Sub Notes: Rise from the Ashes

Sometimes on my job I have to talk so much that I forget an even harder skill: listening.

I was walking around the room to make sure these high school children were working. He was done with his work, and he was drawing. Part of my job as his special education teacher was to redirect him to something productive, but there was such intensity about the way he was bent over the page, something told me I needed to ask.

“Beautiful,” I said. “It’s a Phoenix, right?”

He was a tough-looking boy. But here is a secret I learned long ago: high school children don’t dress to reflect who they are, but who they want to become. Tough looking ones often are the most sensitive people who are trying to overcome tough circumstances. He looked up from his desk glowing with quiet pride.

“It’s the tattoo I’m getting,” he told me. “I was in a car accident six months ago. They said I died briefly. But I made it. It’s been hard work, but the phoenix represents how far I’ve come.”

I didn’t do my job that day and tell him to work on something else. Sometimes nature lights her own fires, and all we can do is stand back and marvel at what rises from them.

Education is not the filling of a pail, but the lighting of a fire. ~William Butler Yeats

And She Loved to the Very Bottom of her Heart

Though he hid it well, my husband was a very jealous man.

And here I was, unable to quit thinking about my first love, a childhood romance. But I had put away childish things for a more practical life, and I was happy.

Except I wasn’t.

So I met my love when my husband wasn’t home—briefly at first, and then more and more until I felt as if we could never truly be apart again. I looked forward to our trysts with an unparalleled giddiness and left feeling flushed and spent and whole.

“You're back,” an old college friend remarked over the phone. Had I been gone? “Yes, for a long time,” she said.

And then, after a phone call, I made the announcement. “I am guest columnist at a newspaper.” I still remember the way his face went red, then white with anger.

I never looked back.

Happy Valentine’s Day to all who love words as I do.

It’s Valentine’s Day. It’s not the day you run away from love. It’s the day you chase it down. ~Cameron in “Modern Family”

Welcome Warmth

Thanks to the ever-sunny Lisa Ricard Claro of Writing in the Buff for the "Sunshine Award!" I’ve been wiped out by a very nasty cold, and it brightened my entire week. I’ve said before that I think some people have what I call “Writer’s Aura”—where everything the person writes has a warmth and brightness to it. Lisa shines in that way.

First, I am required to answer these questions:

Favorite color: Depends on what it’s for, but the colors on my blog are biggies. Especially warm, sunny coral.

Favorite animal: Love most animals, but this one’s a no-brainer. Dog.
Favorite number: 4.
Favorite drink: These days, tropical flavored iced green teas are way up there. Salada makes one that to me tastes exactly like a spring day feels.
Facebook or Twitter?: Facebook.
Your passions: I’m one of those people who have way too many passions. Some of them are: my children, writing, friends, pets, nature, drawing and painting, and gardening. Had a much longer list, but I cut it down because I sounded like a nerd. Oh, and making nerdy lists.

Giving or getting presents: Have to agree with Lisa’s response: Both!
Favorite day: Saturday.  
Favorite flowers: The traditional gardener’s response is “whatever’s blooming right now.” So that would be the orchid that a dear friend gave me a couple of birthdays ago.

My instructions are to pass this "Sunshine Award" on to two bloggers who cheer me when I visit. So I pick Sioux of Sioux’s Page and Val the Victorian of Unbagging the Cats. Neither one is truly  someone I would categorize so much as “sunshiny”—at least in a Brady Bunch kind of way—because with these bloggers, there will be the occasional sunburn. Which is exactly what makes them both so real and so fun.

Thank you both…and thank you, LisaRicard Claro!!

In poverty and other misfortunes of life, true friends are a sure refuge.~Aristotle

Improper Poll: Name That Shoe

I admit it. I wear only named shoes. Oh, I don’t mean Monolo Blahnik or Christian Louboutin. I mean I name my shoes. It’s hard not to when they’re that butt-ugly.

I am the proud owner of a genuine pair of Herman Munsters, some Minnie Mouses, and some not-so-glad-iators. My sister obligingly spiced up my slipper-wear by giving me a pair of Neanderthal Mans for Christmas. I recently bought a pair of Wicked Witch of the Easts, but they tricked me by behaving very comfortably at the store and then turning wicked once I brought them home. I almost wish a house would drop on them (as long as my feet aren’t in them at the time).

The reason I love my butt-uglies so much these days is because there really was a time when I wore heels on a daily basis. Now I think of them as evil instruments of torture.

I once read that most women own their age in shoes—one pair for each year. I guess that means my shoes make me young, because I only own a small fraction of my age, mainly because I wear my favorites, the boring-but-comfortable Clark Kents, with almost everything at work. When I get home, I usually change into The Beloveds, a pair of old Reeboks.

Take that, Carrie Bradshaw. Do you own your age in shoes?

Improper Poll: Word Nerdisms

Okay, I admit it. This might well be an Old Lady Thing—and a crotchety Old Lady Thing at that. But lots and lots of people mispronounce certain words, and then it makes everyone else think they’re mispronounced, so everyone else does it, too. But does that make it right? In the case of language, yes. When enough people mispronounce something, that eventually becomes the accepted pronunciation. So that just confuses things more.

The current one that I keep hearing is “pedophile.” When I first read the word, I looked it up. According to my beloved Webster, it is correctly pronounced with a long e: pee-duh-fahyl. And it makes sense. We take our children to the pee-dee-uh-tri-shun. Yes, “pee-duh-fahyl” sounds a bit…icky…but let’s face it, it’s an icky thing. So why am I the only person in the world who isn’t pronouncing it like the root word has something to do with feet?

Do you have a word that you keep hearing people mispronounce?

Improper Poll: Frozen in Time

Last week Kay said something interesting. She said that in her mind, she is 32 again.

I thought that was an interesting number. A few years ago, when my son read The Picture of Dorian Gray, and vampire books were all the rage, my children and I had a discussion about staying one age forever. My son made the assumption that, if we all had the choice to be frozen at one age for eternity, we would not only automatically snap up the chance, but we would all choose to be 18. He was shocked when I told him I adhere more to the wisdom of the beloved little Tuck Everlasting, and if forced, I wouldn't pick 18. I would choose something older, like around 32. Actually I was in my best shape ever at 37, but I did have a few Ugly Skin Things by then.

In dreams (the literal kind), I am always somewhere between about 25 and 35. How old are you in dreams? What age would you pick to stay forever if you could?

Do not fear death, but rather the unlived life. You don't have to live forever. You just have to live. And she did. ~Natalie Babbitt, Tuck Everlasting

Sub Notes: Seen ‘Em All

I was standing in the high school library, subbing for the librarian. “Lookin’ good!” exclaimed the high school boy as he strode by. “Nice hair!”

I looked behind me. There was no one there. “No, the person behind you,” he laughed.

I was sort of horrified. Was he being sarcastic?

He seemed like a sweet, affable kid. Even though most people my age assume teenagers say horrible things about us, I don’t think they really do that much. At least not to our faces. In fact, I'm pretty sure most of them just don’t think of us much at all. Still, it was weird to have some high school kid tell me he liked my I-have-to-be-at-work-by-6:30 AM-hair.

Yet there was something so genuine about this kid. He will be a P.R. guy someday, this one. Or an amazing salesman. I shrugged and thanked him.

It wasn’t till later that I realized it: he thought I was the woman I was subbing for! Because to a kid that age, we really do all look alike. The woman I was subbing for is about my age, and we both have brown hair. That is where the similarities stop. In fact, her hair is much longer than mine. Which explains it. He thought she’d had it cut! I wonder what he thought when “I” showed up at work with long hair again?
 

I once had a high school girl mistake me for a teacher who is about five inches taller than I am and has short, poufy, red hair. Mine is droopy, shoulder length, and brown. But to a teenager, we were both female and have the same number of limbs. Close enough! After all, we old people are pretty much interchangeable.

So I’ve thought of a new job. Whenever parents of teenagers want to run away (which I’m sure happens often), I will hire myself out (for big bucks, of course) to fill in.  I won’t have to disguise myself at all because the kids will never notice I’m a different person. 

Middle school paper that proves spelling counts: "The man fell off a 
 hor   ." 

Improper Poll: Get the Tact, Jack

Tact is a foreign language to me. As someone who grew up in a family which spoke the more harsh Brutal Honesty, I admire the beauty of that other language even if I’m not fluent enough to fully understand it.I learned at a young age that the less I know a person, the more likely they are to speak that other nice language or its even more flowery relative, Bold Faced White Lies.

For example, here are the various responses to the question, “Does this make me look fat?”

Total stranger:  “Are you kidding? You are so emaciated, I think you should gain twenty pounds!  And I really mean it!”

Acquaintance: “Nooo! You‘re so skinny, nothing could make you look fat.”

Friend:  “I’m just not sure it’s really ‘you.’”

Relative:  “No, it doesn‘t make you look fat. You ARE fat. And what you‘re wearing doesn‘t help any, either.”

I sometimes see a dermatologist. I do this because I come from a long line of people who not only speak Brutal Honesty, but also get Skin Things. Some of the Skin Things are merely ugly, but some are dangerous and ugly, too.  So my dermatologist has the dubious job of telling me which is which.

There is something special about my dermatologist, besides his admirable ability to differentiate ugly Skin Things all day. Whereas Tact is clearly not a course requirement in many medical school programs, this doctor has a minor in it.This particular Ugly Skin Thing was on my back, so I waved over my shoulder in its general direction. “See it?” I asked.

Several seconds passed before he replied, “Can you find it in the mirror and point to it?” As I fumbled in the mirror, the translation came to me: Which Ugly Skin Thing are you talking about? They’re all over the place back here!

When I finally managed to identify the correct Thing, my dermatologist hesitated only a moment before giving me the name. They always have a long, official sounding name that means, essentially, “Ugly Skin Thing.” Then he told me they’re hereditary. No surprise there. At this point he spoke one of my favorite lines of Tact, ever. “They’re associated with having lived a nice amount of life.”

Don’t you love it? “A nice amount of life.”  I blinked while the translation sank in. “You mean it’s an Old Age Skin Thing?” I asked. He smiled kindly. I was stunned. At the time I was only in my mid-thirties. Mid-thirties!

He told me it could be removed, then gave a shrug which meant, “But why bother? Who would miss one in this giant field of Ugly Skin Things, anyway?” He handed me a pamphlet which I numbly stuck into my purse, and I slunk out of there.

When I got home, I took it out of my purse and was horrified. The model on the front, in spite of being quite fit and handsome, had lived a much nicer amount of life than I have lived. I would say his amount of life was twice as nice as mine. I was stunned. So I did what any normal person would do. I called my sister. This is because she’s lived a nicer amount of life than I’ve lived, and she’s generally had all of the Ugly Skin Things I’ve had. I described the Skin Thing and gave her the name.

“Oh, I have those,” she said. She told me which relatives had them, too. “Welcome to old age.”

This reminded me. Never ask a medical question of a relative. I will be asking my dermatologist from now on. Maybe I’ll even ask him if my pants make me look fat, too.

Do you have a euphemism that you love?

Sub Notes: A Thousand Lashes

A little sixth grader raised her hand as I was walking around the classroom. She indicated the child in front of her. “Aren’t those the most amazing eyelashes you’ve ever seen?” I looked. Probably a sound came out of my mouth because I felt as if I’d been shoved backwards by the sheer wind force of those appendages.

They resided on a very masculine-looking little boy.

The boy blushed with the horror of his affliction. He looked down, and the lashes seemed to curtsy.

“He cuts them!” the little girl said. The agony, the envy, the indignation and the grief were painful in her voice.

“Nooo!” I grieved with her.

They were exquisite. They looked like an ad for mascara that is supposed to transform the eyes like magic. But these were ironically naked of trickery. They were real, and they were spectacular. They were glossy, sleek, raven-black, at least ¾ of an inch long. They were as uniform as the ridges on a feather, but they swooped upward in a unanimous arc that brought to mind the unfolding wings of a magnificent black swan.

When the boy looked down (with abject embarrassment at his deformity), I half expected him to lift off his chair a bit.

One thing I love about sixth graders is that they haven’t yet learned how to hide certain feelings. Yet they are old enough to try. So in those eyes—which I only caught a glimpse of when the protective wings lifted—I saw a simultaneous war of pride and shame.

“Wow, those are....” Fortunately I caught myself in time. “Those are very handsome,” I said.

 As I turned to walk away, the lashes took a modest bow.

High School Boy (while stroking fuzz on his upper lip): “Dude, when this mustache grows in all fat, I’ll look awesome.” 
High School Girl (overhearing): “Dude, when that mustache grows in fat, you’ll look like one of those porn guys.”

Improper Poll: In a Word

Recently at work I read parts of Life’s Greatest Lessons. In it, the author, Hal Urban, discussed the idea of constantly being reminded by the words “think” and “thank.”

That got me thinking: if you could have one word posted where you would see it every day as a reminder, what word would you choose? I think mine might be the word, “grateful.” The more I see what can go wrong in life, the more grateful I am for the things that are right.

In fact, a friend and I were talking about this the other day. Why is it that the people we know who have it easiest in life are those who seem to think they are perpetually suffering? They have a talent for getting people to rally around them and do things for them while they sit back and complain. These people are invariably masters of the double standard. They don’t seem to return the things they ask for. When asked why, they say it’s because they are more sensitive than others. So sensitive that they will beat people to a bloody pulp with their “I’m Sensitive” signs and then tell them they are mean for running away.

I’m convinced that the happiest people in life are not those who have it easiest. The people who have the things that look like they should be happy struggle so hard to look better than others that I can’t help but wonder if they feel worse.

My friend and I concluded that it’s really the grateful who are the most happy in life. If you could have any one word posted as a reminder where you would see it every day, what would that word be?

Here’s to a happy—and grateful—2013!

Signing and Christmas and Stuff

I know—I’ve been remiss in my blogging, much too bogged to blog. I must nonetheless report that the “Chicken Soup for the Soul, Canned Soup for the Body” book signing was wonderful, and we even got to meet the elusive Val Thevictorian along with some male members of the Thevictorian family.

We collected lots of food for charity and sold an average of 4 books each. Many, many thanks to our friends and family who came out to support us, not to mention to my dear and talented writer friend Theresa Sanders, for doing the work of setting it all up. She begins the preparations at least six months beforehand and did even more work this year to add the extra bookstores.

The above is video footage accidentally shot by my friend Jeffry. None of us knew the camera was on “movie” setting. I thought Jeffry was just one of those people who make you wait forever before he snaps the picture.

Shown left to right are Nina Miller, Theresa Sanders, Dennis Tidwell (co-owner of All on the Same Page bookstore), me, and Patt Hollinger Pickett. 

Friends, family, chocolate, books, laughter…does it get any better?

Which brings me to Christmas, and:

Ten Wonderful Themes of Christmas, No Matter What Your Religion

1. Give.
2. Celebrate babies.
3. Let there be chocolate.
4. Spend time with family.
5. Spend time with friends.
6. Embrace traditions, because we never outgrow them.
7. Make children feel special.
8. Create magic. Believe in magic. Be magical.
9. Decorate. Sing. Get in touch with your spiritual side. One of life’s many paradoxes is that the greatest of people are the ones who know they are not the greatest thing out there.
10. I am now going to reveal what I find is the greatest miracle of Christianity. It’s the miracle that for over 2000 years, so many people worship, as the greatest king who ever lived, a man who was born in a barn. A poor “nobody” who taught that the most valuable riches are found within. Now that’s something.

May Christmas find you with exactly what you value most in life. May it be light in darkness and comfort in need. May it raise humanity to new heights and cause your soul to sing with angels.

"Better joy in a cottage than sorrow in a palace..."    ~ Proverbs

Improper Poll: Death by Christmas Décor

When I was growing up, my mother used to decorate with nostalgia. I don’t mean decorations with a nostalgic feel, either. She had to have every ornament and light that had survived her own childhood—even if her entire childhood would have been outlawed by today’s EPA. I still consider it a miracle that her tree had once been lighted by seriously frayed 1940s bubble lights rather than actual flaming candles.

Then there was the wreath. In life it had been made of real holly, but that holly hadn't seen life since at least two wars earlier. In death it had atrophied and mummified into a vicious, gnarled business I still think of as The Wreath of Wrath. It was a cruel crown of thorns that lived in the bowels of the scary-crawl-space during the rest of the year and drew blood even through the most heavy duty pair of mittens. It was always below zero in Nebraska at that time of year, so the unfortunate Christmas decorator was besieged by all sorts of peril. And guess who was always voted Noel Ostentatious Ornamentation Operator (N.O.O.O.)?

So when my daughter and I decorated, I tried to get an honest look at what I was putting up. Some is trying to be pretty, and some is a little nostalgic, and some is blatantly tacky…or what the children liked to call “fun.” Not only does baby Jesus slumber in front of a strobe-lighted manger of pine garland, but a quilted Rudolf-trophy head presides over the room just because I enjoy its satirical feel.

So tell me: Do you have dangerous décor? Or do you do pretty, tacky or nostalgic? Or all of the above? Or nothing at all?

P.S.-Many, many thanks to those of you who came out to see us for the Fourth Annual "Chicken Soup for the Soul, Canned Soup for the Body" event!!! I will be posting more about this later!

Fourth Annual "Chicken Soup for the Soul, Canned Soup for the Body" Book Signing

Next Saturday is the fourth annual “Chicken Soup for the Soul, Canned Soup for the Body” book signing! This combination book signing and canned food drive has now expanded citywide in honor of Chicken Soup's upcoming twentieth anniversary.

Bring a canned good and receive 20% off your entire purchase. There are three stores this year:

From 10 am to 12 noon: All on the Same Page, 11052 Olive Blvd., Creve Coeur, MO. Picture a cozy and unexpected little reading oasis featuring books from lots of local authors. Featured will be Nina Miller, Theresa Sanders, and me, T'Mara Goodsell.

From 1-3 pm: Main Street Books, 307 South Main Street, St. Charles, MO. Imagine a Thomas Kincaid painting complete with brick streets and horse-drawn carriages, and you will have a pretty good idea of Main Street. Signing books will be Cathi LaMarche, Linda O'Connell , Lynn Cahoon, and Pat Wahler.

From 4-6 PM: The Book House, 9719 Manchester Rd., St. Louis, MO. This charmer looks just like it belongs in a Dickens Christmas Village (both inside and out). Featured writers will be Beth M. Wood, Donna Duly Volkenannt, and Sioux Roslawski.

This is a great day to do your book shopping if you live in the Saint Louis area. If you don't, it's a great day for a road trip! Hope to see you there!