Dashing Through December

11 days, right? Here's our Countdown to Christmas:

Emma: Three school basketball games, four school basketball practices, one Orchestra concert, one Choir concert, two traveling basketball practices, one orthodontist appointment, one Secret Santa gift.

Carys: Four gymnastics practices, two gymnastics meets, two traveling basketball practices, one birthday party, one Holiday party, one Secret Santa gift.

Cooper: Two basketball practices, two Book Club meetings, one Holiday party, one Secret Santa gift

Mom: Two school ball practices, two school ball games, several homemade dinners, none of which shall be eaten at a reasonable time with more than three attendees at once, seventeen loads of laundry, eight dishwasher runs, a couple hundred miles, three tanks of gas, six more teaching days of barely controlled chaos, three lit tests, two essays (times 120 kids...do the math), one oil change, one holiday pot-luck, three dogs to feed/walk, one concession stand to supply with either food or labor, unspecified number of presents to wrap, six hours of general housework, and maybe an adult beverage on occasion in the quiet hours before bedtime to aid in the unwinding of my frayed and frazzled edges.

Dad: Nine days of working on the road until Christmas, with maybe a day or two off to check in and try to locate some members of the family, wherever they may be on any given day.

Grandpa: 11 days of on-call substitute driving, parenting, feeding, clothing, & homework checking.

Tis the season.

Love & Canadian Bacon

Well, you knew I wasn't going to let this election nightmare slide by without weighing in, right? I've been pondering this entry for a long while. I've been trying to let the extreme emotion in my heart subside a little, and make sure that I make statements out of thoughtful reflection, rather than react out of passion.

Every time I write something on these pages, I try to recall my purpose. Since this blog went public a couple of years ago, I realize that more people than just my own children are reading them. I think sometimes I might write for an unintended audience, so I have to remember that at the heart of all of this, I'm really just telling stories to my kids.

Every day I realize the value in what I started here. I'm missing my own mother's voice in my life and I would give my right arm right now for a few dozen pages of her words to pore over. I'm hoping to leave my kids lots more than that...so I have to remember my purpose. I'm not going to address the country, or my Facebook feed, or even the Pantsuit Nation that I was privileged to be a part of (secretly!) this year. That was a delicious piece of this election, and the PN was sometimes the only thing I allowed myself to read right before bed so I could actually sleep at night.

I'm talking right now just to my children. So if you're here, and want to keep reading, go ahead. You're invited. But I'm not talking to you, just so you know.

Emma, Carys, and Cooper, I know you will remember 2016. I know you will, because all the unimaginable things have become real life this year. We moved off of the country paradise. The brilliant sunshine that was your Grandmother extinguished this year. And our country divided herself along the sharpest boundaries I've seen in my 42 years of living. This election caused you to have political conversations in your own classrooms, among your own classmates, who at 9 and 10 and 12 years old really have no idea what they are talking about, yet are eager to repeat whatever they are hearing at home.

I'm so sorry that was your life experience this year. Life was hard enough, without having to put up with all the other stuff. Your mother is pretty blue, in a whole lot of metaphorical ways. She's traveled the world, lived in other cultures, studied politics and literature, and come to a pretty liberal view on lots of issues. I'm doing what I believe is the right thing to do, and trying to lead by example as you develop your own value system. I'm trying to teach you that others are more important than yourself; that service is the path to understanding. That cultures other than your own are valuable and part of the rich tapestry that makes this country beautiful.

I believe in social programs that elevate the living experience of every human living within our borders, whether they passed a citizenship test or not. I am an idealist, and I don't apologize for it. I'm not interested in trying to explain to people why I believe my "hard-earned money" should be used in part to help those who need it, through any social program that could use it. I don't need to explain it; I just FEEL it, and that's good enough. I'm hoping to send you out someday into the big world with confidence - hoping to inspire you to travel it, see it, live it and feel it yourself.

The world is so much bigger than the town where you live. So. Much. Bigger. So when you go out and live in it, I want to send you with values that will keep you safe and make you blissfully happy. Love others. Give to others. When you don't understand them, ask questions and listen. What you reap, personally, from those experiences will be worth so many more dollars than you ever spent to get there.

I don't know what is going to happen over these next four years. I feel - and I hope and pray that I am wrong - but I feel that our nation might be teetering on a very dangerous precipice. I would have felt more safe with leadership that used diplomacy rather than scare tactics. I would have felt more secure with leadership that used the language of love rather than the language of divisive rhetoric. I would have felt more at ease with leadership that celebrated diversity rather than shunned it. So I worry.

Please know this one thing: because you are white, you will likely enjoy a privilege that you cannot ever fully comprehend. It will be a privilege you are largely unaware of unless and until you live a different life in a foreign culture. That privilege alone could make a smoother path for you than the paths of the people of color in our beautiful world. Please, please, don't ever rest on that. Acknowledge it, but never rest easy in it. Your privilege colors your view, and you must work to see past the easy envelope of its arms. You must surround yourself with diversity, ask questions, listen, and be so careful not to minimize the experiences of those who grow up without that shield.

I would not fear a Donald Trump presidency if I heard him, just one time, comment on the value of people of color. If he would, just one time, denounce the acts of violence and intolerance that white people of privilege are visiting on their fellow countrymen of color. I thought about including some news articles here to underline my point, but honestly, they hurt my heart so much to read that I can't bear to link them. Just trust me when I tell you that right now people in this country are hurting each other emotionally and physically on a terrible level, and all in the name of politics. I'm waiting for our President-elect to address it, to denounce it, to reverse his position on minimizing people of color. So far, I haven't heard that. I don't care one iota about anything else; his economics or his foreign policy, or anything else. I care about his ability to include every person in this nation in the safety and security that our military fought so hard to earn for every person standing within our borders.

We're living in a scary time. I tried to talk to you throughout this election about what I felt was at stake: human rights. For me, it wasn't about Hillary's gender. It wasn't about a glass ceiling, or the establishment, or the good old boys club. It was about which candidate made every American feel like they were equally important to each other, and it was about making our country a safe refuge for those escaping persecution. To me, that is why we were founded in the first place, and to close our borders to people who need us is unthinkable.

But Donald Trump earned his presidency through the votes of people who think differently than me. It doesn't mean they are wrong. (By the way, that was a seriously painful sentence to write, because of course I think they are wrong. WRONG.) But I have to remember that the life they led put them where they are in their thinking. It is no less legitimate than the one I led. I am genuinely surprised, though,  at who some of them were...as my Facebook feed filled up with pro-Trump propaganda, I kept careful attention of who they were. It's helpful to know that, as I relate to people in real life. As hard as it was not to engage in the yuck, I really didn't. I walked away from a lot of ugly, and simply pressed the "like" button when I saw something that aligned with my views.

It's hard to love people when they are different from us, sometimes. But that's the real work - love them anyway. You must. Loving them anyway does two things: it keeps you true to your value system, and hopefully the side effect is that loving them inspires them to pass it on.

I was raking leaves the afternoon after the election, pondering the state of our Union, actually, when our neighbor came over to tell me a story. She tells me that when Cooper was hanging out at their house playing, the topic of politics came up. She shared this one-liner from good old Coop:

"I think if Donald Trump wins, we have to move to Canada. But I think that's a win-win, because of Canadian Bacon."

I'll have to remember to clarify with my little guy when I'm being sarcastic. I love the USA. I love her. I love her so much that I'll stay here and keep making her better, the only way I really can: loving and listening and learning. And hopefully, I'm setting a good example for three more little people to keep it going.

Oldies and Goodies

You don't have to know me long or well to know that I have an affinity for vintage, especially from the mid-century modern era. I don't know what it is about the 50's and 60's that draws me so close; I gravitate toward the furniture, the fashion, the colors, and just about anything else that reminds me of that era. My house is full of mid-century items, repurposed and re-used; they made things to last back then. The look made a comeback in recent years, and companies like Joybird are taking off. If I had a couple hundred thousand dollars laying around, I would be inclined to customize my entire house with furniture from that store.

It should then be no surprise that I pretty much lost my mind over my birthday present this year. My dad gave me the most exciting item that pretty much ever existed for me. Check this out:

Is that the most amazing thing you have ever seen? Crosley makes a record player that looks so mid-mod you would think I found it in the attic upstairs. The only feature that gives it away is the auxiliary jack that lets me plug in my phone and stream music through the player. (AS IF someone would feel the need to stream music when the best sound quality you've ever heard in your life is available to you through an np5 needle at 33rpms.) 

Maybe you're like my husband and thinking, "Um, that's a RECORD player. We don't even have any records." And that would have been true, if my awesomely amazing dad had not then produced part two: a set of my parents' old vinyls, the records I listened to ceaselessly in my childhood, still in their original jackets. As I thumbed through them - The Carpenters, The Four Seasons, Janis Joplin, Carole King, The Statler Brothers, The Beach Boys, Simon & Garfunkel - it was like being transported backwards to my childhood. I couldn't get it out of the box and set up fast enough. 

I've listened to each album several times through over the past few weeks. Each one does something different to me; each one reminds me of a house, a moment, an outfit, a friend - something - from my youth. Once I got through my parents' music, I found albums from my teen years: Olivia Newton John and Starship. I found the Thriller album, The Bangles and Madonna's True Blue. Some are scratched terribly, some are still in reasonably good listening condition. But even the scratched ones take me back - in my head I could anticipate each skip and rub; somehow it sounded weirdly normal. 

One night, I was sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, records spread all around me. As I moved from record to record, it struck me that a lot of my ideas about life and love were formed by listening to these old songs. Age and experience have changed how I interpret the words today versus age 9 when I didn't really understand what half of the songs actually meant. I think that maybe the draw to the past has more to do with a connection to innocence, to naivete, than anything else for me. Life was so much simpler when I could belt out tunes upstairs in my room and then hustle downstairs for supper, not a care in the world past whether my homework was done for the next day. Remember when your only real job was to do your homework? When you could wear whatever you want and someone else was in charge of your hair? Yeah, me too. Good times.

Dad even went an extra mile; buried among the oldies and goodies were two brand new vinyls. Chris Stapleton's Traveler, which may as well be dipped in platinum (it's THAT good) and Taylor Swift's Speak Now. That one's for my girls - we're gonna keep it on going, this appreciation for the good stuff.

I waited and waited to put Mom's Helen Reddy album on the player. I thumbed past it over and over, for no particular reason. Mom loved music - she loved it. I have so many memories of singing along to albums on cleaning days, doing the dishes, pretty much any chore that needed help getting done. We would sing The Carpenters and Dolly Parton and Anne Murray and I can hear her voice right now as I type this. But Helen Reddy - I don't know why, but that one was asking me to wait, so I waited. 

Last night I came home late from Musical rehearsals. The house was quiet, everyone was asleep. I sat downstairs in the family room, decompressing from the day and eating a very late supper of cereal and orange juice. I didn't feel like television, so I leaned over and opened the record player. I flipped through the albums and paused on Helen. I looked at the songlist: I Am Woman, Leave Me Alone, Delta Dawn, I Don't Know How to Love Him...all classics. I put on the record and listened to her telling me stories. It took me back to a farm house in Wells and I leaned back, eyes closed and felt calm and collected and at peace. 

Then song five came on - You And Me Against the World - a song my mother and I sang together, to each other, a hundred million times. Helen's daughter is on the track singing, and I used to just delight in that, when we would sing it together. I guess I know why I needed the right time and place to hear it. Mom was right there next to me, listening:

"You and me against the world

Sometimes it feels like you and me against the world

When all the others turn their backs and walk away

You can count on me to stay

And when one of us is gone

And one of us is left to carry on

Then remembering will have to do

Our memories alone will get us through

Think about the days of me and you

You and me against the world"

I love the old stuff. I love it. Best. Gift. Ever. 

One more thing - if anyone has a stack of old vinyls out there and you don't want them anymore, don't throw them away. Bring them over to my house, please!

    

The New Normal

Life right now is so vastly unlike anything it has ever been before, that I hardly know myself these days. I don't recognize a single aspect of my life as my own; it's like I'm walking around in a Salvador Dali painting. Life right now can be pretty much summed up in two words: unsettling and unfair.

It is unsettling to wake up in a house I didn't plan to live in, drive to work in a car I never planned to buy, and then go to work in a classroom that I've never taught in, teaching curriculum I've never seen before.

It feels unfair that because I didn't plant anything, I cannot harvest anything, can or preserve anything, and instead I must drive to the grocery store more often than any human really should.

Unsettling, that I have children who are growing faster than the rate at which I can purchase new shoes, who alternately love each other AND want to permanently maim each other, and for whom merely a change in the weather can sway their mood in either direction.

Unfair, that I spent the last nine years writing a beautifully well-planned curriculum on the American West, the Holocaust and Media Literacy, and I had to scrap it all for a Pearson-aligned curriculum that is probably amazing but I can't tell yet because I can barely stay a day ahead of all THREE of the new classes I have been assigned to teach.

It's unsettling, that I can't predict whether a request to pick up the shoes on the steps will result in cheerful complicity or a Scarlett O'Hara meltdown.

Unfair, that somebody in the country over by Sherburn is walking on new wood floors while I'm steam-cleaning shag carpeting from 1954. (Yes, yes, the view is amazing and the floors are the next project, I KNOW, I just feel like wallowing for a little while, so let me do it please.)

Unsettling, when your nine year old is talking about maybe wearing the football jersey of a certain adorable boy in her class to the Homecoming football game.

And unfair, that when a person discovers that a bag of potatoes in the back of the cupboard has gone bad and the smell is more than a grown person can handle, there is no mother to call and complain to who will show up and clean the kitchen and make fun of how pathetically weak I still am when it comes to gross things and domesticity.

Throw into the mix a husband who has emerged as launderer of the year, (seriously, he does a load of laundry a DAY, every day...what??) and I don't know what the heck to make of this new life. When is it going to feel normal? When is that going to happen, exactly? I'm craving something solid I can stand on. Something that makes me feel like myself.

I wonder if it ever will feel like that again? Will I ever wake up again and say to myself, 'You got this'? I used to say that to myself in the mirror before walking out the door every morning. I used to walk around with this confidence of self, like I had the answers to life in my back pocket guiding me through my day.

Will it ever feel like that again? I suspect that it probably won't. I think that in the middle of all this change, I am changing too. I find myself thinking brand new thoughts, like "I wonder if Aaron will remember that the new towels need to be washed in cold water?" and "I wonder if I let Emma babysit again, will she be able to keep my other two kids from killing each other?" I also wonder if my dad is too lonely, if my kids are as sad as I am and just better at hiding it and if my mom is watching me stumble through my days saying, "Get it together, for heaven's sake, Sara Jane."

I hope it's just a passing season. I find myself fumbling when people ask, "How are you doing?"

Truly? I have no idea. I have no frame of reference for how I am doing. Still walking around, bewildered, I guess, is my best answer. Looking for the new normal.

The Journey (Part Two)

Twenty-five days without you, Mom. I'm still figuring it all out. I don't have a better handle on it today than I did a month ago; I feel pretty much the same. The thing I never really understood about grief until now is how fluid it is. Someone told me (I can't remember which kind soul told me this, but it's true) that grief is a lot like sitting on a shoreline. Like water lapping at the sand, grief kind of washes over you from time to time. Some days I'm okay, some days I'm not. Some days I THINK I'm okay, and then a wave sneaks up on me and the next thing you know I"m pulling the car over on the side of the road and crying in the Bean Town parking lot.

Today I feel like talking about the alone part. Mom wanted to travel this path by herself, with only my dad, my brother and I walking alongside her. When she woke up one morning and couldn't swing her legs out of bed, Dad had to call the ambulance to come get her. She worried and worried about what the neighborhood was going to think. She preferred that any perceived weakness, physical or otherwise, be handled privately. So we did it all ourselves: trips to Mayo in Mankato, intake at Lutz Wing, therapy appointments, scans, tests, diagnoses, daily life. We did it ourselves, and it was okay. More than okay. I've been thinking a lot about that lately.

Technology today has provided front-row access to witness the lives of our friends and family at really every level imaginable. Some people crave the connections to others; they update their social media regularly and let people become part of their experience. I admire that; transparency on that level is a scary thing to me, and I'm always in awe of the people who can express that to the world. I wasn't really raised that way; the model I grew up under was very private when it came to personal stuff. I don't think there's a right or wrong, I think you do what works for you.

We did what worked for us. From the day my parents left their hometown and struck out on what would be a journey to four more cities and six more houses, we were pretty much on our own. Both of my parents came from the same small town; they both have siblings and I have a whole lot of cousins. But once we left Salem, we only visited a few times a year and only a handful came to us. I can remember packing up houses alone, moving into houses alone, and countless holiday and birthday celebrations that had exactly four attendees. This isn't a sad thing; let me clarify: it was exactly right. The few times I can remember big family reunions, there was always an undercurrent of chaos that never really felt right; like visiting someplace fun but not wanting to live there, if you know what I mean.

Mom had her own personal reasons for keeping us tightly together. I feel certain that I understood my mother on some pretty deep levels. Some things she told me, some things I just figured out on my own as I grew up and learned the extended family dynamic. Mostly, I think Mom wanted our family and her love for us to be at the very center and core of our beings. She wanted us to never doubt it; to never wonder if we were loved or where our place was in the world. No matter what came our way, what mountain there was to climb, we would always have her and would have each other.

That doesn't mean we always got along...! Mom was a strong personality with an unwavering sense of justice. She knew the difference between kind and unkind, between right and wrong. As my brother and I grew up there were the usual teenage battles; our struggle to be fiercely independent vs. her will to make sure our independence didn't come at the cost of our morality. The thing is, I could have a knock-down, drag-out fight with my mother and even when we were the most angry, the most hurt, or the most frustrated with each other, there was absolutely NO QUESTION about the love part. I don't think Mom always felt that herself growing up, and she was going to be damned sure that my brother and I didn't grow up that way.

I think that fierceness with which we love each other, the four of us, was born from the tight family unit they made for us growing up, and the way that being alone, just us, was always made to feel exactly right. We had each other, always, at the end of the day. And at the end of her days, she knew how she wanted to spend them.

I know that some of our family and friends do not, can not, understand the decision we made when it came to traveling this journey privately. The thing is, we traveled our whole lives together privately. Everything about it felt right; it just was.

And now that she, the sun around which we built our lives is gone, I think the hurt in my heart and the profound hole in the center of me, is just the price I have to pay for being loved like that. She loved us so much, she loved me so fiercely, and I have always known it. No matter how much it hurts to be without her right now, I would not trade it. I would not. Sometimes, when I feel like my edges are coming apart and my threads are unraveling and I feel like I'm wandering around without a compass, I just ask myself: would I have wanted this any other way? No.

If we had made the calls earlier, told the whole world what we were managing, we would undoubtedly have been surrounded by dozens and dozens of friends and family trying to help us carry the burden. We have felt so much love and support since Mom's passing, I have no doubt in my mind that we would have felt that love and support all along.  But in our case, doing it together, alone, was the way it had always been, was the way that it was and the way we needed it to be.  I know now that I couldn't have navigated Mom's illness the way I did if I had been also making time for extended family and for the hospitality I would have wanted to provide them and at the level Mom would have wanted for them.

Somehow Mom knew that this was a path for us alone; I would not have wanted to spend even one second less next to her bed, holding her hand, telling our stories, watching television, eating lunch. I would not have wanted one single second to be spent calling people and explaining things, and entertaining company and putting on my company manners. It may have been selfish of me, but I got to have all of her minutes. All of them. I'm so lucky.

Mom asked for this, she said so many times that she didn't want us to make any phone calls. I felt a little guilty at the time, but I see now what that was. I wish I could thank you for it, Mom. It was your last gift to me. I wouldn't trade those 37 days for anything in the world.

The Journey (Part One)

**Because writing is my personal therapy, I spent a great deal of my summer jotting down thoughts and feelings as I navigated my mother's illness and what I knew was ultimately going to be the outcome of it. I left everything jumbled; it is a mass of scattered moments, thoughts and feelings, out of order and unedited. There are pages and pages. Rather than spend time sorting them into coherent blog entries, I will post them as is, one at a time, as I feel ready to put them out there. Please excuse my formatting; even my English Teacher Self is out of energy. This is more authentic anyway.**

Why is it so difficult for me to put words on paper when I am going through hard things? When life is good, words seem to flow easily from my fingers. When I am faced with tragedy; with stress and struggle, I sit and stare endlessly at a blinking cursor on a white screen. This summer, begun with such lightness of being, evolved into the most difficult summer of my life. And many days I sit, in front of the blinking cursor, staring.

I am losing my mother this summer. I am trying out that sentence, trying to make it feel like it belongs to me. I don't feel like I have lost her; I can't really even imagine it to tell you the truth. But I am losing her, actually, as I write this. I'm sitting in her room at Lutz Wing, in a pink corduroy recliner with my laptop open. The Mentalist is playing on the TV because Mom loves that show. She is alternating between sleep and awake, unable to talk to me, but still able to look into my eyes and curl the edges of her mouth slightly into a smile.

It's called Creutzfeldt-Jakobs Disease. At least, that's what the neurologists think it is. It's awful. I can't elaborate at the moment...that post was days ago and I still get mad when I read it so I will just let you Google it if you are interested in the details. Let me just say that it took first her balance, then her mobility, then pieces of her memory and then her speech. It hasn't taken her yet, but I know that is coming, and probably soon.

I've said all the things I needed to say to my mother...though I have to mention that I needed to say very little. The beauty of this whole experience, while hard to see sometimes through the pain of it, is that all the things that I needed her to know, she knows already.

I talk to Mom every single day of my life; I have for as long as I can remember. She knows all my stories, usually right after they happen. She knows what our routine looks like, what we had for supper, what story I read at bedtime or what argument I tried to mediate throughout the day. There is nothing that we have left unsaid, nothing left undone. I was lucky enough to share a bond with my mother that I know without a doubt is rare and unbreakable.

That's probably what is keeping me going at this point. From diagnosis to today, we have only weathered this storm for 33 days. It moved like wildfire through my mother's body, and there are moments when I can't believe how much has happened in such a short time. But even though every single one of those 33 days has been met with new challenges and limitations, we move through them more easily because of the deep bond forged over the entirety of my 41 years.

I know my mother on levels I can't even describe; she gifted me with insight into her childhood, her own life's challenges, and her personal dreams and ambitions on a regular basis. She was private to the world; she was an open tapestry to her family. As my brother and I sat with her one night in the hospital, telling stories and reminiscing with her, it occurred to me that our little family unit is interlocked so tightly together that nothing, not even death, will loosen those bonds.

I look back at some of the things I have been writing this month; lots of them are too hard for me to read. I think all the stages of grief can be found scattered throughout the entries. I am not sure yet which ones I can post, which ones I can say out loud. Maybe some, maybe none, who knows. I will let my conscience be my guide I think...they will tell me when they are ready to be told.

In the meantime, tonight I just hold my mother's hand in mine, look into those wide eyes and wait for tiny little twitch at the corner of her mouth that shows me her smile. She is preparing for what is next; I am learning how to exist without her voice. I am learning that I don't actually need it; she is in me already. I can hear it in my heart. It beats steadily in my chest, the strength and certainty of her love for me. For today, that is enough.

Carys At the Bat

When we first joined the Fastpitch Softball Association in 2014, Emma was 10 years old and Carys was 7. Emma was more than ready to try competitive softball, and Carys was just anxious to be part of something like her big sister. There weren't enough players at 8U, so the younger girls were absorbed into the 10U team. This was a pretty ideal situation for our family because that meant both girls could be on the same team. They practiced together, competed together, and we had only one set of travel commitments. The thrill of being with the "big girls" was a huge draw for the little sis, and she threw herself wholeheartedly into the endeavor.

Like all of life's experiences, there was a balance of great and wonderful alongside some disappointment that year. Emma discovered a love of catching and met a whole new batch of friends through the softball program. Carys learned every word of every softball chant ever devised, she mastered the fine art of stealing home, and as a teeny tiny little 7-year-old had a strike zone small enough to practically guarantee a walk whenever she wanted one.

On the negative side, we discovered that youth softball in a couple of neighboring towns can be pretty competitive. First let me say that Fairmont's program is very healthy; they have amazing youth coaches who are in it for all the right reasons, and they are committed to skill development. We belong to a league that promotes the healthy kind of competition for young girls; I can always count on our league games to be friendly and fun.

Tournaments, however, can bring to light an entirely different dynamic. Some youth programs are in it to win it, and that is no joke. My girls got to travel with several different teams, which gave us a huge variety of experiences. We went to tournaments that required birth certificates to prove the ages of players. We played an elite team at a tournament who played rules we had never even heard of before (the Look-Back rule? Really?) and despite a 15 run lead were still stealing bases and congratulating themselves as if the national title was on the line. 

It was at one such tournament when little Carys, all 45 pounds of her, went up to the plate to bat against a 12-year-old pitcher brought (illegally) down to help her 10U team win the tournament. Our coach had already complained that the girl was throwing 40 mph and was clearly not a 10U player; the opposing coach arrogantly said, "Prove it. There's no birth certificate required here, so prove it." 

This mama was already getting a little hot under the collar watching this play out. Emma was a solid hitter for our team, and she was watching strikes fly by her. I expected Carys to get small in the box like she does and either get a quick walk or, more likely, a strike out. It never occurred to me that she could hit the ball. Nevertheless, she gave it a shot. She swung her little heart out and whiffed the first two in short order. Pitch #3 was low and inside. It was so far inside and coming so fast that my little one didn't have time to react. The pitch caught her squarely on the outside of her knee cap and dropped her like a sack of potatoes.

Now, as a coach, I have witnessed some real Mama-Bear mentality over the years. I have often marveled at Mamas who can go from zero to sixty in no time flat and appear to have no filter or ability to control themselves at sporting events. I never, ever, thought that would be me. Until it was. Holy cow, something comes over you when you see a baby cub hurting. I won't go into those embarrassing details here. I'll just tell you what happened.

Emma came flying out of the dugout followed closely by the coaches. Emma picked her sister up off the ground, walked next to her as she limped to first base so she could touch it and get a pinch runner, and then carried her into the dugout. There were some heated exchanges between coaches, a few parents may have had a few things to say, and then eventually we all just went home. I was very touched by the sisterly love Emma displayed, and it only took Sis a few days to recover physically.

Mentally, however, recovery didn't come so easy. Although both girls continued to play ball, Carys was never the same. She loves to run the bases and she loves to play in the field...but she absolutely dreads the batter's box. Her coaches have tried everything to get her over her fear. Literally, everything. Every single pitch, no matter who is throwing it, absolutely terrifies her. She backs out of the box as the ball leaves the pitcher's hand every time. She gets on base occasionally, when a pitcher lacks enough control to throw strikes, but last year she struck out watching more often that not. It is so hard to see that.  I know why she does it; I understand completely, and I can't fix it. 

We had long discussions this year about whether we were going to sign her up for the team. We explained that hitting is a huge part of the game, and she really had to evaluate whether this is the program for her. She's terribly conflicted;  there are so many things she loves about it. But no amount of stealing, sliding, chanting, high-fiving or sunflower-seed spitting could change the fact that she is scared to death of the batter's box. 

Carys had pretty much decided to be done when she found out that a small group of her friends were joining the team for the first time this year. She had an immediate change of heart; her social nature was desperate to have more time with her friends. I did remind her that the program is not cheap; if she was going to do it, she had to commit to learning how to bat all over again. She promised to try; and we decided to say yes and see what happens.

On Tuesday night, she had her first practice that included hitting. She has three coaches this year; Tim and Jeff have been two of her coaches for the last two years. They know all about her special circumstances. Andy is new to our team as a coach, and it just so happened that he was the one taking the girls into the cage for batting practice. I didn't say a word to him, and neither did Carys. She was one of the last ones to try, and she paced around the cages for a good five minutes waiting her turn. I've come to recognize that as her most nervous habit, but I didn't walk over or say anything. I just watched and waited.

Finally, it was her turn. She went into the cage, lined up about a mile away from the plate, and waited for the pitch. 

She swung! Hard! And missed! But who cares, because she swung! 

My throat was thick, my eyes were full of tears. I had the presence of mind to turn on my video camera, because we were going to have to re-live that success all night. I listened to Andy talk her through some batting tips and work on her swing and her stance. He has no idea how much of that she has completely missed because of her inability to get past that day two years ago on a hot dusty field in St. James. She finally started connecting with the ball, and suddenly she was hitting! Actually hitting! 

He can't possibly know what a huge moment that was for her, and for this Mama. I probably looked ridiculous, the only mother who is video-taping my 9 year old at batting practice, for Heaven's sake. I swear I am not one of the crazies. We won't be breaking down film tonight, I promise. But I had to have that moment on camera, I just had to have it. 

When practice was over, she came flying over to me and flung herself into my arms with eyes shining bright as stars in the sky. She said, "Did you see me?" Oh yes, I did. 

Things I Loved Today

1. Emma did Carys' hair in the bathroom this morning. In a kind, helpful, sisterly fashion, and neither of them got mad at each other for any reason, large or small. (This is rare.)

2. We left the house AHEAD of schedule and had time to stop for a morning treat on the way to school. (This is also rare.)

3. When we got to school, Cooper had trouble gathering his things on the way out of the car; Carys went back to lend a hand. (This is so rare I'm not sure it has ever happened before. I think her benevolence could have been a result of Emma's earlier sisterly love.)

4. I got an unsolicited hug from each child before I left them. Cooper came back for seconds.

5. We got to play video games all hour every hour in class today. (If my administrators are reading this, they were completely EDUCATIONAL in nature and I can prove it.)

6. The sun is shining, there's a home softball game after school and our Varsity Cardinals are killing it, so I am super excited to go watch them win another one.

Lucky Number 7: I found a twenty in my jeans pocket that I forgot I had. 

Life is GOOD. 

A Sonnet of Summer

As we prepare for the practice seasons to begin for all our summer activities, I shall pay tribute to Elizabeth Barrett Browning with an ode to my children.

Sonnet of Summer

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and the breadth of my pocketbook

     (As I shell out registration fee after registration fee)

I love thee to the level at which I must tolerate concession stand food

     (And the sunburn on the tops of my feet and my thighs from sitting

       on scorching hot bleachers under a coating of fine dust from the field)

I love thee as freely as you volunteer me for team duties

     (Though I do sharpen my math skills working in the concession stand

       and hone my interpersonal relationships selling raffle tickets

I love thee with the passion I see you display when you're catching, 

       tumbling, running, biking, building, wakeboarding, swimming,

       tubing, playing, LIVING

I love thee in the stillness of the night 

     (While you sleep the deepest sleep and dream of tomorrow's 

       adventures and I ponder how we will pay for their privilege

       or find the hours in the day to attend them)

I love thee with a love that transcends the small things like money and time

     (Which you will fully comprehend someday when you raise children

       of your own)

I love thee with the breath, smiles, and tears of all my life, and; God willing,

I shall but love thee even better when we win the lottery and I can quit my job

       and follow you to the ends of the Earth 

       lawn chair under my arm, 

       water bottle in my hand

       sunflower seeds in my bag

       visor on my head

       love in my heart.

I Have A Question

Remember the days when you could ask your child a simple question and get a simple response? Remember when conversations were delightful ways to develop bonds between family members? Ah, those were the days.

Parent-child questioning and civilized discourse in our household has recently been replaced by impassioned argument, faulty logic and unsupported rhetoric. It seems there is no easy answer to any question anymore: some questions have no answers and some are answered with simply a vacant stare or casual eye-roll. My kids are getting really good at constructing weakly supported responses and employing poor reasoning skills in answering me. I look forward to discovering how my children will one day put these skills into some useful endeavor, since they are becoming so good at it. Let's recap the week so far:

Who ate the marshmallows out of the Marshmallow Mateys and left only cereal? (No one, apparently; the manufacturer has cleverly packaged the cereal so that the last 1/3 of the bag doesn't actually contain marshmallows at all.)

Whose Kindle is on Mom's charger? (Since both Kindles are identical and we can't discover their identities until they have been recharged and turned on, we will shout loud accusations at each other in the meantime.) Update: Carys' Kindle. She swears she didn't do it despite forensic evidence to the contrary. Either way, Mom is unplugging it because she NEEDS her charger.

Where are the actual chargers for the Kindles? (*simultaneous shrugging*)

Who left their bike outside in the rain? (Everyone, but they cannot be faulted for this because Mom said come in to dinner NOW and they didn't want to disappoint her by taking too long to make it to the supper table.)

Why is Cooper's bed broken? (He "fell" on it. In just one corner. With enough force to rip the nails out of the footboard. It was an accidental fall, he DID NOT JUMP ON IT.)

Who has homework tonight? (*chirping crickets*)

Why are there candy wrappers from Easter baskets stuffed between the couch cushions? (Cooper says Carys did it, Carys says Emma did it, Emma says Cooper did it, Mom says hand over the rest of your candy right now, all three of you.)

Where are all the bath towels? (In closets, drawers, under beds and in the hamper in the upstairs bathroom, but absolutely no one put them there.)

Whose cup of dirty paint-water is sitting on the bathroom sink with  paintbrushes in it? (Cooper's. He can't wash out the brushes. He just can't. Because he can't. Because he CAN'T. Go ahead and throw them away. He's done with them. The green one is already hard and crusty.)

Who left the sand bucket out on the beach? (Carys.) 

Who is going to go out and get it? (Not Carys, because even though she was the last to play with it, she didn't get it out of the garage, Cooper did, so he should go and get it and also she isn't wearing any shoes. And not Cooper because even though he got it out, he was not the last person to play with it, so he is not going outside after dark to pick it up and also he is eating right now. And not Emma because she wasn't even outside after school and anyway, she is sick and tired of picking up after the little kids all the time and also she does have homework, as she suddenly remembers.) 

I used to be fairly well-versed in public discourse, but my children are my kryptonite; I find myself resorting to sweeping generalizations and slippery-slope mentality as I attempt to find answers to my questions. "I don't care whose fault it is. I don't care who did it, or when they did it or how they did it or why. I don't care. Fix it. I don't care WHO fixes it. SOMEBODY FIX IT FOR THE LOVE OF GOD."

The only question I can ever ask safely:

Who wants ice cream? (The Dairy Freeze opens this weekend! Hallelujah!)

Trades

When we came home from school yesterday, it was 50 degrees, sunny, and undeniably "outside weather." My kids couldn't throw their backpacks in the hall closet fast enough; in approximately 8 seconds they had unearthed softballs and gloves, pulled bikes out of the garage and shed their jackets to get a little sunshine on their arms and faces. As I followed them into the house, I stepped over a trail of bags, socks, shoes, and coats that were strung out from front door to back door. The softball bags were unzipped and catcher's gear, eye black, face guards and too-small mitts were spilling out of the hallway closet. Cooper had abandoned his Kindle and his Pokemon deck on the downstairs table and was already wheeling his bike up the back sidewalk and heading for the road.

Thus presented adjustment #227 to town living; we used to have 6 acres of land for the kids to explore with wild abandon. It only took 6 softball throws from pitcher to catcher before a loose ball made its way to the neighbor's fence and we had to suggest to the girls that they would maybe need to wait until we could get over to the diamonds to practice. Cooper made a dozen trips back and forth in the street and then the shine of riding seemed to wear off.

There was no trampoline to bounce on, there were no trees to climb. There was no open field where they could hit balls and no four-wheeler to take on laps around the grove. Soon I had three kids wandering listlessly around the yard looking increasingly disgruntled. Fortunately, Aaron pulled up right then; I was putting on my walking shoes for a trip around the lake and he suggested to the kids that they get their bike tires all pumped up so they could come along.

I warned them; I'd already mapped out a 3-mile walk, and had just recently added some little wrinkles to the route to include some hills and stretch it to 3.5. Everyone insisted they were up for it, so we set off, Aaron included. They probably covered twice the distance I did; they would ride ahead, turn around and ride back, and then ride ahead again. Aaron enjoyed the trip more than anyone, I think, doing wheelies and jumping up and down curbs with his bike and generally being a bad influence.

All was well until the halfway point. We'd only done two hills of any consequence when we rounded a corner and Cooper saw what was coming up next. I let Aaron do all the persuading, but Coop's mood was definitely darkening as he got off the bike and pushed it up the next hill. Luckily, just then we stumbled upon one of Fairmont's charming sidewalk libraries. Two years ago, one Fairmont family put up the "Little Free Library" on the sidewalk in front of their house and filled it up with books to share. Since then, more and more of these are popping up all over the place. My kids hadn't seen one yet, and this was the highlight of the day. All three pored over the choices trying to figure out which one to borrow.

The distraction was charming and necessary, but there was still a good mile and a half to go before we were home and poor Cooper's little legs were just burning. He complained loudly every single pedal rotation for the next 11 blocks before all of us told him to pipe down in varying degrees of volume and frustration. We finally made it to our street and his relief was palpable. But like the kick a runner finds at the end of the race, he mustered the strength to surge ahead and race to the house. He dropped the bike in the yard, went immediately to the kitchen for a drink and then collapsed for the rest of the night on the upstairs couch. I'm not sure how often he'll be joining me in the future; in just a couple more months the lake will be warm enough to wade in and he'll have a new set of distractions. I think that Carys is going to be a regular; the bike ride didn't even faze her.

All told, I guess it's nice to have replacements for the things we miss about the farm. It makes me feel less like I lost something and more like I made a trade. One with a fantastic view, and 80 feet of sandy beach, I keep reminding myself. When summer comes and the Fairmont lakes fill up with boats and we have company pulling up to the beach whenever they want to, and we have the fire pit going 5 nights a week and the only thing we bother to cook on is the outdoor grill...I just may find that this is the best trade we've made so far.

Restoration

"I have unclasp'd to thee the book even of my secret soul." ~Twelfth Night

Over the past few years, I've been watering the seeds of discontent in my soul with the repetitious drum of daily life. I thought a move to town would be enough to stir things up and renew my sense of self; I think instead it just added to my stress and strained the already tenuous grasp I have on my sanity. The whole move, while a sound practical decision, may have been a nothing more than an effort to shake me loose from the routine of "Real Life." I think about how often we use that strategy to breathe new life into ourselves; when we get a new outfit, or a new hair color, or a new vehicle or a new house, we feel for a moment like we are actually new people. I've used all of the above to re-energize my psyche to varying degrees over the years, though they never really last very long. It's funny, do we actually think that a change of scenery will awaken what is lying dormant in us and suddenly bring us forward into the glow of enlightenment? Swapping material goods has no lasting effect on what is essentially a part of who we are and what we do, and what ignites the passions for living that simmer below our surface. 

What are we searching for, anyway? When I feel restless and uneasy and stale with the humdrum of daily living, I ask myself: what is it that I'm looking for? And often, I don't have an answer. I want health and happiness for my kids and that's pretty much it - anything else seems selfish and self-serving somehow.  So we trudge along, day in and day out, and shine bright lights on the ordinary moments that make a regular day seem special - an unexpected favor, a well-placed compliment, or ice cream at midnight on the back step as you look out on the lake and ponder how the heck you got here. (I'm not saying I've ever done that - that's purely for illustration.)

But yesterday. Yesterday, magic happened, and for once I was paying attention. Yesterday, I blew the dust off my copy of Shakespeare's 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' and introduced it to my 8th graders. I used to teach this, all the way back in the early Colorado days, circa 2000-2006. I have loved Shakespeare since Bernie Brohaugh at UWRF let me pass his class on the first try. (That was NOT easy to do, people.) I had a revolving curriculum in Colorado that let me teach whatever I wanted whenever I wanted, and I brought the Bard to every class I ever taught. We had the best times, translating the language, performing the scenes, and illustrating his imagery.

When I got hired at Fairmont, however, there was a set curriculum with a clear map and plan, and Shakespeare is a 9-12 content topic. I knew I had been missing him a little, but I had no idea how much. This year, my department put the stamp of approval on adding a little taste of Shakespeare to the 8th grade curriculum and I was able to choose how I wanted to do it. So of course, I brought out the long-forgotten files on Shakespearean insults. I found the cartoon panels on how to follow the play-within-a-play, and I resurrected Puck, in all his irreverent glory, to the extreme delight of my classes. I knew they would love it; I did not know what effect it would have on me.

Approximately 6 lines into the play, I realized I was reading aloud from memory - reciting words that had lain waiting in the darker corners of my memory. I felt a brightness in my eyes, and energy in my words that I hadn't felt in ages. I taught for four hours in a row before a break, and when I collapsed into my chair I began to grasp the complete and utter change that had taken over my body. I felt energized, renewed. A surge of purpose flooded through me, and I found myself Googling activities and videos and planning future lessons with the vigor of my forgotten youth. 

24 hours later, the energy has not subsided, the spring in my step is still there. I've been thinking deeply about this all day; I wonder sometimes if we too often look outside ourselves for ways to reinvent the passion of our youth. What if the passions of our youth are in fact the keys to keeping us young? What if we do not need a change, but rather a RETURN to something from our past? What if our quest to "become" something new, different, more, is a hollow promise? What if the answer was in us all along? 

I don't mean to minimize the importance of the growing that we all do as we get older; we become wiser, more self-aware. We can view our past with sharp clarity of intent and purpose...and I wouldn't trade that knowledge for anything. But how delightful to discover that I didn't need to chop off my hair, buy a new shirt (or a house?) to find renewal. Mine came from the master storyteller himself, in the pages of a 400 year old story and on the faces of a room full of our future's brightest.

Basketball Reflections

My dad coached basketball nearly all my young life; from a very early age I can remember going to the gym with him and bouncing a ball along the sideline. To this day, the smell of popcorn in a gymnasium does wonderful things for my psyche; it gives me a special kind of adrenaline rush to walk into that environment. I sat behind my dad at games, listened to his words, absorbed the environment. His ball players babysat me, I got to twirl batons at halftimes, mom put yarn pom-poms in my hair so I could match the cheerleaders, and basketball became a routine part of winter life in the Bartscher house.

Sadly, I never connected to the game as a player the way that I could have. I played most of my high school career with varying levels of success. No one would ever accuse me of being especially good at it, but I kept going out for the team mainly because basketball had been so prevalent in my life for so long that it had become a part of the skin I was wearing.

Looking back at the basketball playing memories that have stayed with me, very few of them have anything to do with playing the actual game. I remember that freshman year Coach Cue started me at point guard for our first game of the season. We were in Wells in that dark gym/auditorium and I must have looked shocked because he said, "What's the matter?" I told him that until that moment I had only ever played post. He said, "you probably could have mentioned that before!" But he started me there nonetheless. That year I learned to see the court from the front half of it for the first time. I also remember that I was a real thorn in the poor man's side all season. During a frustrating practice where our team (me) was doing everything wrong and we (I) had to do it over and over again, I leaned against the wall in the gym and inadvertently shut off all the gym lights. I flipped them back on of course, but in Blue Earth's old junior high gym the lights needed time to "warm up." There was tense silence, followed by a deep sigh. It must have taken a supreme amount of control for Coach to dismiss us for the day and only glare at me as I walked by instead of throttling me as I probably deserved.

When senior year rolled around, I'm sorry to say that I decided to stop playing ball. There is a long and complicated reason for that, which I won't elaborate on today. But the short answer is that it had stopped being fun. All the wonderful parts of the sport had become lost for me and I decided I needed to be finished. My dad bore it well; he never pressed me or pushed me to stay. I credit my parents over and over for always being able to see what I needed and set their own feelings aside - there are many examples of that in my life and I feel so lucky for that. I turned in my practice jersey one cold November afternoon and went home after school with an odd sense of detachment.

Coach Cue found me the next morning. He didn't ask me to reconsider - he asked me instead to help him coach the freshman team. I was so surprised - the thought had never occurred to me before. That moment became a pivotal moment in my life. I am certain I would have never looked at a basketball court again after high school were it not for that invitation.

The first time I sat next to him on the bench during a game, he leaned over and discussed coaching decisions with me the entire game. That was the first time I realized how much more there was to the game of basketball than my limited experience as a player had afforded me. I began to see offensive patterns developing, I saw defensive weaknesses, I learned that chemistry on the floor is more important than individual skill. It was like getting a new pair of eyeglasses - I could see the basketball world so much more clearly from the sideline and a whole new passion emerged in me. I found that I could talk basketball with my dad on a completely different level, bringing me even closer to him through coaching than being a player ever could.

I helped Coach Cue for the first time in 1993; I have coached a basketball team every single winter since that year - for 23 years now - and learned something new every single year. When I got to college I looked up the local high school coach and volunteered my services. That opened the door to get a position as a 6th grade traveling coach for a local Wisconsin program. After college I landed back in Blue Earth for a year where Coach Cue hired me back again as his freshman coach. When I moved to Colorado and found my first teaching position, Robert Crowther took me under his wing as the Varsity Assistant Coach. That was especially challenging; Colorado basketball is vastly different from Minnesota basketball. It took me three or four years to get that entirely figured out - especially that trademark match-up zone he so masterfully commanded. Coming back home, I was worried I would have to wait a while to find a place in a program; I shouldn't have been concerned. Between the CER youth programs I do three times a year, the school ball program where I've coached every single level from 7th grade to assistant varsity, and the traveling association programs, I have had my fill of basketball.

I've had some special players over the years, special seasons and important milestones in coaching. For the last three years, I've been especially lucky to coach my own daughter's traveling team for basketball. I was worried about that a little; my dad never coached one of my teams. Each time I reached his level, he swapped positions with another coach in the program. I really really wanted him to coach me - but he always felt that it wouldn't be fair either to me or to the other players. I've been really mindful of that, coaching Emma. I've tried to be as impartial and careful as I can be when it comes to her and the team. I hope I've done well, though there was one embarrassing moment when I jumped up and hollered "Emma Ruth!" at her when she picked up another unnecessary foul. I have to restrain myself from using the middle name anywhere outside of our house.

This team of 18 wonderful girls has been the highlight of these last three years. I've loved watching them develop - I remember when they could barely dribble and walk at the same time and now they can run complex plays and transition the floor almost autonomously. I made a promise to myself and a commitment to their parents that I would care more about their development than I do about their wins. We divide evenly into teams every single week, every girl gets exactly the same opportunity to learn every position and to learn every skill. I've never divided them into A and B teams - the day you tell a girl that she is a "B" player is the day she stops believing she can ever be more than that. I know that time is coming, but I just don't believe in doing that when they are still young and growing and learning.

This philosophy has had so many benefits: they get along with each other on an exceptional level. Believe me, I have coached girls for a LONG time and that is a rare thing. When they show up to every practice and know that I'm going to work them exactly the same, treat them exactly the same, and give every girl exactly the same opportunity, the impulse to compete AGAINST each other is replaced with a drive to compete collaboratively WITH each other - and that's a game-changer. And believe it or not, this whole fairness thing has resulted in wins - both teams win, they win a lot, they come home with lots of hardware and the best part is that I don't have a clear top and a clear bottom. I have lots and lots of good athletes - the higher skilled players set the bar and the lower skilled players strive to meet the expectation - and I don't think they even have any idea that's what's happening.

Next year, however, they will be 7th graders. Their school ball team will divide them, and I have no idea how or what will happen when that happens. I don't know if everyone will stay out, I don't know if anyone will be disappointed or upset with the outcome - I have no control over it. I hope that whatever happens they will look back on these three years as fondly as I do. We've laughed and been silly and been sad and weathered bad refs and terrible fouls and concession stand food together. We have a million pictures of a million beautiful moments and I'm going to treasure them.

I'm currently coaching the 8th grade school ball team, so I will probably get them back in a year or so, for one last hurrah before I send them to the high school program. I feel like I'm handing over my cherished possessions and hoping that the high school receives them with the same love I've poured into them. They will be a fun group to watch - up and comers with skill and purpose and the best sense of teamwork I've seen in a long while. May they be successful, may they stay together, may they love each other, may they continue to work hard and love this game. And may I have the strength to let them go.

A Rose By Any Other Name

I have had a terrible writer's block this year; I can sit at the computer and stare at a blank screen, willing my fingers to move and they can not. I have tried many writers' methods of getting jump started - but those seem to work only on my fiction writing. I maintain my fiction work on a separate site, and that one seems to be flourishing this year, but my poor blog - the one I write for my family - is really suffering.

I know that the move has something to do with it. Sometimes when I open the blog, I look at the title and description, and I feel like I'm no longer on "the path less traveled." Living out on the farm, working toward sustainable living, having our crazy adventures made me feel like we had taken a path of living separate and different from the average bear.

Now we live in town, just like every regular Joe. Our adventures are still pretty entertaining, of course, but I think that it's time that they fall under a new title.

My love of great literature generates a tendency toward finding a metaphor everywhere I go, in everything I do. Unless I'm in the company of a fellow literary junkie, I try to keep all my references to myself, and live in my own head much of the time. When I started the blog I felt inspired by Robert Frost's The Road Not Taken. It was a both a literal and figurative representation of our life on the farm, and I wanted the name of my blog to reflect that. Of course, every possible variation of that was already in use, so The Path Less Traveled was as close as I could get.

Once I decided that I needed a new name for our new chapter, I began searching for the right moniker under which we would continue our family tales. I pored over my literary favorites, looking for allegories and references that felt right. I'm not sure why Ray Bradbury rose to the surface; I have so much love for Margaret Atwood and Toni Morrison...I feel like Emerson and Thoreau wrote the template for my life. But Bradbury's collection of The Martian Chronicles has a stubborn pull. I teach several of his short stories to my 8th graders; he masterfully built a collection around the idea that humans would start over on Mars. His stories are realistic yet fantastic. His characters have depth, they are real in their interactions, despite the surreal environment in which they find themselves. Each story has a deep human truth buried underneath the bells and whistles of a future imagined by that great storyteller.

We are starting over, in a way, by moving to town. We've turned a page and imagine a future for ourselves beyond the borders of the farm where we began. So The Gudahl Chronicles it is.

We move forward, we evolve, just like the Bittering family from Dark They Were, and Golden Eyed, the final story in Bradbury's collection. We cling to our identity, yet press outward in an effort to acclimate. I just love that story; it used to make me shiver when I read it, anticipating some dark outcome from an unseen threat. The threat, it seems, is no threat at all; the change comes from within. It's wonderful. Dark They Were And Golden Eyed (full text)

The World We're Living In

I'm not sure if I'm going to share this post on social media or not; jury's still out on that one for me. I usually link my blog to my Facebook and Twitter, where a few interested parties read along with my musings. This one, though, will ruffle feathers. Normally I don't mind a few ruffled feathers, but we're living in a more dangerous world than the one I grew up in, and feather ruffling sometimes has some pretty negative consequences.

My purpose has always been the same - to tell our stories. I've centered most of my time on family tales and largely ignored life outside the walls of our home. But I think I have to stray from the formula today; I'm feeling so passionate about how events in our world are unfolding. I want my kids to know where I stand on things; I want to tell them, to talk about the precipice the world is approaching.

Kids, you are too young right now to understand the crisis I feel our country is facing; I have no idea what world you will be living in 30 or 40 years from now. I feel compelled to go on record; if the world descends into madness, at least you will know my thoughts on that as we stand on the edge of it today.

We are approaching another presidential election; these have come and gone with great fanfare over the last century. With just a handful of notable exceptions, I would say our country made perceptible but incremental actual changes from the leadership of one President to the next. It would seem that our most recent president has elicited more criticism than average because he attempted to initiate actual sweeping change in large ways in this country. America is deeply divided; ask anyone, and they will tell you in no uncertain terms what they think of our President. I'll tell you, children, that I voted both times for President Obama. While I haven't agreed with 100% of his decision making, I have believed strongly in the direction I knew he was trying to go, though he was embattled by Congress, even his own party, at every possible turn. In case you are wondering, Obamacare was the best thing to ever happen to our family. We were able to get health insurance coverage at a rate we could actually afford, and you reaped the benefits of that in a big way. He's done big things for our veterans, for the unemployment rate, for wage earnings. Don't let the haters fool you - independent fact checking is always better than drinking whatever Kool-Aid the political machines are churning out. (Fact Checking the Obama Administration).

His term is ending, though, and the people emerging to take the reins of the once-great America make me very nervous. I say "once-great" because as the gauntlets are thrown down in the political arena, it is becoming clear to me that the country once viewed as welcoming of all races, cultures, and religions - the "melting pot of the world" has been quietly transforming into something else.

Terror exists in the world; it has always existed, everywhere. America enjoyed a period of several decades in which we were largely untouched by it. I grew up in a childhood where our teachers mentioned Muammar Gaddafi and we had merely a vague sense that Libya might not be a country where we should vacation anytime soon. The Gulf War brought Sadaam Hussein to the forefront and President Bush waged his "weapons of mass destruction" argument to support his foreign policy agenda. Still, the American people were somewhat detached and emotionally removed from the troubles in Iraq and Afghanistan., unless you were a military family directly connected with the Middle East.

But 9/11 brought the terror to our doorstep. And that has had an undeniably significant effect on our people. Terrorists brought their agenda to our door, and they happened to be of middle-Eastern descent. I often wonder; if the terrorists had been blond haired, blue eyed citizens of Scandinavia, would our country have responded the same way? In the wake of the 9/11 tragedy, in our fear, our uncertainty, our helplessness, we have allowed long-dormant racial prejudices to re-surface in America. We have become suspicious of anyone, anything, that doesn't fit the 1950's version of white middle class America. It's almost as if the last 65 years of American progress have been wiped out. We are seeing a return to communities who discriminate and victimize people of color. Gun violence is at an all-time high.

Our presidential candidates have a tough job; they must reassure the American people that we will be okay. As I listen to their platforms, to their agendas, I find myself increasingly alarmed. There is no calming voice, providing rational guidance in the storm. Instead, we have inflammatory proselytizing from people who are preying on the fear of a nation and using it for political gain. The idea of living in a country under some of these candidates makes me nauseous. I don't make this statement lightly; our country is primed for change. If we allow a person with racist, bigoted ideals to be the vehicle of change, we are headed for absolute disaster. Make no mistake, political correctness is another term for tolerance. By eschewing the need to be "politically correct," we are actually embracing the xenophobic agenda of a man poised to take us to God-knows-where.

I would like to believe that we will never elect a leader that would go against the fabric of our nation by closing our borders to refugees and people in search of a better life. I would like to believe that in America, no one would be profiled, singled-out, identified and villainized for their ethnicity or their religion; yet some of our prospective contenders are advocating for exactly that. At least one particularly loud politician wants to close our borders to people searching for a better life, for people looking to escape persecution. (Umm...our forefathers founded this country on that premise exactly...? Although maybe we should ask the Native Americans how that turned out for them...) He wants to create religious registries to identify Muslims. Ten years ago, I would have laughed at anyone who suggested that such a man could be nominated to public office in this country. Today, I'm not so sure. The emergence of reckless politicians and their inflammatory statements have emboldened the common man to put a voice to the racism and prejudice that is apparently still simmering below the American surface.

This isn't new, actually. During WWII Americans became so suspicious of Japanese-Americans that we put them in internment camps. For real, America did that. Consider the Red Scare of the 50's; accusing someone of being a Communist, even as a passing comment in a heated argument resulted in real consequences for people. Every time time there is a conflict, every time that fear is ignited, people respond irrationally. Sadly, our country responded irrationally, and perpetuated the fear and ignorance that fueled our prejudices. You only have to read the history books to understand that the exact same thing is happening today. The actions of a few have fueled a fear and ignited the prejudices that still live here. We are set to repeat the mistakes of yesterday, unless the American people have the strength to choose differently.

I watch my Facebook feed, watch the posts of my own friends and family, and I see them "liking" these kind of pages. They click "share" on articles that full of fallacies, half-truths, and sometimes outright lies. I will be completely honest here; it is difficult for me to feel the same way about these people in my life when I realize that they share and perpetuate the hate and bigotry being presented on the platforms of some of these political aspirants.

Ask yourself this question: if the 9/11 terrorists had been white Lutherans, would our country have gone off the deep end in the way that it has over Muslim-Americans? The Sandy Hook massacre was perpetrated by a white kid. When did white kids become public enemy #1? They didn't. Instead we chalked it up to "one of those terrible tragedies" and refused to institute even one measure of precaution when it came to gun sales. By the way, you know why we are so reluctant to give up our guns? Because not enough white people are dying because of them. (Hey, in for a penny, in for a pound - if my previous opinions didn't cause half of my friends to un-friend me, then this one should do it) This is the sad truth; people of color are more than twice as likely to die from gun violence as white people. (Gun Deaths By Race) And white people are holding on to their "right to bear arms" with a ferocious grip, because it isn't a problem for "us."

If you take a statistical look at who is perpetrating gun violence in this country, you need look no further than your own backyard. Of the mass shootings occurring since 1982, 65% of them were committed by White Male Americans. More than half. (http://www.cnn.com/2015/06/27/us/mass-shootings/) And political aspirants are worried about the illegal immigrants who want to come to the US for a better life? Hispanic-Americans barely register on the single-victim gun violence statistics in this country. (http://www.cnn.com/2013/01/15/opinion/frum-guns-race/).

Listen up, politicians: if you want to do something IMPORTANT that might ACTUALLY affect the health and well-being of Americans and will go much further in keeping them safe, why don't we focus on mental illness, education, and poverty? We don't need a wall to keep people out and we don't need more guns to saturate the population. We need access to medical care! We need access to education! We need access to basic needs like housing and clothing and food!

I can barely open social media these days and read what the world is saying. I watch people share post after post of information that was written by non-experts, fueled by inflammatory language and perpetuated with fear and ignorance without a reference to actual fact or statistical data anywhere. I see support for an agenda that would radically change the direction of this country. What if our future leadership was suggesting that we close our borders to all white Europeans? What if they said, "That's it, we have to keep an eye on those Baptists - they're nothing but trouble." Would you still cheer for them and call them "brave" for not being "politically correct?" It is almost unbelievable to me that these people are becoming legitimate contenders for nomination.

These are my worries, today, in the America I'm living in. This isn't a Democrat/Republican thing. It isn't a Muslim/Christian thing. This is a human issue. It's a love thing. If I have anything to say to you, my sweet darlings, is that I hope your future world is a good one. I hope this generation does the right thing, has the right intention, weathers this terrible domestic storm of hatred on our shores and America emerges stronger, better, than she was before.

I'm long past the debate stage of my life; at 41 years old I can say with relative certainty that no Facebook meme is going to change the way I view the world. I don't give any weight to the arguments of people who know how to click "share" but don't know how to research actual facts for themselves. Posting publicly about my feelings won't change their minds, and only opens me up to the trolls. That's partly why posting this might not be a great idea. As a schoolteacher, I have to be very careful not to let my feelings about the world color what or how I teach in the classroom. Fortunately, we spend our time in 8th grade English reading the classics and we work on poetry skills - I can immerse my day in the development of good readers, and hope that I'm giving them the tools they need to further their education and improve their life. (I'm kind of glad I don't teach Current Events. That might be much more difficult for me!)

So here it is - whether the world agrees with me or not, this is my view, this is how I feel about what's happening to our country. I just wanted you to know. Maybe this period will quietly pass and be a tiny blip on a timeline of events. Or maybe it will be a turning point; there's no way really to know right now. But at least you will know who I was and what I thought about the world at the time.

And also: if your mom suddenly loses all her friends and her job and nobody talks to her for days and months and years - this is probably why - people don't like it when you ruffle their feathers. On the bright side, we'll be able to play lots of board games. Please pay attention the world around you, kiddos. Read the news, read all the news, strive to see the whole picture, and never take anyone's word on something unless you've fact-checked it yourself. And when you do have opinions, vote. Put the right people in charge of this messed-up world. Put people in charge who will leave everyone in their care better than when they found them. When in doubt, love. Lead with love, no matter what. XOXO