-therefore-I’ll-ignore-you phase. Phew! For a minute I thought I was gearing up for evenings filled with the phone ringing and little girl giggles as they hang up upon losing their nerve. (Not that I EVER played that game.)
Lindsay did call back probably because I told her Ryan would be home after 7:30. Danny answered the phone and handed it off to Ryan, who was chomping on a burger. “Yeah, huh, okay. I gotta go.” That’s it. End of discussion.
When I asked what she wanted, Ryan’s eyes filled with tears, he lowered his head into his arms and said, “Mom, I don’t know how to talk to girls.”
“But you talk to me and I’m a girl.” A lame response, I know, but I was trying to lighten the mood.
“Yeah, but you’re my mom and you’re cool.” Okay, let me just stop right there and say THAT made my day, probably my week and maybe even my month. My pre-teen son thinks I’m cool. But I digress.
I realized at that moment—thankfully—that my son is not yet ready for all this boy-girl stuff. And I’m okay with that. I just want him to be okay with it. Ryan turns 12 in November and in many ways he has always been mature for his age. He has no problem conversing with adults (male or female), handles responsibility very well and is capable of grasping some pretty intellectual topics. But girls? Unless they could throw a football or shoot a hoop, they never before entered Ryan's radar.
However, many of his buddies, a good portion of whom have older brothers, are a little too girl crazy if you ask me. Ryan, with his red-rimmed eyes, nose running and milk moustache just looked at me and said with such sincerity, “Mom, I’m not ready for this.”
The mother bear in me wanted to reach over and grab him and hold him and tell him that it’s okay because I’m not ready for this either. Instead I looked at him and said, “Ryan, don’t feel pressured just because some of your friends are talking to girls. I’ll teach you a bit about small talk and you’ll be just fine.”
He nodded and smiled, we pumped knuckles (“gimme some love”) and then he let me give him that big mama bear hug (along with a few Oreos). And I breathed a sigh of relief knowing that we’re safe and secure in the land of little boys for just a little while longer…
Georgie is a charmer, though. I adore the kid even as I sense the mischievous in him. Last fall during football carpool he tried to get Ryan (and by default, me) to host a boy-girl Halloween party. “Come on Mrs. Hoke, it will be a blast. Everyone will be there.” Precisely why I said no way.
This time though, George, who still has the chubby hands and rosy cheeks of a little boy, sat in the van, grinned with his eyebrows raised and said, “So Ryan, how’s your summer been?” Ryan, who is about a head taller, lean and looks two years older than George, replied, “Ah, it’s been okay.”
“Have you talked to Lindsay?”
What??!!! My ears perked up and I nonchalantly turned down the volume on All Things Considered so I could eavesdrop.
“Nope,” said Ryan.
“You haven’t seen her or called her or Instant Messenger-ed her?” asked George.
“Nope,” said Ryan.
“Ah man I met this sweet girl at Culver named Chloe. I’ve got to show you the pictures. She’s beautiful.”
Ryan just nodded.
So it’s Lindsay. I remember him talking about her in the winter when all the kids would go to open skate at Rocky River Ice Rink on Friday nights. Once this summer while I was changing the sheets on his bed I found an adorable picture of Ryan and Lindsay that someone must have taken at school. He was hiding it, but I put it out on his dresser where it remains today along with his mouth guard and jock strap. (Sorry, Lindsay.)
One night I told him it was a cute picture, but Ryan just shrugged his shoulders. And then tonight, after I dropped him off at practice, Lindsay called. Girls have never called our house before (except for the neighborhood tormenter calling to tell me that Patrick ignored her—AGAIN!).
When Ryan got home from practice I told him Lindsay called. I was very cool, very nonchalant. He nearly ripped his football helmet from his head and yelled, “What?”
“Lindsay called. I told her you’d call her back.”
“Mom! Why did you say that?” he barked.
“Um, I don’t know, because it’s the polite thing to do. And besides, I thought you liked her.”
“I do, but I don’t want to talk to her.”
Ohhhhh, I get it. We’re at that I-like-you-therefore-I’ll-ignore-you phase. Phew! For a minute I thought I was gearing up for evenings filled with the phone ringing and little girl giggles as they hang up upon losing their nerve. (Not that I EVER played that game.)
Lindsay did call back probably because I told her Ryan would be home after 7:30. Danny answered the phone and handed it off to Ryan, who was chomping on a burger. “Yeah, huh, okay. I gotta go.” That’s it. End of discussion.
When I asked what she wanted, Ryan’s eyes filled with tears, he lowered his head into his arms and said, “Mom, I don’t know how to talk to girls.”
“But you talk to me and I’m a girl.” A lame response, I know, but I was trying to lighten the mood.
“Yeah, but you’re my mom and you’re cool.” Okay, let me just stop right there and say THAT made my day, probably my week and maybe even my month. My pre-teen son thinks I’m cool. But I digress.
I realized at that moment—thankfully—that my son is not yet ready for all this boy-girl stuff. And I’m okay with that. I just want him to be okay with it. Ryan turns 12 in November and in many ways he has always been mature for his age. He has no problem conversing with adults (male or female), handles responsibility very well and is capable of grasping some pretty intellectual topics. But girls? Unless they could throw a football or shoot a hoop, they never before entered Ryan's radar.
However, many of his buddies, a good portion of whom have older brothers, are a little too girl crazy if you ask me. Ryan, with his red-rimmed eyes, nose running and milk moustache just looked at me and said with such sincerity, “Mom, I’m not ready for this.”
The mother bear in me wanted to reach over and grab him and hold him and tell him that it’s okay because I’m not ready for this either. Instead I looked at him and said, “Ryan, don’t feel pressured just because some of your friends are talking to girls. I’ll teach you a bit about small talk and you’ll be just fine.”
He nodded and smiled, we pumped knuckles (“gimme some love”) and then he let me give him that big mama bear hug (along with a few Oreos). And I breathed a sigh of relief knowing that we’re safe and secure in the land of little boys for just a little while longer…
Thursday, August 12, 2004
Stretching your writing muscles
“She was a woman who, between courses, could be graceful with her elbows on the table.” — Henry James
I happened upon this Henry James line from his book, ‘The Ambassadors” and I’ve been letting it marinate as I pull together some thoughts about descriptive language. I think it’s a fine example of how you can be simultaneously descriptive and concise by stretching your writing muscles.
Reminds me of how we as parents always encourage our children to “use your words” when they are having trouble expressing a feeling or a need. It’s the same principle at work. Just as we ask them to reach down into their limited vocabulary to tell us if they are hungry or angry or sad, successful writers need to reach even deeper to create a sense of mood, tone and description without blathering on. It's mentally more challenging—and far more satisfying.
James’ line instantly conjures a woman of elegance and refinement. In my mind, she is slim, beautiful, engaging and quiet in her voice, yet very present through her simple actions. James is a master of creating such imagery. And one of the few writers who could casually—and successfully—throw the word epistolary into his character’s dialogue.
Learning to write descriptively comes from being a great observer of life. Here are a few good examples I pulled from the mish-mash of magazines piling up on my desk.
“Thus the garden evolved, devoting ample space for purple basil beside all the sweet, jalapeno and paprika peppers necessary to quench Linda’s penchant for roasting. The result is mouthwatering.” — Tovah Martin, writing about a garden in Country Living, August 2004
“Standing on warm sand under a cerulean sky, I attempt to lasso the wind. A few gentle shifts of a control bar and the practice kite sketches infinity in the air. It darts, dips and gains momentum—propelling my body into the surf and my heart into my throat.” — Sarah Brueggemann, writing about kiteboarding in Coastal Living, July/August 2004
“And so the quest for the Holy Infant begins: the tests, the doctors, the sex with all the spontaneity of a military drill.” — Judith Newman on becoming a first-time mother of twins at 40, Health, July/August 2004
“The wreck might have been just a minor bump in my travels through a land where inhabitants display a whoopsy-daisy attitude toward fatal accidents and killings.” — Alan Cullison, “Inside Al-Qaeda’s Hard Drive,” The Atlantic Monthly, September 2004
“Obama has mastered the art of appearing to take reporters into his confidence by dispensing the sort of forthright political chatter that causes them to swoon.” — Ryan Lizza, associate editor of The New Republic, writing about Barack Obama in
The Atlantic Monthly, September 2004
"Real love is a permanently self-enlarging experience." M. Scott Peck in O Magazine, February 2004
And finally from the blogosphere:
“As I finished the story, I envisioned Sandy (Woodthorpe) reacting like some latter-day Civil War general, studying the intelligence from the field before repositioning her big guns, oratorical and otherwise, to blast away in the direction of this latest perceived injustice. May she keep firing away in support of scribes, building creative community and reminding everyone of the importance of good writing.” — John Ettorre, Working With Words, Aug. 10. 2004
I happened upon this Henry James line from his book, ‘The Ambassadors” and I’ve been letting it marinate as I pull together some thoughts about descriptive language. I think it’s a fine example of how you can be simultaneously descriptive and concise by stretching your writing muscles.
Reminds me of how we as parents always encourage our children to “use your words” when they are having trouble expressing a feeling or a need. It’s the same principle at work. Just as we ask them to reach down into their limited vocabulary to tell us if they are hungry or angry or sad, successful writers need to reach even deeper to create a sense of mood, tone and description without blathering on. It's mentally more challenging—and far more satisfying.
James’ line instantly conjures a woman of elegance and refinement. In my mind, she is slim, beautiful, engaging and quiet in her voice, yet very present through her simple actions. James is a master of creating such imagery. And one of the few writers who could casually—and successfully—throw the word epistolary into his character’s dialogue.
Learning to write descriptively comes from being a great observer of life. Here are a few good examples I pulled from the mish-mash of magazines piling up on my desk.
“Thus the garden evolved, devoting ample space for purple basil beside all the sweet, jalapeno and paprika peppers necessary to quench Linda’s penchant for roasting. The result is mouthwatering.” — Tovah Martin, writing about a garden in Country Living, August 2004
“Standing on warm sand under a cerulean sky, I attempt to lasso the wind. A few gentle shifts of a control bar and the practice kite sketches infinity in the air. It darts, dips and gains momentum—propelling my body into the surf and my heart into my throat.” — Sarah Brueggemann, writing about kiteboarding in Coastal Living, July/August 2004
“And so the quest for the Holy Infant begins: the tests, the doctors, the sex with all the spontaneity of a military drill.” — Judith Newman on becoming a first-time mother of twins at 40, Health, July/August 2004
“The wreck might have been just a minor bump in my travels through a land where inhabitants display a whoopsy-daisy attitude toward fatal accidents and killings.” — Alan Cullison, “Inside Al-Qaeda’s Hard Drive,” The Atlantic Monthly, September 2004
“Obama has mastered the art of appearing to take reporters into his confidence by dispensing the sort of forthright political chatter that causes them to swoon.” — Ryan Lizza, associate editor of The New Republic, writing about Barack Obama in
The Atlantic Monthly, September 2004
"Real love is a permanently self-enlarging experience." M. Scott Peck in O Magazine, February 2004
And finally from the blogosphere:
“As I finished the story, I envisioned Sandy (Woodthorpe) reacting like some latter-day Civil War general, studying the intelligence from the field before repositioning her big guns, oratorical and otherwise, to blast away in the direction of this latest perceived injustice. May she keep firing away in support of scribes, building creative community and reminding everyone of the importance of good writing.” — John Ettorre, Working With Words, Aug. 10. 2004
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