On Gatsby, Snowmobiles, and a Really Good Metaphor

Back when I started teaching, I could assign projects for no reason other than the sheer pleasure of doing a project and tapping into our creativity. But as education evolves, so do the expectations for projects: they must connect to standard mastery, they must address learning styles, they should have skill scaffolding, and if administered cooperatively, they should also address accountability. I need to know where their base learning is, measure their growth, and communicate an outcome based on said project. It's a little exhausting, honestly. Important! But exhausting. I'm always checking, checking, checking for understanding - are they getting something out of this project? Can they read closely? Do they understand how characters develop? Can they identify author's purpose? Is there any VALUE to this assignment?

I started The Great Gatsby with my sophomores this week. I love this book with my whole entire self. I love my sophomores too, and I LOVE this unit. I spent a LOT of time putting together a project that meets the above guidelines. Students have options, expectations, and rubrics. I was enjoying walking around today as they got started on them, discussing their project plan and getting an idea of where they were at so far in their understanding of the novel, its themes, and its characters.

As I worked with one group, I couldn't help but overhear the group next to me, deep in discussion, flipping through magazines. As I listened, one of them said, "I can't find anything in here with a picture of carbon-fiber." What? Carbon fiber? There's nothing in The Great Gatsby that even resembles carbon fiber, so I was pretty sure they were a little off task. I decided I'd better wander over and see what was going on. I saw they had poster board, glue sticks, scissors, and a pile of magazines on their table. They had chosen a collage project on four major settings present in the novel. They had a big stack of Minnesota Snowmobiling magazines they were flipping through and talking about. So far they had labeled the four quadrants, and had cut out some pictures of snowmobiles, engine parts, and some Ski-Doo logos. I was puzzled.

I gently inserted myself into the conversation, and then asked, "What does carbon fiber have to do with Gatsby, may I ask?"

One young man looked up at me, surprised. "It's really expensive! I need a picture of it for Gatsby's mansion, he's the only one who could probably afford it."

I'm not sure if you just had a moment, but I just had a moment. A moment where I realized exactly how much I DON'T know. A moment where I realized how much he DID understand about Gatsby, and a moment where I was smacked in the face with the reminder that the crossing over of interdisciplinary worlds is a REALLY BIG DEAL. It absolutely delighted me. I laughed out loud and said, "That is so awesome, I didn't know that. Show me what else you have on there."

He said, "Well, I put a Ski-Doo in Nick Carraway's quadrant because he's poor and they're junk." One of his friends laughed, but his partner said, "Hey! I have a Ski-Doo!" and then we all giggled. Then the partner said, "Yeah, actually, they are junk. That's probably where it belongs." I told them I had a lot to learn, and they would have to help me figure their project out a little bit.

The third group member said, "Gudahl, we're doing, like, metaphors. You get it?"

Yep. I get it. Carry on.

Piece By Piece

Once upon a time, a long long time ago, I had a broken heart. My parents made my house a place for mending broken things, so I holed up in my upstairs bedroom for a while and felt sorry for myself. My mom was especially good at solving problems, but this one was out of her wheelhouse. She let me wallow for a while, cooking dinners I didn't feel like eating and waiting for me to emerge. When I didn't, one evening she went rummaging around in the upstairs closet. She pulled out forgotten projects and suggested that I find something to do to take my mind off my troubles.

The bottom of the bin held a stash of vintage cotton fabric; I found remnants from a set of curtains she'd made for a much loved childhood bedroom. There was a pink calico from a set of doll clothes, a blue gingham from a familiar pillow backing and a pink candy cane stripe from a skirt she'd made for me once. Out of distraction more than anything, I gathered these pieces, cut some not very uniform squares, (I struggle a little bit with precise things like numbers and measuring) and decided to start piecing them together.

I didn't really have a plan. I don't sew, I certainly don't quilt, and Mom's sewing machine can really only accurately be described as a hostile adversary of mine. But the distraction kept me from crying too much, so I pressed onward. Over the course of 48 hours I listened to every sad song I could find in my CD/tape collection, and somehow I managed to piece together a quilt top. Most importantly, the ache in my chest was just a tiny little bit lighter than it was when I started.

Fast forward a whole bunch of years. Mom found that quilt top one day and brought it over to the house. I was so surprised - I'd forgotten it. Like memories do, though, I was sharply reminded upon seeing it of that broken heart and the bruise I carried from it. I took it to a quilter friend who helped me get it top-stitched, then all that was left to do was bind it.

And here's where another gigantic break in time happens. Binding is hard. Maybe not for a regular quilter, but for me? It's hard. I would have to sit still in one place for a LONG time. I would have to have some dexterity in my fingertips. I would have to care about things like the aforementioned numbers and measuring. Binding is not really a Sara Gudahl activity. So I boxed up the quilt top and stuffed it back in a closet.

Fast forward a whole bunch more years. Cleaning out a closet one day, I found that quilt top, and quilter friend Holly happened to be over. She said, "Seriously? You still haven't bound that quilt?" I think I maybe just grinned sheepishly. She scooped it up and took it home with her. Today she brought it back.

Somehow she found vintage cotton prints that so closely resemble the originals, they look like they belonged on it. She bound it so beautifully, and when I pulled it out of the bag, do you know what happened? I expected to feel the bite and sting of that original broken heart. I thought I would sharply remember the pain of it and the reason for making this quilt in the first place. But you know what they say about time and it's ability to soften things. Instead, I thought about my mom.

There's a big old metaphor just begging to be used here - my Mom solved problems like a Boss. She was the Master, the Queen Bee of problem solving. She was so good at it - there was almost nothing she couldn't do. But that particular winter, she knew she couldn't fix my problem; she couldn't keep my heart from breaking. But she did know that it needed to be stitched back together, and she knew I had to do it myself. So she brought me a bunch of scraps, some representatives of my childhood and reminders of things that mattered, and challenged to make something out of it. And look at that - I did.

Then she went and left me, and broke my dang heart all over again.

Holly, you know how important you are to me, friend. You said this wasn't a big deal - but it was. Thanks for finishing this for me. It's not just a binding, you know. You stitched together a few pieces of my broken heart, and for that - I can never say thank you enough.

Evolution

I've been a little quiet on the family blog this fall; it's not that there's nothing to write about, I assure you. It's only because I started a Master's program. As it turns out, a Creative Writing Master's expects you to write a lot. (Who knew?) To date, I have written 41 papers for class. I started in July, so you can do the math on that.

It's hard to find minutes to write for myself, but I do have a few thoughts in the quiet week of Christmas Break to share on the all important topic of evolution. I'm talking mainly about social evolution - the way we grow and change with our surroundings and our circumstances. This year we've had a lot of change in our world, and I see it manifesting in each of us differently. My kids are weathering the storms of physical and emotional growth and maturity with as much grace as I could ask of them. There are certainly ups and downs, but I remain proud of their ability to make mistakes and learn from them. So far the stakes have been low, and I'm glad for opportunities to parent them through small things, hoping that the life lessons will stick someday when there are big things.

Aaron dissolved the family business this year, stepping away from tile setting and construction for the first time in his life since he was sixteen years old. Making the decision to accept a job at the school for the Building, Grounds & Maintenance crew was scary; he's been setting his own work schedule for so long I wondered how he was going to adjust to that setting. (Not only does he have set hours on a set schedule, he's got to watch his construction crew language now that he's in school around kids all the time!) But this change has transformed our family in so many ways.

He goes to work at 5:45 every morning, and punches out right before the kids get out of school. That makes him available to pick them up from school, attend every single school activity, and be home every single night for supper. No more road trips, jobs in other states, no more working every odd hour imaginable, including weekends. I can't count how many days and nights he was missing from the family unit in pursuit of the business that kept us afloat. Having him here and present has changed our family dynamic tremendously.

My favorite change that has come with this new position is harder to define. For many years, my job at school has been a little bit of a mystery to my husband. I can talk about school as much as I want, but the truth is, unless you are IN education, it's hard to really relate to the special circumstances and challenges that being an educator brings. He's become a different kind of listener; now that he is in the system he understands me differently, and I can't begin to articulate how much our relationship to each other has deepened and evolved.

I remember a conversation we had a long time ago when we were first married. I was spending lots of hours at school, working on one thing or another. Aaron would be annoyed at my seeming inability to set it down and just come home. He couldn't understand why I would spend unpaid hours there doing extra or unnecessary things. I think when you work in the private sector, that is probably unheard of: you get paid for the work you do and that is that. Teachers' hours are measured in heartbeats, not in money. We live and breathe for our kids, and don't think about the time or the money or the stress; we think about their faces and their minds and their hearts. Once, a long time ago, he asked me, "Why are you giving so much of yourself to other people? What about you?" And I didn't have a good answer for that - I didn't even know how to explain it.

Well last week, we came full circle, back to the question. Being in the school all day every day has put him in close, regular contact with students. And one, in particular, has caught his attention. He's begun to notice for himself that some kids don't have what other kids have. It's one thing to know it, its quite another to FEEL it, especially when that kid is someone you begin to feel a connection to. In the past month, he's been on a mission; buying extra packs of socks and pants and tee shirts, school supplies and odds and ends and donating them to a particular classroom. He comes home with stories about his interactions with students - one teacher even convinced him to wear a purple fuzzy Santa hat all day and participate in a school Scavenger hunt. (What?! Have you MET my husband?) These are just a few examples - he's volunteering for overtime, going in on weekends just because, and asking what else we can do to make life better for kids at school. I'm leaving out some details for privacy, obviously, but this change in my husband is delighting me more than I can even articulate. He gets it - finally. And that means he gets me too, on a level we haven't been able to connect on before.

It makes me think about how we evolve. Every new challenge changes us and brings us to an entirely new plane of understanding. I couldn't have imagined this 15 years ago when we were first married. I wonder what the next fifteen will bring?

Eventually

Today I got a rare peek into the bliss that parenthood promises is coming one day. Someday my kids are going to be functioning, responsible adults, capable of completing tasks without my help and delighting in each other's company. (Right? That's gonna happen some day, right??) It's hard to see the bliss sometimes...it gets a little lost in fights over who gets to sit in the front seat and endless loads of unwashed laundry.

I know that my kids are always going to need me - I'm sure they will still seek me out for my infinite wisdom when I'm old. Right now I'm more like an annoying gnat that makes them do their chores and their homework. I haven't transitioned out of the role of disciplinarian yet, so it still catches me by surprise when I get to see the other side.

Today Cooper threw his whole self into the yard work. I can't even believe I just typed that sentence. Usually when Aaron announces it's a yard/garage/beach cleanup day, all three kids try to lock themselves in their rooms and pretend they just moved to Tahiti. Today Cooper cheerfully got dressed and went outside to help. I didn't have to say anything - he raked up sticks and acorns, then helped Aaron deflate the tubes and get them stored in the garage At one point I said, "Hey. You're doing a really good job and I appreciate it." He said, "Thanks. I'm going to be great at taking care of a family some day." 

Oh. Gosh. Yes you are, buddy. 

Carys is registered for another 5k in October and she isn't currently doing any activities, so she asked me today if she could go for a run and if I would bike along and keep her company. She's 11 years old. I'm pretty sure when I was 11 I was eating Cheetos and watching Growing Pains on the couch every Sunday of my life. But heck yeah, let's go work out!  So we went for a bike/run. She finished three miles in just over 28 minutes, and asked me to write it down so she can work on getting that time down. 

Like, what? 

And then Emma. She actually talked to me for a few minutes about some personal feelings and things going on in her 14 year old world. Out of respect for her privacy, I'll just leave it at that. But it felt really nice, to have her ask my opinion, get some advice, and then share her feelings. I can't pretend that's always gonna happen, because I'm sure it won't - but it was pretty great to feel a little like a confidante instead of like her parent for just a minute.

It was an out-of-the ordinary day for sure. The Vikings lost to Buffalo and Detroit beat New England - maybe the apocalypse is on the way, who knows. 

Regardless, I'm soaking it up. There's a window that opens occasionally that lets me see their grown-up selves. They might actually be functioning adults some day! Some day they'll be calling to tell me about their own families and their own adventures outside of my four walls. It looks exciting...but I think I'll take my time getting there. 

I'll deal with the Front Seat Of The Car Rotating Schedule, the six baskets of unwashed laundry in the utility room and the fight that is currently raging upstairs over who lost the green hairbrush if it means I get to have them under my roof for a little while longer. 

What Matters

It took a lot longer than I thought it would, but Dad finally completed the project he and Mom set out to do three years ago: he moved to Fairmont. I could go into complicated details and ramble on for pages about all the ups and downs they encountered along the way. It was certainly no small task to pack up 30 years of their life and move it, and that came after the epic search for the perfect house. But find it we did. Dad is settled and comfortable in the new place, and now it's time to get the other house ready to sell.

It took a small village to make it happen, let me tell you. It took a few dumpsters and a bunch of trailers and two really hard working young men I happen to know from school, and NOW we are down the finest of details: just a good and thorough cleaning.

Deep cleaning has never been my favorite thing, let me just say that. Complicating things a little is the fact that Mom has been gone two years already, so quite a bit of dust had accumulated in the unused areas of the house. It's also a two story Victorian, with 10 foot ceilings, intricate woodwork and stained glass windows. Cleaning this house is turning out to be a massive project. 

But I was thinking about something tonight when I was there, and that's what compelled me to sit down and write. As I was wiping down woodwork and running my hands down the picture window today, I remembered that when we first moved into that house, Mom wanted to strip all the paint off of the woodwork. She was genuinely annoyed that someone had painted it in the first place. She bought a heat gun and had begun the arduous process of stripping that main picture window. She worked on it a lot - always doing a few inches at a time in between her other projects. But it was an impossible task - after months of work, she'd barely managed to get around one window. When she considered that the main room alone has 4 windows and 3 doorways, she began to see the futility of the project. One day she just tossed the heat gun in the garage and went out and bought a gallon paint and repainted that same strip of woodwork.

And tonight as I was scrubbing that same window, it occurred to me: my hands are everywhere that my mother's hands have been, a hundred times. I'm cleaning her house, the way she cleaned it, with the same purpose. She kept house for my dad; she made it his home and a thing of pride for them both. They found this house in 1986...it is an 1890's original, and together they stripped wallpaper off of every inch of the downstairs family room. They painted and rewired and created my childhood home out of thin air it seems. Every room has the original stained glass. Every floor is original hardwood...never had carpet, never been stapled. I remember them planting the rose bushes and the hydrangeas; Mom loved the lilacs and almost died of a broken heart when the city came and cut down the three red maples lining the front sidewalk.

It became infinitely less tiring to do the work when I thought that every pass of my hand was a mirror to my mother's. When I had a terrible urge to skip cleaning under the heat registers, I could hear the cluck of her tongue, scolding me for even considering doing a half-assed job. (She would have said that, I think..."Sara Jane! Don't do a half-assed job!) So I didn't.

Somebody is getting a great house. It may not have central air; it isn't updated with modern amenities,  but it was always always filled with love. I played ball with my brother and dad in the backyard. I had sleepovers in the big room at the top of the stairs, had my first movie date (on a VHS tape that I rented from a movie store!) in the living room, and stood for prom pictures on the front step. My mom made a million and one cookies in that kitchen, rocked my children to sleep in the living room, and played every game in the world and made every craft known to mankind with them in that house.

Her hands were always busy; I think it makes this task a little sweeter, to be busy there and get it ready for sale so Dad can move on without this extra financial burden.

I haven't really been nostalgic until now. We moved into and out of a lot of houses in my youth - I learned quickly not to get attached to walls and paint and pretty windows. It's what's inside the walls that matters, and we always took it with us when we left. I won't be sad when the house goes because what matters isn't there anymore.

What matters lives in Fairmont now, in a gorgeous ranch-style-double-garage-corner-lot-central-air-filled home. What matters lives in Nashville and sends me snarky text messages on a semi-regular basis to keep a smile on my face. What matters is curled up next to me right now, two reading and one watching a veterinary documentary because that's what she's going to be someday. What matters is outside gathering up the remnants of our last family day on the water before I start back to work tomorrow.

And what matters is waiting for me somewhere close, just out of reach but I can still feel her, and still hear her, whispering, "don't do a half-assed job." I won't, Mama. 

You Win Some, You Lose Some

     My kids are a little on the competitive side. All of them. I don't know how this happened; I'm sure neither Aaron nor I had anything to do with it, genetically or otherwise. But it is what it is, and so we live with it and try to manage it to the best of our abilities. I could tell you that this particular character trait is a recent acquisition, but that would be a lie. They've had it since birth, it seems, and my life's mission is to mold them into kids that may like to win but can handle losing gracefully and even grow from it. They sure like the winning part, but we are still figuring out sometimes how to lose.
     Fortunately, they don't often put their disappointment on display in public; they get emotional, they withdraw a little, and Aaron and I see it in the car on the way home. They're all a little different: Emma fuels her losses with an increase in focus and intensity. She's by far the most aggressive of all my kids; she likes the weight room, thrives on hard work and never backs down from competition. Have you ever seen her get fouled on a lay-up and miss it? You can pretty much guarantee there's a retaliation foul coming. I have tried and tried to soften this particular response, but when your mom is your coach, that's tougher to do. This summer Coach Junkermeier is working on that and I've been delighted to see a new level of control creeping into her game.
     Depending on the situation, Carys goes full-on emotional when she loses. Like, meltdown central. I'm talking tears, slamming doors, the whole nine yards. She doesn't do this in front of people - we mostly see it when she's playing video games with Cooper or getting beat in pretty much everything else by her sister. I was really really worried that this might bleed over into school and organized sports, but the exciting thing is that I've seen no trace of it in individual competitions. She seems to be very calm when competing against herself for scores in gymnastics or times in her races. Maybe the emotion is connected more to sibling rivalry than anything, so my fingers are crossed on that one.
     And then there's Cooper. What can I say? Cooper hates losing so much that he doesn't even want to TRY sports that he might fail at. He's all about the things he has confidence in; he can lose at tennis and chess, because he feels like he's pretty good in those arenas and losing is just an opportunity to get better. But if he doesn't feel a level of confidence going in, he has almost zero interest in trying. He hates to feel weak, I think. We encourage him to try lots of things, but I suspect he's going to stick with the things he feels good at already.
     I have been pondering this competition thing my family has going a lot lately. I've gotten to watch softball and basketball and tennis and swimming and running all week and I have seen how my kids handled it each time they had successes and failures. I think we're getting better, I truly do - Carys missed a first place by .03 in a race and rather than melt down she just said, "Dang it! I can do better than that next time!" Emma played a varsity scrimmage at league for basketball and managed to play an entire game with no fouls. Cooper's team lost the big Coaches Vs. Players tennis competition, and while he was disappointed, he was looking forward to the next session so he could have another attempt. I'd say that's progress.
     Tonight I was scrolling through old photos and videos on my phone and I stumbled on a folder of video clips I found on my Mom's phone. My mother had her own way of managing my kids and their special eccentricities - she was brilliant. She and my dad played games with them all the time, and often had to deal with the competitive meltdowns when somebody lost. I had completely forgotten what she came up with to deal with it. Rather than focus on the negative behaviors of the "losers" my mom turned it around and forced the "winners" to do something ridiculous. She told them they had to make up a Victory Dance and made them perform in front of the whole group when they won. Suddenly winning maybe wasn't their favorite thing, as they became extremely self-conscious, and the "losers" so thoroughly enjoyed the performances that they forgot to be mad. Brilliant.
     One summer they rented a cabin for a weekend of camping and fishing. They played endless games of dominos and chinese checkers and chess and cards with my kids. Mom made every single winner get up and dance, even my Dad. The kids are hysterical with laughter at each other and themselves. And I get to hear my mother's voice, doing what she did best: teaching and playing and loving on my kids.

My Dad

I have always been my Daddy's girl, forever and for ever. I don't tell him enough, or ever, how deeply my attachment to him resides. I don't know if I need to; I think he knows. He was always always the good guy, the one who cuddled and laughed and played. I haven't forgotten a single childhood regular event: riding on his back all over the living room, wrestling and rough-housing until he finished with The Claw on my face and a massive tickling session. While Mom played word games with me all day long, it was Dad who read books to me every night. He played catch with me all summer in the yard, made me read the newspaper, taught me about current events and was always my biggest fan. 
     I admire my father's infinite patience, his easy smile, his compassion, his intelligence,  and his unwavering commitment to my Mother and our family. 
In the months since we lost my mom, my dependence on him seems to be multiplying. He's the only one to tell my stories to, the only one with my whole heart and history imprinted on his own. He knows how I feel about pretty much everything before I have to say it. 
     He would never tell anyone that he's as good a writer, or better, than I am. No one would guess that he's a walking Encyclopedia of everything from Andy Griffith to foreign policy. He knows something about almost everything, and says nothing unless you ask him. 
     Once, when I went over to see my Mom in the nursing home, after she had lost the ability to speak, I paused outside her door. It was open just a little. Dad was sitting in the chair next to her bed. He was holding her hand, she was just looking at him, silently. He was just looking right back, gazing quietly into her eyes. I stood there for a long minute, unwilling to interrupt this moment. One of the CNAs walking down the hall paused next to me and whispered,  "He sits like that, with her, a lot. Just looking at each other, no words. I hope somebody loves me like that someday." I had to leave; I walked outside, sat in my car and cried for twenty minutes. My dad loves me a powerful lot. He loved my Mom even more and I can't even describe in words what it felt like to be raised in a family like that. I am so lucky, and I know it. I don't take it for granted for a single second.
     The pictures from my childhood were largely taken by my mother; she hated being in them, so she always took them. I have dozens of favorites of me and my Dad. My favorite recent photo is this one, taken at a Pizza Hut about a week before my Mom's diagnosis. I see so much of me sometimes in Carys; she was remarkably close to my Mom, and she's got an affinity for my Dad and his cuddles that I recognize. In this picture, Carys is tucked neatly into his arm, but all I can see is me, feeling every bit as secure and happy as my Dad's embrace always makes me feel. Happy Father's Day, Dad. Love you.