Summation

     I have become one of those people who put their coffee in the microwave.  A year ago, I never would have dreamed of doing such a thing since finishing a cup was never an issue.  I made time to enjoy a cuppa joe.  My fondest memories from my trip to Greece involve relaxing with coffee. One memorable cup was enjoyed from a hotel balcony with a view of the Parthenon and later I discovered The Best Cup of Coffee Ever on the island of Patmos.  But lately it seems I have Coffee ADD.  I get so distracted that it is not uncommon for the coffee maker to Auto-Off before I finish my first cup.  My teaching job took a turn for the busier so I have to try to have a cup in the morning, but it is usually cold by the time I get half-way through it.  Then Miss B's In a Jam took off and soared, leaving me in a whirlwind of work, continuing to teach during the day and cook away the night.  I have always been an 8-hour sleeper but have since adjusted to functioning on five and  have even been too busy to be grouchy about that.  In fact, I have had so much going on that I didn't even realize today was the last day of the 2011.
     This has been an incredible year for me because it marked the return of my creative outlet.  I know that sounds weird coming from an art teacher, but art in school had become terribly boring due to lack of program funding.  But a silly little FaceBook project lead to a change in focus and ultimately a change in attitude for me.  In February, I took on the 30-day Photo Challenge in which I was given a daily prompt for a photo in my own collection.  Not one for boring captions, I found myself writing a lot about my photos and found myself dreading Day 30.  When the project ended I really missed writing every day.  I am not good at just writing off the top of my head.  I require inspiration.  I draw the same way, needing photos or physical items to see and illustrate.  After discussing this with my mother, she offered to help me dig out old family photographs so I could write stories about them and preserve the family history for later generations.  My best friend chimed in an offered to share her Ancestry.com account so that I could do the family tree as well.  And with that an obsession was born.  I have connected with family members near and far and gotten photos of relatives I would never have gotten otherwise.
      I began writing my blog again as I found old photographs and learned about the ancestors pictured in them.  Here, I can share the photos and stories with my cousins and others.  In the process of digging through photographs, I also began digging through personal issues that had been stored away for many years.  By writing about these things, I have been forced to deal with the problems I had with my father and Sara's father and purge the emotions associated with them and that has been incredibly liberating for my spirit.  I have surprised myself and a few others with some of the things that have shown up these pages and gained confidence in expressing myself without feeling the need to tiptoe around Mama's feelings or whatever expectations Southern folks have about ladies needing to be seen and not heard.  Lately, if it comes up, it's coming out!
     While writing my way through the summer, my focus shifted to the huge change in my job which has put me in a Pre-K classroom after fifteen years of art.  I have thrived with the four-year-olds and I love my job again!  I get exasperated with modelling good behaviors and redirecting bad ones, but at mid-year I can see that they have learned so much and made lots of developmental progress.  I am proud of myself as well as the kids.  That is a good feeling that was long overdue.
     As late fall arrived, I was settled into the Pre-K groove and began to cook again.  I love making jam and apple butter and that naturally lead to the birth of Miss B's In a Jam.  Miss B's has only been an enterprise for a month, but what a month it has been.  I was blessedly overwhelmed with orders and frequently in tears from exhaustion, but I got over 275 jars made and delivered in time for Christmas.  Throughout the holiday break I have cooked a batch of something almost every day.  I still love it!  That makes me happy because I don't want my hobby to become a job and feel like a task that has to be done.  Right now, Miss B's is restocking the pantry and getting set to go to the Rattlesnake Roundup next month  in Whigham, Georgia.  I am looking forward to seeing what a road trip will bring.
     At the beginning of this year, I was depressed about a relationship that was no longer fulfilling and bored out of my mind at work and home.  I was asking myself,  "Is this really all there is?"  But here at the tail end of the same year, I feel like a different person.  I am inspired by the strength and determination of my ancestors, productive in my job, expressing my creativity in writing and in the kitchen and at peace in my heart having exorcised some emotional demons.  I am busier than I have ever been but am not complaining about much other than how messy the house has gotten.  I could stand for life to go on like this for a while.  Who needs eight hours a night anyway?  I've got lots of coffee.  And a microwave.

Desperate Measures

     I've been broke quite a few times in my life.  That first year after college was grueling as I worked several jobs at once to keep a roof over my head and the car on the road.  It is far too expensive for single folks to live in this country!  I sold aluminum cans for gas money and shared a bowl of mac-n-cheese with my Basset Hound for dinner more than once.  I am not scared of sacrifice or hard work.  I have a good job and while it doesn't pay very well, it does pay for all the needs and some of the wants.  Until this spring, I had a couple of little side jobs doing grant writing and tutoring and that income was the fun money that got us to the movies or the semi-annual haircut.  Without that extra little bit coming in and combined with the current state of economic recession I have been strapped like I haven't experienced since I got my teaching job. A couple of weeks ago I cleaned a friend's kitchen to get groceries for school lunches.  So Christmas for my kids looked bleak to the point that I was about to call it off.  And then I made some toast.

     I began making jelly, jam and apple butter last fall.  I always buy fresh strawberries from a local youth group and freeze them for shortcake topping and fruit smoothies.  But last year I made my first batch of strawberry jam and was so impressed that I tried other things. Throughout the year I have made lots of preserves like mixed fruit jellies, apple butter, salsa and now marmalade.  Just for fun, I entered a few jars in the home agriculture show at the fair and was surprised to have won three first-place ribbons!

     For the past year I have been giving my jars of tasty treats to friends and family just because I can (pun intended.) I love to share and admit that it feels great to be complimented on my culinary skills.  Everything about the jamming process makes me happy, from washing and slicing fresh apples to the ruby red glow of strawberries poured into a hot jar.  And the way my house smells when I make apple butter makes it feel like fall all year.  It is a creative outlet that is literally a feast for all the senses.
     As I sat there last Monday morning, staring glumly at my toast, I opened a fresh jar of my own apple butter.  It has always been one of my favorites, a comfort food you might call it.  I spread it around, admiring its consistency and noting that I had gotten the right balance of spices and brown sugar.  It was pretty, too.  Why, it was actually better than what I used to buy at the supermarket.  Someone should buy it from me.  No, really....someone should buy it from me!  And right there in my kitchen at that moment my hobby turned into a small business.  I was in a jam and had plenty of it to sell, too.  "Miss B's In a Jam" debuted on FaceBook that night and the next day I had orders.

      Being broke serves as a catalyst for change for me because it is the one thing that truly sends me into a depression.  I feel absolutely worthless in every way when I don't have money.  I can't sleep, my blood pressure goes up and I yell more than usual.  And this time it happened right before the holidays.  Something had to give.  My kids hear "no, we can't afford that" all year long so I like to surprise them with something good at Christmas.  I know that material things are not the point of Christmas, but it is tradition and Lord knows I am all about that.  My kids will have something good from Santa and I had to figure out a way to make it happen.
    As I sit here today there are 14 orders waiting to be filled by Monday.  I will be cooking every night this week to fill them and get ahead for orders yet to come in.  I have a wonderful support system that never fails to jump in and help when I call.  My friends have helped to market "Miss B's In a Jam," find places to sell it and design and produce its packaging and my mom is the best juicer ever.  I think this little business will be around for a while and I am so glad of it.  Once again, God has allowed me to survive yet another season.  I wonder what I will preserve from it.

Feedback

  

     I have never been so tired in my life.  I just thought I was tired during all the preparation before school started.  The first week of school sort of freaked me out, but we got settled as we all got to know each other.  Then the personalities started coming out.  And the reading curriculum kicked in.  And I had to generate my own lesson plans that are more specific than anything I have ever had to produce before.  And my Pre-K resource teacher (aka Supervisor) starting dropping in for "observation."  I have started getting to school a half-hour earlier to set up my books and CDs and other lesson resources because as soon as I pick the little darlings up from breakfast I am on task until they are down for nap.  I don't stop talking, walking, snapping, physically and verbally redirecting, high-fiving, smiling, frowning, playing, counting, writing, saying yes, saying no, saying no again, hugging, saying stop, pointing, opening milk cartons, yelling stop, opening juice cartons, screaming stop and silently asking God to deliver me for six and a half hours straight.  And other than Circle Time and Story Time I do not sit down.  You should see my ankles and knees.  They are retaining more water than Lake Okeechobee.

    I will acknowledge right now that I realize I should not be complaining.  Millions of people work harder than I do for more hours per day for less money.  But this is my blog and I reserve the right to whine as I work through my paradigm shift in the midst of physical and mental exhaustion.  I also realize that these are four-year-olds and I should not expect them to have "gotten it" in six short weeks.  

     My tireless cheerleaders and generous donors have kept me going and added new dimensions for Center Time.  This week a friend donated a couple of Bratz styling heads for the girls to do in lieu of the ever-popular Dramatic Play center.  I expected Asly and Alia to be all over them so I was surprised when cousins Jamarion and Aaron laid claim to them.  Those boys did some hair!

     The girls simply cannot be distracted from the fancy dresses and babies.  They are such a hoot!  I allow boys in the kitchen and baby area frequently and my little girls now give them the devil about how babies do not go in the refrigerator!  They drive me up a wall at times, but when they get all dressed up and are clearly having a ball it is hard to get upset with them.

     This is what makes me crazy.  The boys.  There are fourteen of them.  And they all seem to think the Circle Time rug is a football field.  I know.  It doesn't look like a circle so why should they have Circle Time on a square?  It does look more like a football field.  Or even a wrestling ring.  I cannot help that....this is the rug They sent to me.  We have to sit in our square (or quadrado if you please) and participate in direct reading instruction for ten minutes before we do something else.  It's a Rule.  I make it as pleasant as possible.

    This morning my supervisor came in to do some individual student testing.  She was able to observe the rest of the activities going on while doing so...she is an incredibly organized and professional woman who Does Not Play.  I proceeded through the morning and lunchtime as always and then to the playground where she followed the class to observe some more.  I was sweating bullets by then.  She went with us through the hallway for potty time and then back to class for toothbrush time and nap time.  (We have lots of times in our short daily schedule.)  She then helped with a couple of my more stubborn fellows as they could not seem to settle down and nap, finally putting one in my office and one in the storage room, standing between both areas and watching like the hawk checking out our chickens.  While standing there she told me that I have a very bright and challenging group.  She praised what I have been doing so far and offered really helpful suggestions for changes I can make to ease some of the stress.

     I have not ever been trained to teach primary students nor did I get to intern or even observe before I was given a class and a set of expectations.  I have a curriculum, a lesson plan template, a classroom full of manipulatives and centers, a stack of assessments and twenty kids who need to learn how to function in and as a group.  I have three pages of items my principal will need to check off when I get my Big Fat Annual Evaluation.  (They ought to rename that assessment tool "Reasons We Should Continue to Pay This Person.")  And I have a whole book of things my Pre-K supervisor will be looking for in me and my classroom as well as my students each month.  Each month. Yikes.  Is it any wonder I feel stressed and am doing homework every night so I can teach four-year-olds?

     Anyway, it felt good to receive positive feedback after several weeks of feeling like I am not getting anywhere.  I am someone who appreciates criticism when it is constructive.  I listened to everything the lady said to me today and it was all positive. She applauded my efforts and the hard work of my paraprofessional, who, by the way, is a gift from God and a testament to good up-bringing.  She works her fanny off.  Tomorrow we will implement some of the things we learned and observed today and expect positive change.  But tonight I am going to do my homework and hit the hay early.  La maestra es pooped!

Major on Trial

     It all started over a sack full of squirrels.  That is all I knew about why my grandfather was tried and convicted of murder.  My mother recently presented to me an envelope containing all of my grandmother's notes and clippings about the matter.  I have glanced at the headlines and stashed the whole file away for a time when I am rested and have time to dive in head first with no regard for curriculum mapping or lesson planning or formal assessments.  Lately, my leisure reading materials have been replaced by instructional strategy guides and assessment manuals as I settle in to my new teaching position.  Major's story deserves all my attention so that when I retell it I get it right.

     In the meanwhile, I have been thinking about the many facets of my Grandpa Major.  I remember his chuckle.  I don't remember what he chuckled at, but he sure did get a kick out of a lot of things.  This made Grandma Margaret mad most of the time...maybe that is what he thought was funny.  I love this photo of them because they are both smiling at the same time.  Major was a happy man.  One who never met a stranger and could always find something for a stray animal to eat.  One of the two times I ever saw him cry was when one of his baby chicks had an unfortunate encounter with an electric fan.  He loved to observe animals.  I remember being about seven years old when he had a couple of opossums in a trashcan in the garage.  He had attached a broom handle across the top of the can and when I saw them the critters were hanging from it by their tails.

      Grandpa hunted, but not really for sport.  I have heard the tales of the alligator and black bear kills, but those were nuisance animals that had to be exterminated.  Major wasn't one for hanging heads on a wall.  I first saw this bear picture when I was in college and I was surprised because I knew how much he loved animals.  He had been hunting in Smith Creek that day in 1962 with Mr. Wise, of the Wise potato chip company.  I detect a bit of pride in his handsome face, so the exterminator story may prove to be bogus.

     This is my grandpa with a hired hand back in 1948.  They killed this gator down in Smith Creek.  My mother actually remembers when this photo was taken even though she was only three years old.  She said that Major wanted her to get in the picture, too, but she was terrified of the massive lizard.  There didn't seem to be a shortage of guns or big scary critters in Smith Creek so it is no wonder my mother grew to be such a stoic, unshakable woman.

     Here is my uncle Pat with grandpa and that gator.  (My mama was on that truck in the background.) Pat was five years old and had his own little gun.  And would you check out the ax in that lizard's mouth.  They didn't have child-proof latches back then.  The kids were taught that stupid hurts and that you don't go around bothering things that don't belong to you.  My grandparents were strict and taught responsibility and so their children learned to respect authority... and rifles.  My own son's BB gun is on the top shelf in my closet...I am not half the teacher Major was.

     While Grandpa Major was quite the sportsman, he had a creative side as well.  My grandmother was a seamstress, and I am not sure if he had a genuine interest in sewing or if he wanted to show Margaret up, but he made a beautiful dress for my mother.  It was blue velvet with an ivory satin collar.  He also made a white wool cape for my mom and this photo shows her wearing it with the dress in 1950.
     In addition to occasional tailoring, Major was a barber, a ship builder and a security guard for several government agencies in his latter years.  He knew everyone and was related to the rest.  I am looking forward to a weekend not too far down the road in which I can settle into the details of his indictment and trials.  Life in Smith Creek was hard, the people were poor and there was lots of shooting and killing of the local wildlife.  But when I focus on all the things I remember about my grandpa, I find it hard to believe he could be a cold-blooded killer...especially over a few squirrels.
 

Diamonds in the Ruff

     I've never been good at training puppies.  Now, after a whole week with my Pre-K babies, that is exactly what it feels like I am doing.  My pockets are filled with stickers and fruit snacks as I have learned it is more effective to reward good behavior than scold those who constantly do the opposite of what I ask them to do.  I don't sit down at all and am always watching who is where and counting heads.  And I am tired.  Not stressed out like I was the night before school started.  I am exhausted... plum tuckered out.  My co-workers chuckled when I passed them in the hallways, whispering to them that I have never worked so hard in my life!
     For three weeks prior to school starting, I prepared for the exciting First Day.  Our classroom is big and bright and colorful with lots of room for learning and playing.  All the paperwork was in order,  bulletin boards were done, centers and shelves were labeled and lesson plans were ready.  I woke up at 5:00 am excited but not really knowing what to expect.  And then the Little Ones showed up.  Most recognized me from the home visits, but still there were four criers and seven who speak no English.  Three parents insisted on staying and going to class with us after breakfast, which didn't help with the criers.  I finally got them all out by 9:00 and all but one child had stopped crying by 10:00.  My wonderful aide and I managed to keep the group contained on The Rug so we could talk about classroom rules, but then it was time to let them play.  It took less than one minute for the Blocks and Dramatic Play areas to be completely wrecked.

     For a minute or so I just stood there and watched and listened.  The delighted squeals from the girls as they discovered the dress-up clothes and dolls made me so happy.  I had spent money I didn't have yet to buy babies and dishes and a friend had cleaned out her daughter's play house to donate to ours.  As I stood there I was reminded that we are all blessed with what we have and blessed again when we experience the pleasure of giving.

        My boys separated into the Blocks and Dinosaurs centers and were making their own joyful noise.  The crashing of trucks into block towers was occasionally drowned by the huge roars of the pterodactyl slaughtering tyrannosaurus rex.  There is so much room to play and so many different activities to do over there that not one argument or tug-of-war broke out.  Never has chaos made such perfect sense!
     Lunchtime for Little Ones comes early so I managed to get everyone's attention and tell them that it was time to clean up.  That's when the miracle happened.   They cleaned up.  No, really.  They cleaned up....all the cardboard blocks started stacking up against the wall and the wood blocks were getting put in their case while the dinosaurs marched back onto their shelves.  Over in the housekeeping sections the girls were literally cleaning house.  All the girls there on the first day were Hispanic and I had been to their homes which is why I noticed how they were picking up.  Their real homes were very tidy...all toys were put away and nothing was on the floor.  So when they cleaned up the play house area there was nothing on the floor.  All the dresses were crammed into their cubbies and all the food and dishes and pots and pans and babies were in the refrigerator...but there was nothing on the floor!   They had done what I asked them to do so out came the stickers.  It is amazing what kids do for tokens like that.

     The rest of the day involved getting to and from lunch and the playground without losing anyone,  settling down for nap time and having everyone brush their teeth.  Several years ago I had purchased a large model of a mouth and a giant toothbrush when I managed a Health Education grant for my school.  I used the model to show the proper way to track down and evict the Cavity Creeps and then we brushed teeth two at a time.  I wish I could have recorded some of that. The kids were so serious about getting way in the back where those Cavity Creeps live and then opening their mouths to have me see if they were running out.  There was toothpaste and spit everywhere!  I forget how literal the Little Ones are at their age.
     We have a way to go with walking in line and remembering to use our napkin at lunch, but I think the first five days have gone well.  By Friday morning, the parents that did not send their kids on the bus were taking them to the cafeteria and leaving.  There were no tears or wet pants on Friday, either, and one of my non-English babies was calling me Mama.  We haven't really done much that I put on the lesson plan because I had unrealistic expectations about that.  But we have learned to share princess dresses, take turns with the pterodactyl, that the slide is for going down, not up and that only one silly person is allowed in the bathroom at a time.  (I still don't understand what is so fun about the potty.)
     Our class is fortunate to have only one pincher/hitter, one tattletale and two Special Ones that have no boundaries and need constant redirection.  We are also extremely blessed to have an amazing paraprofessional who anticipates needs and plans for what is next and has helped me get an effective routine going.  The little bit of Spanish that I know combined with the commands "Stop," "Sit" and "Stay" are enough to help the non-English Little Ones (Chiquitos) assimilate.  Overall, we are making progress.  I hope that in a couple of weeks we will look less like a litter of puppies covered in stickers with a barking mama and more like a functioning Pre-K class with a teacher who really knows what she is doing.

"No One Rises to Low Expectations"

     I am rarely motivated by motivational speakers.  I usually just sit there appreciating their comments but wondering if they really buy their own spiel.  This morning Stephen G. Peters changed that.  Maybe it is because he gave it to us straight, without fancy words or pompous attitude.  (I actually had to Google a word used by the assistant superintendent when she welcomed us.) Maybe it is because his humble beginnings and career in education made his message authentic.   Or maybe it is because for the first time one of these school district-sponsored programs directly related to my job.  For fifteen years I have listened to professional development programs on reading, differentiated instruction, instructional strategies for higher math...you name it.  There wasn't much offered for the lowly art teacher.  But today I listened as a "new teacher"...one who will have my first class of 20 students who have no idea what to expect of me and I in return am not quite as confident as they need me to be.

     I took away a lot of important concepts from Dr. Peters' message, but the line that stuck in my head is the one at the top of this post.  He addressed the burnt-out teachers and acknowledged that today's kids are nothing like the ones they taught 30 years ago.  But he stressed that teachers have to adapt their methods in order to reach this new generation and inspire them to aim high and try to reach their goals.   A lot of teachers give up and decide that these kids don't want to learn so they aren't going to expect much of them.  If the expectation is a low as their current level, then what is there to gain?  Each generation needs to be greater than the last and if we don't train these kids to think ahead, want to be smarter and work harder then we as a species get weaker.  OK, he didn't say species but that is what he was talking about.

     When I went into the community and visited my students last week, I looked into a lot of bright and beautiful eyeballs filled with wonder and realized that I have been charged with an enormous task.  Not only do I have to teach them to write their name, hold a fork, learn to share and wait their turn, but I have to show them that knowledge is good and inspire them to want to learn more and more.  This is their first step into the world of education and I need to make sure that it is jam packed with one positive experience after another.  I have had a bad teacher or two in my educational history and I remember them as much as the countless wonderful ones.  I won't allow myself to be in that category.  These kids are going to be hugging Miss Boykin in the grocery store for years!

     Teaching is a relationship.  I learned this in my art classroom.  I didn't have much trouble with the "bad" kids because I had a relaxed atmosphere and treated them like kids instead of the thugs that some of them pretended to be. Apparently they appreciated that.  My Little Ones are coming to me as blank slates....they have no reputation or behavioral history that I need to be aware of, therefore I shall treat them thusly.   Everyone will begin as a distinguished scholar and add to their list of accomplishments by Graduation time in May.  This first year I might not cover everything in the curriculum in the order in which it is intended and I may screw up the lunch and attendance reports on occasion, but gosh-darnit these kids are going to be learning something good everyday.  And they will know their teacher believes in them.  Having seen where some of these babies come from, that alone will take them farther than we can imagine.

Attitude Adjustment

     I was a child of wealth and privilege, a spoiled rotten little white girl.  Of course I never knew that until I went out into the community in which I work and visited the homes of my new students.  Over three days I met with twenty families to do the staggering amount of paperwork required to enroll their children in Pre-K before school starts next week.  By the end of the first day I was a roiling bucket of emotions, humbled and feeling incredibly blessed to have been raised in a safe and loving home with everything I needed and a good bit of stuff I wanted.  I was also angry at some mamas, sad for some children and disgusted with a system that rewards and perpetuates ignorance and laziness.  I learned a lot about the different cultures coexisting in that small community and that stereotypes don't apply to everyone.

     My first stop was at a nice new brick home outside of town where a single mother and her son live alone.  She works nights so her mother and aunt pitch in to help with him.  Her mother is a teacher and she has an uncle who is a firefighter and they are a hard-working bunch of folks who take care of their children and teach them to take care of their things.  The little boy was well-behaved and talkative and I left feeling quite good about things and glad to know the kids I work with are valued in their homes and taught to behave despite what they have shown me in school over the past fifteen years.  The next stop changed my mind.

     I have known the older children of the next family for several years.  They are a pitiful bunch since they are all in Special Education and their classroom teachers have had to do everything from feeding to clothing them since they started school.  I have smelled them and heard rumors of their living conditions but had never seen their home.  Home is too nice a word.  It is nothing short of a hovel.  And I have been in dog kennels that were cleaner.

      This photo is one I snagged elsewhere since I cannot post my students' homes on a personal page, but it is an accurate representation of this family's dwelling place.  I saw a lot of low-income homes that day, but this is the only one that I would call filthy.  I got so angry.  The mother made half my salary just on the kids' disability income and this mobile home was so old that any mortgage would have been paid off twenty years ago.  So why couldn't they have replaced the broken front door, gotten some floor covering that wasn't rotten from water leaking somewhere and plugged the holes around the windows to keep the air conditioning in and the insects out?  Or how about buying some clothes that fit the children and some kitchen items?  The middle child was sipping ice water from a peanut butter jar while the semi-nude youngest was sloshing a soda out of the can and onto anything in his path.
     Poverty and filth do not go hand-in hand.  There are many people who have lower incomes than the aforementioned household, but their homes are spotless.  Pride doesn't cost a thing.  The Hispanic migrant families I visited had very little in the way of furniture and some had used bungee cords to turn sheets into makeshift curtains, but their homes were tidy and their children were clean and well-behaved.  This sense of pride shows in the type of students these children become.

      I won't dwell on the dwellings because I saw a common thread running through all of these homes.  All of my Little Ones were smiling.  They hugged me and are excited to come to school.  They don't know if they are getting the short end of the stick or not and I certainly won't tell them.  I am going to try really hard to not think about where they sleep at night but focus on what I can give to them.  Each of these kids deserves the same amount of love, praise, structure and education as the next.  I wasn't really a spoiled wealthy child in the material sense, but I was (and still am) loved, valued and special to my parents.  I can give that back...along with cupcakes on their birthdays.

They Moved My Cheese!

     The anxiety monster has reared its ugly head again.  Today I went to the Pre-K office to pick up "the box" as directed.  In it was a bunch of things for my classroom like tissue and hand soap and the kids' toothbrushes.  It also contained The Roster.  Twenty little names that will probably never escape my memory of this first year in a new department.  In addition to knowing absolutely nothing about the curriculum or how my room should be set up, I now get to figure out how to wrangle sixteen little boys and four little girls every day.  Sixteen boys.  My goodness.  Sam has a friend over for a few days and I have barely survived the first twenty-four hours of two boys' combined energy.  I cannot imagine what sixteen is going to sound like.
     I have taught Visual Arts at Greensboro for fifteen years and am so grateful that I am not having to change schools like some other teachers are.  Due to financial cut-backs, Art and Music have been removed from the elementary schools in Gadsden county.  Most teachers of those subjects are on annual contract so we are being re-assigned to others areas in which we hold certification, which is how I got to be the new Pre-K teacher.  Our school is a wonderful place to work and learn and we have received our fourth rating of "A" in a row.  Enrollment is to capacity so we have finally qualified to have a second Pre-K class.
     My principal has agreed to let me keep my fabulous art room rather than assign me to the dumpy old portable closer to our other Pre-K class.  Another blessing that I am truly grateful for.  I think he got concerned after my freak-out when he mentioned that he might be moving me.  He referred to my classroom as my ecosystem because I am so attached to it!  It is huge space with four floor-to-ceiling windows, a walk-in closet, a large office and a restroom.  There is also a gigantic storage room with a washer and dryer and utility sink.  The room was originally built for the high school Home Economics class so it also has four kitchens with sinks, cabinets and tons of counter space.  It is a dream room for a teacher with a penchant for saving things!  It was perfect for making banners and the hundreds of May Day costumes I have done over the years and it will be fabulous for a class of twenty small, energetic children.
     This week I will have a couple of workshops and a parent orientation and tonight I will read through all the documents from The Box so that I will at least be familiar with the lingo.  The staff at the Pre-K office are really nice and want to be helpful so that will make it easier when I start calling them with questions every half hour.  My teacher friends are very encouraging and have no doubt I will be fine and I know that after I adjust I will be very happy.  I don't handle change well, but have gotten used to the idea.  I will have an aide and the kids get nap-time after lunch so it is not like it is going to be a tough gig.  I have just been spoiled by having a kid-free lunch break, no worries about anyone missing the bus and a different group of kids every forty-five minutes.
     The "Who Moved My Cheese?" story reminds us that we can't just sit back and watch our lives happen.  We must constantly change and adapt to what life throws us.  The older I get the more I like to sit, but now I have twenty more mice moving the cheese around!

Sunday Service

     "I like your Christ.  I do not like your Christians.  Your Christians are so unlike your Christ!"  I think about Mahatma Ghandi's assessment of Christianity just about every time I find myself rolling through downtown on Sunday mornings to get Sam from his father.  He can't keep his son past noon on Sundays because...well just because.  But, that's another rant.  I used to feel bad about not being in church every week because I claim to be Christian,  but as I have lived and learned, a steady church-goer does not a Christian make.  I know God wants us to congregate for fellowship and I am more comfortable in small groups of people I know who walk their talk rather than with a pew full of folks who live lives of hypocrisy and self-righteousness.  I absolutely loved the Christian Women's Club I used to attend in Tallahassee, but they quit meeting a few years ago.  The small and eclectic group of women, the inspiring speakers and the foundations of the CWC in general fit me perfectly.
     The first church I attended regularly was a great big Baptist one and I had a lot of friends who went there, but I felt awful every time I left.  My mother made my Sunday dresses and I felt so pretty in them, but the pastor's daughter was in my Sunday-school class and she made fun of me for being so poor my mother had to make my clothes.  Thirty years later, I gave that same church another try.  This time the sermons left me feeling guilty and horrible because I wasn't able to give as much financially to the church as the pastor said we should.  Without fail, every week the sermon came around to money and the reasons people go to Hell and I left in tears.  I just didn't believe that this is how God thought a church should treat its parishioners.  I had been baptized in that church and felt secure in knowing I was saved,  but this guy left me feeling like I may as well be at the bar drinking myself to death because I was going to Hell anyway.  Shouldn't a service be focusing on God's glory and praising Him?  I decided that since Christ himself was poor and didn't confine himself to a sanctuary I would follow His lead.
     I know that there are some wonderful churches out there and I know they have a lot of true Christians in them.  I have attended quite a few over the years, looking for one that felt like home.  One that accepts me for the sinner that I am and doesn't judge me or require me to be there every time the doors are open.  I'll find it eventually, but until then I maintain a close walk with the Lord and do my best to live according to His Word and be grateful for all that I have.  I read the Bible daily and do a morning devotional.   I try to model these ways for my children as well.
   My grand-folks were church-going people at times.  I remember going to a service, maybe for a funeral, with them once when I was about ten years old.  Grandma Margaret got so mad at Grandpa Major because he never went inside the church, preferring to hang out with the other menfolk in the yard.  She said he had kept those men outside on purpose to listen to him talk.  I thought to myself that what Major had to say was probably more interesting than what we had heard, but what did I know?
    The photo above is Grandpa Major's mama, Fannie Langston and preacher Obe Revel.  I love everything about this photo, from Fannie's church hat and sunglasses to Mr. Revel's fan.  Fannie was reputed to be quite outlandish at times, often wearing huge blossoms pinned to her blouse, the petals spread out and pressed flat.  I don't doubt that a bit.  The more I learn about her, the more I think I take after her.  My mother is a lot like Margaret's mother Jennie, but I got the best of Fannie.  And my daughter has a penchant for church hats!

Making the Short List

     I never thought we would be able to fill this house up, but in just two-and-a-half years we have done just that.  Even though I am far from a neat freak, too much clutter does make me anxious so I have been tidying up around here before I go back to work next week.  It is amazing how much stuff three people can accumulate.  I am going to go ahead and call my son out right here:  he is a hoarder.  He got it honestly and I guess I ought to call out Grandpa Major, too.  I can still hear Grandma Margaret griping about Major taking things out of the garbage and stashing them in his workshop.  You never know when you might need an aluminum pie plate or thirty. Sam is the same way about stuffed animals.  If he ever called it a buddy, it has a permanent place in our house.

     My daughter and I were discussing our ancestral hoarders yesterday and I mentioned that it is now hurricane season here and even though we are an hour inland, we could theoretically be ordered to evacuate with a half-day's notice.  If that were to happen and we have only our little CR-V to pack in, what would she take?  Aside from a pile of clothes and toiletries, what would we scramble to save?  Sam would blow a fuse and try to get all of his stuff in as many bags as possible, but I have mentally gone through this a few times.  I am a planner, you know.

     Sara would be frantically trying to compact her electronics, books, hair accessories and those Toms she adores into a very small amount of space, but I would focus on the irreplaceable things.  After loading some clothes and personal items, I'd go for the lock-box with all our important documents, my laptop computer, my genealogy stuff and my childhood Bible.  Then I'd load up the big box of photos and photo CDs under my bed and grab as many of the framed ones as I could.  My mom had her wallet stolen many years ago and she was beside herself about the loss of the photos in it that could not be replaced more than she was about her money or identification.  More recently, water damage claimed a huge box of photos and negatives from my childhood and my mom can barely discuss it even now. I am so glad that I live in an age when photos are stored electronically and easily recovered even when computers crash.  I have always loved pictures, but doing my ancestry research has made me appreciate them even more.

    Since my mother has retired, she has begun to sort and organize her "treasures" and I have been fortunate to gain some nice pieces of furniture as well as some nifty old kitchen items that belonged to my aunt Doll .  I'd hate to lose any of it, but it didn't make the short list of what I'd be inclined to save if the Gulf decided to slosh inland.  If time and space allowed, I might get some favorite novels and some of my preserves, but the rest is going down with the ship.  In the end it is all just stuff we can't take with us, but there are a few things I'd like to pass down.  

     We come into this world with nothing and go out the same way.  In between we are privileged to possess a few things but they are just that.  Things.  My mother and her sister hardly speak anymore and it all started over a bunch of stuff.  Material stuff.  Stuff that neither has use for, much less storage space, and probably couldn't put their hands on if their lives depended on it.  I don't plan on being that way. I'll take care of the things I have while I have them, but Sam and Sara can do what they will with them when my time comes.  And while I appreciate beautiful, expensive luxury items, I am not wasting time or energy pining over them or killing myself trying to buy them.  

     Today's media and advertisers push onto us the notion that we should want to have certain things to make us appear to be successful and beautiful and eternally young and if we don't want those things there is something wrong with us.  Have a chat with a teenager and that will come out almost immediately...and they don't even notice.  But as I have gotten older and have lived out here in the country with no cable or satellite television, I have come to appreciate that less is more.  I used to take no less than three bags with me for a weekend trip.  This last time I had one and my purse.  My children, however, have many years and many shopping bags and Spring Cleanings before they will get to this place.  I should probably invest in Rubbermaid and Zip-loc because they're going to be storing stuff for a long time!

C'mon, Get Happy!

    It's true...you can buy happiness!  I bought some a few weeks ago just because somebody said you can't.  The package of facial powder says it contains a specific mineral (which I can neither spell nor pronounce) that is a proven mood elevator.  It promises to improve the look of my skin and lift my spirits. Well who couldn't use some of that?  The stuff smells fantastic and that immediately made me happy.  And it has a little heart-shaped section of pink blusher which gives me rosy cheeks.   Have you noticed that smiley icons, the textual symbols of happiness, have rosy cheeks?
     In retrospect while wearing the Happy Booster powder, I have been quite happy.  I pointed this out to my daughter who asked, "Weren't you happy anyway?"  Well, duh.  Of course I was and I know that, while certain elements do lift the spirits, happiness is a state of contentment and joy that actually comes from the inside.  We can be influenced by pharmaceuticals, alcohol, herbs, people and other material things which put us in temporary states of contentment, but after they wear off, leave and are no longer new we are still left with one thing... our self.  The artist Andy Warhol once said, "You have to be able to get happy about nothing."  That is The Truth.

     I have gotten into the habit of making myself find a good for every bad that comes along.  It is very difficult at times because, like every other adult I know, I have bills to pay and a house to keep up and a job to do and it gets hard to keep looking at the big picture instead of focusing on the tedious details.  I find that the things that are easiest to get happy about are the things that are closest to me...my children and the flora and fauna around our home.  These are the daily blessings that I count first.  When I ask God for something, I thank Him for three things first.  I have healthy children, a safe and comfortable home and an environment full of natural beauty.  A couple of weeks ago, I helped a friend pick figs and it was so hot and humid that I almost quit and went inside, but then I noticed the critters in the fig trees.  There were grasshoppers scoping out overripe fruit and this greedy little yellow jacket pigging out on a perfect one.  I just stood there for a while with sweat rolling down my neck and watched, tickled that my iPhone takes better close-ups than my regular camera.
     At the farm there are all sorts of critters around and I can't help but feel content when I watch them all hanging out together like family.  Even the obnoxious guineas don't run the bunnies off and every morning I get to see them all as they check out the latest contributions to the mulch pile.  Soon the deer will start coming up to nibble the pears on the trees behind the house.  I just adore watching them.  And don't get me started about that big red rooster that lives out here.  I named him Hoss and I heart him like whoa!

     When Sam and I went to the lake I did nothing but float around or sit on the dock, content with just being.  The only sound was the laughter of the kids and an occasional splash as I launched myself on a floatie.  I get happy about a good floatie, but it is hard to not be happy with a scene like this one.  The simple pleasures of childhood and the joy of being a parent with a happy child.  That kind of made the looming tuition bill and anxiety over my job changes seem like minor obstacles instead of the joy-suckers they can be if I let them.
     We choose to be happy or not.  It really is that simple.  We have to want to be happy and realize that it comes from within and it comes from our own ability to look around and really see what we are already blessed with.  Awful things happen to all of us at times but we get through them.  I have close friends who have lost children, but over time they have been able to find joy in their lives again.  I don't know how they do it as I don't think I could breathe in and out again after such a loss, but they do.  One of them told me she feels blessed to have had the child for any length of time and the joy of that blessing carries her and helps her see she still has much to be happy about.  How amazing is that?  If that woman can find joy and happiness, then who am I to complain about anything?
    So buy the Happy Booster.  I am fresh-faced and perky, but not giving it the credit for my happiness.  I got  that from inside myself.  I look for the blessings daily and thank God for each one.  My friends and family are a tremendous support system and my children keep me going, but it is up to me to be grateful for the life I have, realize I am worthy of it and live it in such a way as to continue to be blessed.  It's as simple as looking around.

Summer Break: Abridged

     Technically, it's not even mid-Summer yet, so why am I getting ready to go back to work?  I just got out of school and haven't made a dent in my pile of books or cleaned out my bedroom closet.  Sam's room hasn't gotten done, either, and I still have to pack and deliver all the hand-me-downs from Spring cleaning.  I haven't gone to visit cousin Lucy, I haven't helped my mother organize her "treasures" and Mt. Crappity Crap in the laundry room still hasn't been scaled.  My son hasn't gotten a single board installed in his tree fort, but he can keep dreaming because I still haven't gotten the pool filled up all the way.
    Since I am starting my sixteenth year of teaching with a new assignment I am having to attend a good bit of pre-back-to-school training and planning sessions as well as make home visits to twenty families.  Then I have to turn my old art room into a new pre-kindergarten room and be ready for my babies on August 22nd.  Four weeks from today.  That means Sam has a whole month left of his break before he goes back to school.  Poor Grandma.
     As I stared disbelievingly at my calendar I thought to myself that it's a shame that we haven't done anything this summer.  But we have.  I flipped through my phone's camera roll and found a good bit of photographic evidence that the kids and I have had plenty of Summer Fun.

     Before I had even gotten done with post-planning, Sara was already having a blast at Auburn University's Vet camp.  She went up there wanting to be an equine veterinarian but came back all about the cows.  She made some new friends and got a good feel for dorm life and came home all ready to make the grades it takes to get to go there.  That's exactly what I had hoped for.  I was afraid she may decide to change career paths altogether.

     When Sara got back I hauled the kids down to Liberty county to the Blue Creek Cemetery in Hosford.  That's where we came across this bird feeder atop a Mason jar stand.  That's local color.  We also photographed the grave markers of my great-great-great-grandparents Henry and Abigail Colvin who died in the 1860s.  We then drove on down to Smith Creek Cemetery in Wakulla county and photographed the gravestones of Grandpa Major's people. Lots of memories in that churchyard.

     As July drew closer the tomato crops came in and I was fortunate enough to have friends in the business.  Viva la salsa!  I had never tried it, but a couple of friends came over and we got to peeling and dicing and chopping and by the end of the day we had a couple of nice batches of spicy fresh salsa.  I got brave when another box of tomatoes arrived and I tried a batch myself.  As the Lord said, it was good!  This Spring I purchased five flats of strawberries from a local youth group and froze them for jam, so in July I jammed.  It was also good.  I shall be making more soon, but it is time for peaches now.

      July was busy for Sara, too, as she helped our friends with the huge task of adding a new pasture and fencing it.  They finished just in time to move the horses into it before the start of the Fourth of July Fireworks.  That was a long, hot, nasty day and I think they reveled in the downpour that got them just as they finished for the evening.  That's Sara removing Bubba's halter.  He was the first horse for Higher Standards Farm and a lot of folks have learned to ride on that sweet, patient boy.  And he's sexy.  Ask anybody.

     Throughout the summer Sam built fort after fort throughout the house. I gave him free reign for building in the house until the middle of August since it is entirely too hot for him to be outside all day.  He has done pretty well with the picking up of his construction zones even as Fort #10 now rests behind the couch.

     Week before last, Sam and I joined a couple of old friends at their lake house in Jackson county where Sam got his first knee-boarding lesson.  My friend's daughter is quite good at it and patiently helped Sam figure out how to balance and coached him when it was time for the boat to pull him out.  He was brave and had good balance, but the whole water-up-the-nose thing was too much for one day.  He'll try again later, but I was so proud of him for giving it a shot.

Last week Sam attended a summer camp program at the Tallahassee Museum of Natural History.  He learned all about poisonous plants and insects and a few spiders, but the snakes were the best part.  Next time you see him, try to make him say the word "venomous."  Each morning after dropping Sam off with his leader, Sara and I went through the nature trails on the museum site.  There we saw the baby deer come up for their breakfast, the black bear foraging for his morning treats and the young panther batting his toys around and heckling the staffer cleaning his cage. Usually, the animals are hiding in the shadiest spots they can find and we don't get to see them doing what they do.  The morning feed rounds were amazing because all the critters were excited and out enjoying the coolest part of the day.  It was so peaceful to stand out there and watch them.  I miss starting my day with them.
     So it looks like Summer 2011 wasn't lost after all.  We went a few places, built a few things, jammed a lot, and thanked God for air conditioning.  I have exorcised a few demons through writing, reconnected with some old friends and lost 250 pounds.  (He was a big boy!)  Not bad for a six-week run.

Housing Developments Redux

     We live in a disposable society.  I have been around long enough to see that material things just aren't built to last anymore.  Manufacturers have made things so much cheaper that it is more cost efficient to replace them than to repair them.  Even homes are made to be put together quickly and frequently require repairs before the mortgage is paid off.   I can't count the number of mobile homes I see sitting abandoned behind or not too far away from new ones.  (Maybe that is just a Gadsden County thing?)  I have been fortunate to know some really amazing homes built by really amazing people.

     The house shown above is currently on the grounds of the Tallahassee Museum of Natural History.  It is called the Langston-Brown Kitchen but was originally built around 1900 by my Grandpa Major's uncle in Smith Creek, Florida, as a first home for his young family.  It was one large room with a fireplace and as his family grew he built a larger home and this one became my Great-Grandpa Charlie Langston's  "bee house."  That's like a bee hive, only it's a house.  Full of bees.  They made honey down there in Smith Creek.  When the family donated the little house to the museum it was connected to another farmhouse as a kitchen and still sits there in liveable condition today.  Yes, I know "liveable" is different for everyone, but I mean the fireplace works and the doors shut tight.                                                                       

     This is the house that Grandpa Major built in Smith Creek shortly after his marriage in 1937.  His mother, Fannie, told everyone he was building it for her, and I imagine he was, but much of the funding was provided by Grandma Margaret's mother, Jennie.  She purchased all the screen for the doors and windows and even bought a set of French doors for the great room.  Grandma Margaret later installed those same doors in the family home in Tallahassee and then again when she moved to Quincy.  Great-grandma Jennie actually moved to the big house in Smith Creek to die, but her oldest daughter, Agnes, retrieved her and took her to Bonifay to die so that Agnes could get all of Jennie's money.  I got all these sordid details when I called my mother simply to ask when the house was built.

     Here's Major beside the fireplace he built in the great room.  This photo was taken in 1974 after the house had been sitting empty (aside from some vagrants coming and going) since the 1940's.  I remember this trek down there with both of my parents and the grand-parents.  There are some photos somewhere of my brother and me playing with a rusted-out pedal car, the old water pump and assorted sheds. Grandpa was quite a craftsman and insisted everything was level and squared so I can only imagine the mood he must have been in while building this house.  I only got to admire his woodworking skills in his later years after he got a lathe for his shop and began turning out beautiful bowls, pencil holders and tire thumpers.  The family property in Smith Creek was sold and became became part of the National Forest many years ago and the house is now gone.  The "bee house" was located on this same property and was spared demolition when a Tallahassee dentist funded its relocation to the Museum of Natural History.

    When my mother was a couple of years old, the family moved to Tallahassee into this three-story home on St. Francis Street.  Grandma Margaret ran a boarding house there until I was about 8 or so and then she "retired" and did her seamstress business out of a small sewing room in the back.  The third floor housed Grandpa's dam invention.  Or was it the damn invention?  Depends on who you ask.  I went up there quite a bit as a youngster but the place gave me the creeps as I got older.  By the time I was in high school, you couldn't pay me to go to the second floor, either.  The stairs were made of really dark wood and they sounded hollow but they were very sturdy.  All the rooms in the upstairs apartments had linoleum floors and some were wall-papered. Grandma Margaret had a great sense of style and her decor reflected that.  The formal living room and dining room were quite beautiful with their mahogany furnishings and rich upholstery.  She didn't do the plastic coverings, though!  We got to sit on the real thing...sometimes. My grandparents moved to Quincy in the early 1990's and this home was purchased by a law firm and has been completely restored.  In 1994 it was placed on the Natural Registry of Historic Places.  I think the old folks would be pleased as punch about that!

     This is the house in which my kids and I live.  I wish I could say it is in my family but it's not and I am content to live here as long as the owners will let me.  The house is on an old tobacco farm outside of Quincy and its construction was completed in 1860.  The ceilings are really high, none of the doors are the same size, it has an uncharacteristic amount of built-in storage and there is not a level floor in it. The commissary and original kitchen were connected to the back of the main house and are now serving as the laundry room and the spider room.  Yes, that's right.  I offered the commissary unto the big fat spiders as part of our treaty.  They have their space and I have mine.  A house with this much history ought to have a haunt or two but if they are here they are keeping to themselves.  The place has a really peaceful vibe.  I have become quite a homebody since being here.  The kids each have plenty of their own space and we finally have a kitchen big enough for everyone to stand in at once.  Each day I count our home as one of our many blessings.

    I have never owned a home, and as long as this one is available I am not upset about that.  Being a homeowner means lots more responsibility than I want to add to what I have now, but I may grow up one day and dive into it.  When I do get to the house-hunting phase of my life, though, these wonderful places have lent their characteristics to the list of what I will be looking for.  Pretty tough acts to follow.

Finding My Voice to Tell My Story

"Damn, I wish I wrote that." I can't count how many times I've said that after hearing a song or finishing a book. Some novelists and songwriters have the ability to express something so succinctly that it resonates in my soul. I want to have that, too. Reading was my passion as a young girl. I can remember getting in trouble in 6th grade for having a novel tucked into my math book because it was more interesting than fractions, and there were many weekends that I stayed in my pajamas reading two Nancy Drew mysteries per day. I would ride the bus to the public library after school and stay there until my mom picked me up on her way home from work. To this day, there is an unread novel on my bedside table, waiting for me to finish the one in my hand. Much of my summer break is devoted to catching up on the mountain of books that I did not have time to read during the school year and I have fallen in love with more than one fictional character. Now I find myself on the other side, thinking it would be awesome to have the power to captivate someone's attention to the point they block out their own reality for a while.

No, I am not planning on writing a book. I wouldn't know where to begin. Twenty years ago I had a roommate whose father owned a construction company. One afternoon he was talking to us about being successful in business as well personal ventures and he said, "Girls, you have got to have a story." Being from South Carolina, he pronounced it stow-ry, which is why it has stuck in my brain for so long. He meant that we needed to be able to relate to people in such a way that we weren't coming across as salesmen so much as kindred spirits. Now, Don was a salesman and I am sure his story changed as needed on the sales floor, but his message was a good one. We all have a story to tell and people who want to hear it.

The author Frank McCourt didn't start to write his first memoir, Angela's Ashes, until he was sixty-four years old. He explained, "I thought everything you wrote had to be about England; nobody ever told me you could write about growing up in Ireland." That is exactly how I feel! I have read so many wonderful books in my lifetime and thought that those authors must be gifted with great imaginations and extraordinary real-life experiences. They have stories! But I have come to realize that they started out just like me. Writing to exercise their minds, conquer demons, capture memories and avoid housework. The difference is they have found their voice, practiced daily, written millions of words and convinced someone to publish their work. I am practicing daily (almost) but am still trying to find my voice...and I think I am getting close.

My college dorm was full of music majors and most of them would practice their instruments or vocals in the music building, but there was one girl on my hall who loved the acoustics of our bathroom. I can still hear her singing scales in the shower. One afternoon she said, "Punch me. Go on. Right in the gut!" I refused, asking why in the world would I want to do that. She said that one of her voice coaches had told her that the sound you make when punched in the gut is your true voice. Umph. Oopf. Not exactly the kind of sounds I want to make on stage at the opera, but we are talking about music majors. They could be as far out there as we art majors could. But I have pondered that coach's concept many times over the years and I think I finally understand it.

I have been punched in the gut several times over the last 40-something years. Not just physically (and I would punch him back now) but emotionally. I have survived an abusive ex-lover, an emotionally unavailable father, a major medical crisis and a couple of broken hearts. When I process these things enough to write about them what comes out is incredibly frank and often surprises me. I can be brutally honest and unapologetic for the things I say but then I can be incredibly forgiving of those who have hurt me most. I am not used to hearing my voice, and frankly I think it is confused. Sometimes it sounds like Dorothy Parker and sometimes it is Glenda the Good Witch. But I can use this voice to tell my story when I finally figure out what it is, because, like Frank McCourt discovered, we can write about the things we know.

I know what the inside of Circle Drive smells like in the summer. I know how it felt to see my mother on fire when she burned up our kitchen. I know the taste of moonshine chugged out of a jelly jar. I know the sound of my blood pounding in my ears when my heart broke the first time. I know the cold softness of my grandpa's hand when I kissed him goodbye.

I have read others' stories all my life and now that I am discovering my own I find that I am buying less of theirs. When I checked out of the bookstore this morning I was amused to realize that rather than plopping down in the New Fiction aisle to peruse the latest mysteries, I had settled atop a step-stool in the Writing and Research section. I look forward to the day when I can read a final draft here and say, "Damn, I'm glad I wrote that!"