Thursday, May 1, 2014
Words
I love words, reading them, saying them, writing them. Occasionally I'll read a word, and it fills me with warmth because I like it so much. The words bowl and platter are like that.
I'm not sure why I like those words. Maybe they create images of abundance: a Thanksgiving table and a dinner full of specially prepared foods eaten by special people. Bowl. Platter. Fill 'em up. On the other hand, I don't feel the same about plate. Turning nouns into verbs frequently annoys me. When did people start plating their food? Did they gold plate it, silver plate it, or arrange it on a plate? When did the word plate go Hollywood?
Text makes me respond differently. It is also a noun that's been turned into a verb, but I like it. I like the word text, the hiss of the x and the crispness of the t. What I don't like is when people add an s to the word. They no longer can pronounce it. What they manage to say often sounds like a synonym for testicles, and it makes me cringe.
When I drive my niece to school, I pass the sign for a neighborhood called The Enclave. Enclave, I love that word. It sounds rich, sophisticated, exclusive, and secretive. Someday when I write a book, my people are going to reside in a suburban enclave. Or maybe they'll end up renting a row house in Philly. I'm not sure yet; the book hasn't been written.
Plump is a favorite of mine. It's not because I'd rather be referred to as plump instead of fat or obese. But plump is a delightfully round word. It defines itself when you say it out loud. One must plump their cheeks to pronounce the word plump. It's fun to say!
Snot's ok. Mucous and phlegm make me gag. I think that relates to my former profession. I dealt with seventh graders and snot was an everyday occurrence. But, if something turned into mucous or phlegm, that usually meant there was a lot of it and my stomach churns at the thought.
Conversate kills me. Where the hell did that word come from, and why do the people using it think it makes them sound intelligent? Have a conversation or converse about a situation. If you're going to conversate, do not do it around me or I'll have to give you an on the spot grammar lesson.
The word retard disturbs me. If you are one of my former students, you better remember the correct pronunciation and definition of the word, and use it only when referring to slowing down the rusting process. For most of my life, the term retarded referred to people. It was a descriptive term in a time when words like Down Syndrome or mentally challenged did not exist. While such a use of the word is now outdated, some folks still use it to describe people in a derogatory fashion. When did that happen? When did insulting someone with that term become commonplace? Why? And don't get me started on the currently in vogue variation of the word, libtard. Anybody who hopes to impress his/her Facebook friends with the superiority of his/her conservative opinion only makes him/herself look ignorant by using such a word.
I need to make a list because I know there are other words I love or love to hate, but I can't recall them right now. Maybe a Words: Part 2 will be a future blog. What are your favorite words? What words make you cringe? Feel free to share.
Friday, April 18, 2014
When I Get Older, Losing My Hair Many Years From Now???????
My dear friend, Cathy Beaver, sent me a birthday card that made me laugh out loud. She included a very funny list of things that made getting to our age a great thing. I will be sixty-one three months before her, so here's a list for you readers, and especially Cathy, of my things that make old age not so bad. (I borrowed a few of hers, though, because they were important enough to be repeated.) Feel free to share your favorites about the joys of getting old.
1. Bathing suits. It no longer matters what you look like in a bathing suit. You're old, it's expected you'll look bad. So get a bikini if you want. Who cares?
2. Movie tickets. The senior discount makes my matinee movie ticket cheaper than a kid's ticket.
3. Senior moment. That expression excuses a multitude of mistakes. And you can't use it if you don't have some gray hair.
4. Large print books. We need them. If you are requesting a wait list book at the library, the large print books are faster to get and help you to skip merrily up the list.
5. Picking things up. Young people are eager to help old people pick up things they have dropped. It makes them feel good to help, and it saves grandpa/grandma's back.
6. Cataract surgery. I no longer need glasses to drive or to see (other than reading). Young people pay a lot of money for lasik surgery. My medical plan covered the cataract surgery with no charge to me.
7. Relating musically to kids. Young people will be fascinated to learn that many of the songs they were introduced to on Glee originated during our youth and we know all the words. They are awed to realize some of the songs originated before they were born.
8. Retirement. We can stop worrying about getting or losing a job. Workplace drama no longer keeps us awake at night. We don't have to work anymore if retirement gives us a pension. Mine does. :-)
9. Less shaving. I used to shave my legs every other day. As I've aged, maybe I do it once a week. The hair barely grows.
10. Off-season vacations. Dee and I took a cruise at the end of January. It wasn't crowded and there were very few children to run up and down the halls, take over the swimming pool, and push all the elevator buttons at once. The price was less than the cruise I took during the summer that was crawlin' with kids.
11. Comfortable clothes. When one is no longer dressing to seduce, it feels good to wear clothes. Low heels. Stretchy waistbands. Flowing blouses. Ahhhhh..........
12. No fear of dying young. 'Nuff said.
1. Bathing suits. It no longer matters what you look like in a bathing suit. You're old, it's expected you'll look bad. So get a bikini if you want. Who cares?
2. Movie tickets. The senior discount makes my matinee movie ticket cheaper than a kid's ticket.
3. Senior moment. That expression excuses a multitude of mistakes. And you can't use it if you don't have some gray hair.
4. Large print books. We need them. If you are requesting a wait list book at the library, the large print books are faster to get and help you to skip merrily up the list.
5. Picking things up. Young people are eager to help old people pick up things they have dropped. It makes them feel good to help, and it saves grandpa/grandma's back.
6. Cataract surgery. I no longer need glasses to drive or to see (other than reading). Young people pay a lot of money for lasik surgery. My medical plan covered the cataract surgery with no charge to me.
7. Relating musically to kids. Young people will be fascinated to learn that many of the songs they were introduced to on Glee originated during our youth and we know all the words. They are awed to realize some of the songs originated before they were born.
8. Retirement. We can stop worrying about getting or losing a job. Workplace drama no longer keeps us awake at night. We don't have to work anymore if retirement gives us a pension. Mine does. :-)
9. Less shaving. I used to shave my legs every other day. As I've aged, maybe I do it once a week. The hair barely grows.
10. Off-season vacations. Dee and I took a cruise at the end of January. It wasn't crowded and there were very few children to run up and down the halls, take over the swimming pool, and push all the elevator buttons at once. The price was less than the cruise I took during the summer that was crawlin' with kids.
11. Comfortable clothes. When one is no longer dressing to seduce, it feels good to wear clothes. Low heels. Stretchy waistbands. Flowing blouses. Ahhhhh..........
12. No fear of dying young. 'Nuff said.
Monday, April 14, 2014
A Few Laughs
Time for something uplifting. Believe it or not, there are things in this life that make me laugh. It's about time I shared. I'm going to talk about some of the people I encounter in my life. I will try to keep them anonymous.
Remember my neighbors across the street? The ones I used to watch beating their bubble Christmas decorations into standing upright? Well, guess what? It's April, and those decorations are still lying dead in the front yard. I've known that people don't always take down their lights, but these are the first people I've seen turn their front yard into a bubble decoration graveyard. I laugh every time I drive past.
Last week at church, a woman who appears to me to be in fine health, asked me for recommendations for songs to be played at her funeral. I was flabbergasted. What advice would you give her? It was awful for me; all I could think of were Beatles songs. I Don't Want to Spoil the Party, So I'll Go. She's Leaving Home. Eleanor Rigby. Maxwell's Silver Hammer. I went with Amazing Grace, but she rolled her eyes and turned her back to me because everybody has that one.
Remember the guys in my Cane Fu class? They've gone from distrusting me to everybody wanting to be my personal tutor. Because I just don't do it right. And they're correcting me for my own good because they don't want me to get attacked and not survive. I have to stop hitting like a girl. Kicking like a girl. Walking like a girl. Last Thursday, I had one guy behind me swinging my arm like you might teach someone how to golf, another beside me telling me to follow his moves, and two on the sidelines giving directions. I've never been so popular. I've begged Terry at the Senior Center to try to get another woman to take the class and the pressure off me. No luck.
Friday, I tried a new class at the Senior Center, chair Zumba. I injured my knee a while ago, and regular Zumba cripples me for a few days after each class, so I figured I'd try that class. The instructor's good. I worked up a sweat, and my arms felt the burn. But my classmates, oh my classmates. There are a few women my age and above who work out in a way I'm used to doing. But the rest of the class is the happiest group of adults you'll ever find. They are mentally challenged adults bused in from a local assisted living center. I laughed the whole afternoon, not AT them but WITH them. They were so happy to have a new person in class, and they made sure to tell me I was doing good. One of them, a blind gentleman, heard the beginning of Tom Jones's Delilah and he just belted it out. He had a deep bass voice, and we gave him a round of applause. But the best part was Pharrell What-his-name's Happy. That's a powerful song. People who had been sitting there kind of flapping their hands, perked up to dance. Everybody was singing along and dancing with joy. As soon as the music stopped, they all sat down again, somber, like a switch had been flipped. But, I was still smiling. I love that song and its effect on people. I'm going to enjoy that class...I think.
Winter was rough on me. March wears me out; I hate that month. But it's April! It was sunny and warm today. Time to realize there is joy to be had in the simplest of things (and people).
Remember my neighbors across the street? The ones I used to watch beating their bubble Christmas decorations into standing upright? Well, guess what? It's April, and those decorations are still lying dead in the front yard. I've known that people don't always take down their lights, but these are the first people I've seen turn their front yard into a bubble decoration graveyard. I laugh every time I drive past.
Last week at church, a woman who appears to me to be in fine health, asked me for recommendations for songs to be played at her funeral. I was flabbergasted. What advice would you give her? It was awful for me; all I could think of were Beatles songs. I Don't Want to Spoil the Party, So I'll Go. She's Leaving Home. Eleanor Rigby. Maxwell's Silver Hammer. I went with Amazing Grace, but she rolled her eyes and turned her back to me because everybody has that one.
Remember the guys in my Cane Fu class? They've gone from distrusting me to everybody wanting to be my personal tutor. Because I just don't do it right. And they're correcting me for my own good because they don't want me to get attacked and not survive. I have to stop hitting like a girl. Kicking like a girl. Walking like a girl. Last Thursday, I had one guy behind me swinging my arm like you might teach someone how to golf, another beside me telling me to follow his moves, and two on the sidelines giving directions. I've never been so popular. I've begged Terry at the Senior Center to try to get another woman to take the class and the pressure off me. No luck.
Friday, I tried a new class at the Senior Center, chair Zumba. I injured my knee a while ago, and regular Zumba cripples me for a few days after each class, so I figured I'd try that class. The instructor's good. I worked up a sweat, and my arms felt the burn. But my classmates, oh my classmates. There are a few women my age and above who work out in a way I'm used to doing. But the rest of the class is the happiest group of adults you'll ever find. They are mentally challenged adults bused in from a local assisted living center. I laughed the whole afternoon, not AT them but WITH them. They were so happy to have a new person in class, and they made sure to tell me I was doing good. One of them, a blind gentleman, heard the beginning of Tom Jones's Delilah and he just belted it out. He had a deep bass voice, and we gave him a round of applause. But the best part was Pharrell What-his-name's Happy. That's a powerful song. People who had been sitting there kind of flapping their hands, perked up to dance. Everybody was singing along and dancing with joy. As soon as the music stopped, they all sat down again, somber, like a switch had been flipped. But, I was still smiling. I love that song and its effect on people. I'm going to enjoy that class...I think.
Winter was rough on me. March wears me out; I hate that month. But it's April! It was sunny and warm today. Time to realize there is joy to be had in the simplest of things (and people).
Thursday, April 10, 2014
In Memory of My Mom
I did it again today. I turned to the telephone thinking I'd call Mom. It was a very brief lapse of reality, but it surprises me that seven years later, I still want to call my mother and discuss something with her. We rarely had really long talks, just lots of snippets whenever the need to chat presented itself. Towards the end of her life, I could barely talk to her. My throat thickened when I tried to get the words out. I remember one perfectly beautiful early evening when we should have had a talk. My sister and the girls were out. I was sitting by her bed in my wheelchair (my leg was broken). The outside door to her room was open. It was spring. The air smelled sweet. As the sun set, it warmed the room. I heard children playing across the street. Mom was in and out of consciousness. She wanted her dog to sit on her bed, but Mitzi was like me. She was sad, and no matter how much she loved my mom, she would not get on the bed. My Trixie came to the rescue. She snuggled up on Mom's side, and didn't move. I'd never seen her so subdued and gentle. Mom and I both petted her. I kept sitting there thinking, Say something! Now! You might not get another chance. But I couldn't talk, and I still feel incomplete (guilty?) for all of the things I wish I had said. But we communicated in a way. When our hands touched as we petted Trixie, we'd stop petting and hold each other.
April 11 marks the seventh anniversary of Mom's death. What I could barely survive one day at a time has now been survived for 2,555 days. What follows is the eulogy I delivered from my wheelchair with a three year old Billie sitting in my lap, trying to make me not sad.
*************************
I used to get really frustrated with my students who wouldn't write because they didn't know what to say. They never shut their mouths in class, so how could it be that they didn't know what to write on a piece of paper? Well, I understand very clearly now because of the difficulty I've had starting this eulogy. I wanted it to be so right, so perfect, that I couldn't even start it. I wanted to make sure I did my mom justice. Finally, I realized I don't have enough words in me to do her justice. So, I'll share my memories with you and hope that you all will continue to share your memories of Mom with us.
My mom was a lot of fun. All of us have memories of the good times. I can remember sitting at the dinner table many times over the years, drinking coffee, eating dessert, and laughing so hard that I'd have to make a dash for the bathroom. Mom liked a party. She went on cruises with my sister and her friends...maybe some of you have heard the story about the nude beach or the scavenger hunt on the ship. Ask Helen, she'll be happy to tell you. The D'Apriles hosted the annual Labor Day party for many years. Dad would often be in bed long before Mom even got home. Probably the most fun my mom had was when she hosted the traditional Christmas dinner at our house. Fifty years of dinners! All the relatives came and families grew, but we always managed to crowd around the dining room table for dessert and family stories. No matter how much work it was, Mom was always happy at the end of the day as she tucked away the china and silver for another year.
My mom was full of love. Never did we experience it more deeply than when the little ones came into our lives. First came Lien and Laurel, Mom's unofficial grandkids. Mom babysat them, went to their school events, baked Laurel her apple cakes, and remembered them every birthday. When she finally had her own official grandchildren, she was thrilled. I remember the moment she and Reba met for the first time. It was at the D.C. airport. Helen held Reba as she introduced them and they just stared at each other, sizing each other up. After that, the whole family practically lived with my sister in Virginia. Billie came to live with us about a year ago. She made Mom laugh all the time with her funny expressions. Billie is a real waterbug, so Mom was well-known at the swim club. She took the girls there on many hot days and jumped in the water with them. Everybody knew Reba and Billie's grandmother and everybody called her by name, Bubbe. Each weekend when I'd call home, Mom couldn't wait to tell me the latest Reba and Billie stories.
My mother was generous. In the lean years when I was a new teacher, I never came home to visit without having gas money tucked in my pocket before I left. She took us and our friends to plays, out to meals, on day trips, and insisted on picking up the tab. Her generosity is a legacy left to her children. I know that I give freely in the way my mom did, as do my sister and brother.
My mother was strong. She was very ill these past few years, but she was determined to live for her children and grandchildren for as long as she could. Whatever it takes was her motto. We were really lucky to have doctors who saw Mom as a person. Dr. Morgan, Mom's dialysis doctor, was an angel in all of our lives. I was constantly awed by my mother's determination. I remember one time when she had to have surgery to open up a dialysis access that had clogged. Because my dad was seriously ill and she needed to be able to go to the hospital to be with him as soon as possible, she took the surgery without the anesthesia. Having recently had surgery myself for the first time, I can't imagine how she did it.
After my Dad died, Mom went to live with Helen, the girls, and my brother. We laughed about the Snyder Compound, but it was truly a wonderful living arrangement. Although the noise could be deafening at times, there was nothing more melodic to my mother than the sound of her children and grandchildren laughing. My siblings took great care of Mom. When she could no longer drive herself to dialysis, Glenn was up at 5 in the morning, three times a week, to take her. The care my sister gave her allowed Mom to come home at the end and spend her final days with her family. Whenever she was awake, Mom would say how glad she was to be at home. I cannot thank my sister enough for making that possible for my mother. The one thing Mom was concerned about was that we would take care of each other after she was gone. I think in taking care of Mom we learned to take care of each other. And maybe that's why she was finally able to let go.
We will miss our mother.
April 11 marks the seventh anniversary of Mom's death. What I could barely survive one day at a time has now been survived for 2,555 days. What follows is the eulogy I delivered from my wheelchair with a three year old Billie sitting in my lap, trying to make me not sad.
*************************
I used to get really frustrated with my students who wouldn't write because they didn't know what to say. They never shut their mouths in class, so how could it be that they didn't know what to write on a piece of paper? Well, I understand very clearly now because of the difficulty I've had starting this eulogy. I wanted it to be so right, so perfect, that I couldn't even start it. I wanted to make sure I did my mom justice. Finally, I realized I don't have enough words in me to do her justice. So, I'll share my memories with you and hope that you all will continue to share your memories of Mom with us.
My mom was a lot of fun. All of us have memories of the good times. I can remember sitting at the dinner table many times over the years, drinking coffee, eating dessert, and laughing so hard that I'd have to make a dash for the bathroom. Mom liked a party. She went on cruises with my sister and her friends...maybe some of you have heard the story about the nude beach or the scavenger hunt on the ship. Ask Helen, she'll be happy to tell you. The D'Apriles hosted the annual Labor Day party for many years. Dad would often be in bed long before Mom even got home. Probably the most fun my mom had was when she hosted the traditional Christmas dinner at our house. Fifty years of dinners! All the relatives came and families grew, but we always managed to crowd around the dining room table for dessert and family stories. No matter how much work it was, Mom was always happy at the end of the day as she tucked away the china and silver for another year.
My mom was full of love. Never did we experience it more deeply than when the little ones came into our lives. First came Lien and Laurel, Mom's unofficial grandkids. Mom babysat them, went to their school events, baked Laurel her apple cakes, and remembered them every birthday. When she finally had her own official grandchildren, she was thrilled. I remember the moment she and Reba met for the first time. It was at the D.C. airport. Helen held Reba as she introduced them and they just stared at each other, sizing each other up. After that, the whole family practically lived with my sister in Virginia. Billie came to live with us about a year ago. She made Mom laugh all the time with her funny expressions. Billie is a real waterbug, so Mom was well-known at the swim club. She took the girls there on many hot days and jumped in the water with them. Everybody knew Reba and Billie's grandmother and everybody called her by name, Bubbe. Each weekend when I'd call home, Mom couldn't wait to tell me the latest Reba and Billie stories.
My mother was generous. In the lean years when I was a new teacher, I never came home to visit without having gas money tucked in my pocket before I left. She took us and our friends to plays, out to meals, on day trips, and insisted on picking up the tab. Her generosity is a legacy left to her children. I know that I give freely in the way my mom did, as do my sister and brother.
My mother was strong. She was very ill these past few years, but she was determined to live for her children and grandchildren for as long as she could. Whatever it takes was her motto. We were really lucky to have doctors who saw Mom as a person. Dr. Morgan, Mom's dialysis doctor, was an angel in all of our lives. I was constantly awed by my mother's determination. I remember one time when she had to have surgery to open up a dialysis access that had clogged. Because my dad was seriously ill and she needed to be able to go to the hospital to be with him as soon as possible, she took the surgery without the anesthesia. Having recently had surgery myself for the first time, I can't imagine how she did it.
After my Dad died, Mom went to live with Helen, the girls, and my brother. We laughed about the Snyder Compound, but it was truly a wonderful living arrangement. Although the noise could be deafening at times, there was nothing more melodic to my mother than the sound of her children and grandchildren laughing. My siblings took great care of Mom. When she could no longer drive herself to dialysis, Glenn was up at 5 in the morning, three times a week, to take her. The care my sister gave her allowed Mom to come home at the end and spend her final days with her family. Whenever she was awake, Mom would say how glad she was to be at home. I cannot thank my sister enough for making that possible for my mother. The one thing Mom was concerned about was that we would take care of each other after she was gone. I think in taking care of Mom we learned to take care of each other. And maybe that's why she was finally able to let go.
We will miss our mother.
Saturday, March 22, 2014
Bill Horner
The past two days have been Spring-like. Looking at the tree in my front yard gives me hope that warm and sunny weather is on the way. You see, the buds are forming on my pear tree. When it explodes into blossoms, Spring will have finally sprung. That's my semi-scientific theory about the change of seasons. I ought to know, as this tree was a gift from my favorite science teacher, Bill Horner.
Bill was a science teacher at my middle school. Correction, he was more than a science teacher, he was a legend. And rightly so. Walking into Bill's classroom was always an adventure. Students never knew what was going to happen. It could be an actual rainstorm, thunder and all. Maybe it would be an experiment using sulphur and turning the hallway into one long stink bomb. Whatever happened, it was guaranteed to be fun. Kids moved in science class. Learning was hands on. Kids laughed. The teacher laughed. And everybody learned... a lot.
I always felt sorry for the science teacher who shared the other half of the team with Bill because very, very few kids wanted to be in that class. Parents intervened and used all of their influence to make sure their kids had the Horner experience. One year, the last of the Miller kids was assigned to the other teacher. Bill had taught all the Millers (and there were a lot of them) and he was very fond of the family. So, he approached the principal and asked to switch classes with the other teacher in order to teach the last Miller. The other teacher, a newbie to our school, was indignant when his request was granted. In fact, she cried and whined to anyone who would listen about how unfair it was. I tried to explain the unspoken politics of a small close-knit school so she'd know not to take it personally, but to no avail. She pouted the next few years, until she got a transfer.
Bill was a legend in the classroom, and he was the life of the party outside of it. The best parties were held at Bill's, and you were only invited if he wanted you. It took me a while to break into the circle, and I felt like I'd won a prize when I got my first invite. His Christmas parties were the best. Great food. Lots of booze. Enough people to pack his tiny house to the brim. He was the leader of the faculty fraternity. I'm not sure what all those guys did when they got together, but every now and then, a story would leak. One year, I knew the guys were going over to his house for a guy thing on one of the last days of school. I decided it was time to desegregate that party, so a few of us brave women also stopped by for a beer. He laughed when we showed up at the door, but he handed out the cold ones and we stayed for a few.
Bill was my friend. I used to tell him all the time that I wanted to marry him for his money. The kids thought we made a good couple. In fact, one of the mothers of a student we had in common invited us both to dinner one time just to try to get a spark going between us. I loved that man. He used to tell anybody who would listen that I was the best English teacher in that school. I wasn't, and I know that. But, I just beamed when someone would tell me what he said. He used to type encouraging letters to everybody. I treasure those he sent me. As I said, I loved that man.
When he finally reached his last day of teaching, it was a day during which the whole school honored him. Everybody wore neckties because Mr. Professional Teacher always wore a tie. My kids wrote a play portraying him as getting a college education during the dinosaur years. They sang "The Wind Beneath My Wings" to him, and everybody teared up. He was one of a kind. I was honored to teach with him and blessed to know him.
If you are reading this, and smiling to yourself with your own Bill Horner memories, please leave your stories in the comments section for all to see. I never want to forget him.
Bill was a science teacher at my middle school. Correction, he was more than a science teacher, he was a legend. And rightly so. Walking into Bill's classroom was always an adventure. Students never knew what was going to happen. It could be an actual rainstorm, thunder and all. Maybe it would be an experiment using sulphur and turning the hallway into one long stink bomb. Whatever happened, it was guaranteed to be fun. Kids moved in science class. Learning was hands on. Kids laughed. The teacher laughed. And everybody learned... a lot.
I always felt sorry for the science teacher who shared the other half of the team with Bill because very, very few kids wanted to be in that class. Parents intervened and used all of their influence to make sure their kids had the Horner experience. One year, the last of the Miller kids was assigned to the other teacher. Bill had taught all the Millers (and there were a lot of them) and he was very fond of the family. So, he approached the principal and asked to switch classes with the other teacher in order to teach the last Miller. The other teacher, a newbie to our school, was indignant when his request was granted. In fact, she cried and whined to anyone who would listen about how unfair it was. I tried to explain the unspoken politics of a small close-knit school so she'd know not to take it personally, but to no avail. She pouted the next few years, until she got a transfer.
Bill was a legend in the classroom, and he was the life of the party outside of it. The best parties were held at Bill's, and you were only invited if he wanted you. It took me a while to break into the circle, and I felt like I'd won a prize when I got my first invite. His Christmas parties were the best. Great food. Lots of booze. Enough people to pack his tiny house to the brim. He was the leader of the faculty fraternity. I'm not sure what all those guys did when they got together, but every now and then, a story would leak. One year, I knew the guys were going over to his house for a guy thing on one of the last days of school. I decided it was time to desegregate that party, so a few of us brave women also stopped by for a beer. He laughed when we showed up at the door, but he handed out the cold ones and we stayed for a few.
Bill was my friend. I used to tell him all the time that I wanted to marry him for his money. The kids thought we made a good couple. In fact, one of the mothers of a student we had in common invited us both to dinner one time just to try to get a spark going between us. I loved that man. He used to tell anybody who would listen that I was the best English teacher in that school. I wasn't, and I know that. But, I just beamed when someone would tell me what he said. He used to type encouraging letters to everybody. I treasure those he sent me. As I said, I loved that man.
When he finally reached his last day of teaching, it was a day during which the whole school honored him. Everybody wore neckties because Mr. Professional Teacher always wore a tie. My kids wrote a play portraying him as getting a college education during the dinosaur years. They sang "The Wind Beneath My Wings" to him, and everybody teared up. He was one of a kind. I was honored to teach with him and blessed to know him.
If you are reading this, and smiling to yourself with your own Bill Horner memories, please leave your stories in the comments section for all to see. I never want to forget him.
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
Winter Blahs
This has been a rough winter. Icy. Gray. COLD. Expensive. At times, my SAD was crippling. I was musing about the things I've done to perk myself up, and I wonder how many of you did some of these things, too.
I frequently visited the travel pages on the internet. Never has a trip to the Caribbean looked so welcoming. Honestly, I think I warm up about ten degrees just looking at a picturesque beach. I even took a cruise this February. I plan to take a vacation next February, too. Those warm days in Nassau seem so far away.
I curled up in a blanket in front of the space heater and read a lot of books. Sandra Dallas is my new favorite author. Her pioneer women survived winters that made mine look like a vacation in comparison. It is not too late to add to your reading list. Pick out something by Sandra, sit back, and enjoy.
I cooked some yummy meals. Food Lion sells stuffed scallops. I'd buy a package of them, each deliciously stuffed on the half-shell, and warm them in a 400 degree oven for thirty minutes. During that cook time, I sauteed asparagus in olive oil and Marsala wine. Oh yummy. Unfortunately, I baked. I grazed. I gained.
Some of my closets were cleared of excess junk. I often read posts from minimalist friends on Facebook. My goal is a place for every thing I own. Hopefully, those things without niches will find new places: on the yard sale tables, with friends, at the consignment shop, in the trash.
I discovered new television addictions. Just what I needed, right? Thank you Adrian O. for hooking me up with Shemar and Criminal Minds. Do you know how many times a day one can catch an episode of that crime show? Enough times that I can start figuring out who the unsubs are and why they do what they do. TCM, Turner Classic Movies, shows great stuff and it's commercial free. Has anyone here ever seen Autumn Leaves? What a movie! Marty, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, Boy With the Green Hair, Where the Boys Are, How to Marry a Millionaire, Sleepless in Seattle, and the list goes on and on. Did I mention no commercials? Check it out.
I bought stylish winter hats. Two of them, in fact. Both seem inspired by Downton Abbey (see above TV reference). I enjoy wearing them and people frequently compliment my chapeaus. A kind word always brings a warm smile on a cold winter day.
Tomorrow marks the first day of Spring. The crocuses are poking through the hard soil. The trees are starting to bud. The grass, when you can see it, is turning green.
The weather people are calling for another snow storm next week. Sigh.......
I frequently visited the travel pages on the internet. Never has a trip to the Caribbean looked so welcoming. Honestly, I think I warm up about ten degrees just looking at a picturesque beach. I even took a cruise this February. I plan to take a vacation next February, too. Those warm days in Nassau seem so far away.
I curled up in a blanket in front of the space heater and read a lot of books. Sandra Dallas is my new favorite author. Her pioneer women survived winters that made mine look like a vacation in comparison. It is not too late to add to your reading list. Pick out something by Sandra, sit back, and enjoy.
I cooked some yummy meals. Food Lion sells stuffed scallops. I'd buy a package of them, each deliciously stuffed on the half-shell, and warm them in a 400 degree oven for thirty minutes. During that cook time, I sauteed asparagus in olive oil and Marsala wine. Oh yummy. Unfortunately, I baked. I grazed. I gained.
Some of my closets were cleared of excess junk. I often read posts from minimalist friends on Facebook. My goal is a place for every thing I own. Hopefully, those things without niches will find new places: on the yard sale tables, with friends, at the consignment shop, in the trash.
I discovered new television addictions. Just what I needed, right? Thank you Adrian O. for hooking me up with Shemar and Criminal Minds. Do you know how many times a day one can catch an episode of that crime show? Enough times that I can start figuring out who the unsubs are and why they do what they do. TCM, Turner Classic Movies, shows great stuff and it's commercial free. Has anyone here ever seen Autumn Leaves? What a movie! Marty, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, Boy With the Green Hair, Where the Boys Are, How to Marry a Millionaire, Sleepless in Seattle, and the list goes on and on. Did I mention no commercials? Check it out.
I bought stylish winter hats. Two of them, in fact. Both seem inspired by Downton Abbey (see above TV reference). I enjoy wearing them and people frequently compliment my chapeaus. A kind word always brings a warm smile on a cold winter day.
Tomorrow marks the first day of Spring. The crocuses are poking through the hard soil. The trees are starting to bud. The grass, when you can see it, is turning green.
The weather people are calling for another snow storm next week. Sigh.......
Monday, March 17, 2014
Belle Knox Does Duke
I was watching The View this morning. One of their guests was an eighteen year old Duke University student who is financing her way through college by doing porn. She is proud of her night job and feels "empowered" by it.
Empowered? Doesn't she realize that women with absolutely no choices have turned to selling their bodies since the beginning of time? I'm not sure what is empowering about it. When your own body becomes a commercial commodity, where is the power? This young girl is sick of the way women have been poorly treated in the porn industry, so she "is taking a stand against it." How? By joining the ranks?
She was throwing out statistics concerning her position like a learned scholar. "Ninety-nine percent of families can't afford sixty thousand dollars a year." Really? How in the world does Duke fill its classes? There are no alternatives for families? How about a few years in junior college cheaply earning those universal beginning credits? How about attending a school one can afford? Law degrees are available at many colleges, why pick sixty-thousand-dollars-a-year Duke?
Her next mind-blowing statement had my eyes rolling in their sockets. "I, like most other people, have been watching porn since I was twelve." Most other people? Since twelve? Show of hands here - who is reading this and nodding their heads in agreement? Barbara Walters cracked me up when she asked if this kid watched porn alone or with her parents. They are so supportive of her career after all. She watched alone everybody. Her parents may be supportive, but they didn't knowingly contribute to the delinquency of a minor.
I watched today in disbelief. Women have historically used their bodies to earn money. Where is the empowerment? Does it come into being when one thumbs her nose at society in order to do what she wants? Does it happen when one signs autographs and poses with fans at a convention for the porn industry? Does it happen when one feels strong enough to rise above the ostracizing by her college peers of her sexual Joan of Arc act? Or does it happen because one has money, and in our country, no matter how you get it, money means power?
I'm not sure how much longer this young woman will feel empowered. Young people have been denied jobs because their Facebook pages show them partying and drinking alcohol. No matter what degree is issued from what college, if her resume lists porn star in her employment history, where does she think her resume will go? To the top of the pile or the circular file? If she chooses not to include porn movies in her work history, will any company consider her as lying by omission when they eventually discover her history in the industry? How empowered will she feel when she is fired? Dishonesty will get her fired, not her history with porn. However, her history with porn will most likely prevent her from being hired in the first place. The whole job hunting experience will actually be out of her control. Where is the empowerment in that?
Empowered? Doesn't she realize that women with absolutely no choices have turned to selling their bodies since the beginning of time? I'm not sure what is empowering about it. When your own body becomes a commercial commodity, where is the power? This young girl is sick of the way women have been poorly treated in the porn industry, so she "is taking a stand against it." How? By joining the ranks?
She was throwing out statistics concerning her position like a learned scholar. "Ninety-nine percent of families can't afford sixty thousand dollars a year." Really? How in the world does Duke fill its classes? There are no alternatives for families? How about a few years in junior college cheaply earning those universal beginning credits? How about attending a school one can afford? Law degrees are available at many colleges, why pick sixty-thousand-dollars-a-year Duke?
Her next mind-blowing statement had my eyes rolling in their sockets. "I, like most other people, have been watching porn since I was twelve." Most other people? Since twelve? Show of hands here - who is reading this and nodding their heads in agreement? Barbara Walters cracked me up when she asked if this kid watched porn alone or with her parents. They are so supportive of her career after all. She watched alone everybody. Her parents may be supportive, but they didn't knowingly contribute to the delinquency of a minor.
I watched today in disbelief. Women have historically used their bodies to earn money. Where is the empowerment? Does it come into being when one thumbs her nose at society in order to do what she wants? Does it happen when one signs autographs and poses with fans at a convention for the porn industry? Does it happen when one feels strong enough to rise above the ostracizing by her college peers of her sexual Joan of Arc act? Or does it happen because one has money, and in our country, no matter how you get it, money means power?
I'm not sure how much longer this young woman will feel empowered. Young people have been denied jobs because their Facebook pages show them partying and drinking alcohol. No matter what degree is issued from what college, if her resume lists porn star in her employment history, where does she think her resume will go? To the top of the pile or the circular file? If she chooses not to include porn movies in her work history, will any company consider her as lying by omission when they eventually discover her history in the industry? How empowered will she feel when she is fired? Dishonesty will get her fired, not her history with porn. However, her history with porn will most likely prevent her from being hired in the first place. The whole job hunting experience will actually be out of her control. Where is the empowerment in that?
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