Thursday, January 28, 2010
Monday, January 25, 2010
The List
I have been thinking about lists a lot lately. Perhaps it is because I am just getting old and often need to make them to remind myself of things. Perhaps it is just genetics. Women on both sides of my family are famous for their lists.
My mother actually makes lists of things to talk to me about on the phone. We have never had the pleasure of living close enough to just pop over for coffee and a chat. Our conversations have had to happen usually over long distance phone calls, so we have had to make the most of our time. Mom likes to keep a piece of paper near the phone and quickly record all she needs to share with me as she thinks of it. We have been known not hang up until the list is completed. I wish I had some of the past lists now. They would be like small diaries of our mundane moments and life-changing talks.
I recently inherited my paternal grandmother's beautiful old dining room set and, there, tucked away in the silver drawer of the buffet, was a list my grandmother had made many years ago of all of the people she was having over one December afternoon for a big lunch. I love thinking about her weathered hand moving down the paper as she thought about and recorded our names in anticipation of our all too seldom visits. My grandmother was not an exeptionally warm and affectionate woman. Her love demonstrated itself through her exceptional cooking and homemaking and through the lists she made of people or food so the meal would be perfect. I miss her hands and wish I had saved more of the lists they made.
And so, today I am leaving a list for my daughters. It doesn't contain anything important. It is just a snapshot of the things that are on my mind today. It is just the things I need to do. It is me being me. Who knows. Maybe someday, forty years from now, my girls will find this and will remember my hands on this keyboard...
My mother actually makes lists of things to talk to me about on the phone. We have never had the pleasure of living close enough to just pop over for coffee and a chat. Our conversations have had to happen usually over long distance phone calls, so we have had to make the most of our time. Mom likes to keep a piece of paper near the phone and quickly record all she needs to share with me as she thinks of it. We have been known not hang up until the list is completed. I wish I had some of the past lists now. They would be like small diaries of our mundane moments and life-changing talks.
I recently inherited my paternal grandmother's beautiful old dining room set and, there, tucked away in the silver drawer of the buffet, was a list my grandmother had made many years ago of all of the people she was having over one December afternoon for a big lunch. I love thinking about her weathered hand moving down the paper as she thought about and recorded our names in anticipation of our all too seldom visits. My grandmother was not an exeptionally warm and affectionate woman. Her love demonstrated itself through her exceptional cooking and homemaking and through the lists she made of people or food so the meal would be perfect. I miss her hands and wish I had saved more of the lists they made.
And so, today I am leaving a list for my daughters. It doesn't contain anything important. It is just a snapshot of the things that are on my mind today. It is just the things I need to do. It is me being me. Who knows. Maybe someday, forty years from now, my girls will find this and will remember my hands on this keyboard...
- finish filling out Grace's birthday invitations
- put all the cords where they belong that I found while cleaning closets
- gather the tax information
- see why the check engine light is on in my car
- register for my teaching recertification hours
- pass back graded papers in class
- prepare to teach "The Pearl" by Steinbeck
- get caught up on laundry
- decide to go to the beach no matter what
- buy plane tickets to Texas for Spring break
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Why honey bees?
I'd just gotten a divorce after 14 years of marriage. After having to sell our big dream home, I'd managed to buy a much smaller house that was just big enough for my two daughters and me. It was mouse infested and needed lots of work when I bought it, but I had done everything I could to make the little house feel right for us. I painted with colors I loved, decorated in all the pink I wanted, sewed perfect little floral valances that my former husband would have hated, and hung girly Irish lace cafe curtains in the kitchen. For inspiration, I'd even hung a huge picture of Rosie the Riveter with the words, "We Can Do It" in huge block letters at the end of our main hallway. Yet, my girls and I were still feeling alone and sad about where we now found ourselves.
One day, I was cleaning out the fireplace and noticed a thick, gooey, substance pooling under the grate. I was horrified. I had heard birds in the chimney earlier in the week and believed that one had died up in there and decomposition had begun. I thought, in the Texas heat, that the bird was liquefying or something. I called my former husband and asked him to come over and see if that was, indeed, what had happened. I had no idea how to remove something that was up in the flue.
He came over, knelt down on the hearth and began investigating. I sat on the couch watching, totally grossed out. Before long, he reached down and touched the puddle of muck and actually tasted it! As I was just about to shriek about how nasty that was, he gave a slight laugh and said, "It's bees. You've got honey bees in your chimney. And, from the sounds of it, there is an entire colony in there."
From that moment on, I knew I was home. I'd always wanted to keep bees after watching my grandfather tend his hives. And now, those amazing insects had chosen my house as their safe place to make their home and do their work. The fireplace was literally dripping with the golden, sweet substance. I placed a bowl in the fireplace and made good use of the honey when I wanted some hot tea.
I never felt alone again. That little house is now and forever will be known for me and my daughters as, "The Happy House." It was our safe place to make our home and do the work of healing. We would survive and life would go on. We would make it work. Who needs a perfect hive?
I later learned that my own name, Melissa, is Greek for honey bee. It fits. It all makes sense now.
One day, I was cleaning out the fireplace and noticed a thick, gooey, substance pooling under the grate. I was horrified. I had heard birds in the chimney earlier in the week and believed that one had died up in there and decomposition had begun. I thought, in the Texas heat, that the bird was liquefying or something. I called my former husband and asked him to come over and see if that was, indeed, what had happened. I had no idea how to remove something that was up in the flue.
He came over, knelt down on the hearth and began investigating. I sat on the couch watching, totally grossed out. Before long, he reached down and touched the puddle of muck and actually tasted it! As I was just about to shriek about how nasty that was, he gave a slight laugh and said, "It's bees. You've got honey bees in your chimney. And, from the sounds of it, there is an entire colony in there."
From that moment on, I knew I was home. I'd always wanted to keep bees after watching my grandfather tend his hives. And now, those amazing insects had chosen my house as their safe place to make their home and do their work. The fireplace was literally dripping with the golden, sweet substance. I placed a bowl in the fireplace and made good use of the honey when I wanted some hot tea.
I never felt alone again. That little house is now and forever will be known for me and my daughters as, "The Happy House." It was our safe place to make our home and do the work of healing. We would survive and life would go on. We would make it work. Who needs a perfect hive?
I later learned that my own name, Melissa, is Greek for honey bee. It fits. It all makes sense now.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Haiti and Ernest Hemingway
I am a huge news hound. I read the news on my cell phone all day long and check the news feeds on my computer whenever I am not teaching. That is why what I am about to tell you is so strange...I have not read or watched one single report on the earthquake in Haiti.
I have analyzed this and can only come up with the following reason: I feel it is all so out of control. I don't know what I am supposed to do with the information I get from the reports during disasters besides become depressed and hopeless. I am convinced we watch some of these disasters out of a morbid curiosity. Like gawking at a car wreck as we creep by after waiting in traffic.
Today, as I was preparing lessons to teach the book, Old Man and the Sea, to my high school sophomores, I was struck by the theme of the book and how the message of the book is what I need to get Haiti "under control" in my own head. Maybe it will help you as well.
Hemingway, who knew all too well how out of control our lives can feel, wrote a simple, beautiful little book about an old man who, for his whole life, has struggled against the sea in order to fish. That's it. It is just about an old man and a fish. But, out of that struggle, we find the following:
I may be destroyed, but I am not defeated.
The tragedy of Haiti will be immeasurable for many years to come, but the people of Haiti will find strength, dignity, and heroism in the face of death and destruction. The human spirit is amazing, especially when covered in cement dust and blood. Even when it knows it cannot possibly win in the end, it does not give up. Thanks, Papa Hemingway, for reminding me of this today.
I have analyzed this and can only come up with the following reason: I feel it is all so out of control. I don't know what I am supposed to do with the information I get from the reports during disasters besides become depressed and hopeless. I am convinced we watch some of these disasters out of a morbid curiosity. Like gawking at a car wreck as we creep by after waiting in traffic.
Today, as I was preparing lessons to teach the book, Old Man and the Sea, to my high school sophomores, I was struck by the theme of the book and how the message of the book is what I need to get Haiti "under control" in my own head. Maybe it will help you as well.
Hemingway, who knew all too well how out of control our lives can feel, wrote a simple, beautiful little book about an old man who, for his whole life, has struggled against the sea in order to fish. That's it. It is just about an old man and a fish. But, out of that struggle, we find the following:
I may be destroyed, but I am not defeated.
The tragedy of Haiti will be immeasurable for many years to come, but the people of Haiti will find strength, dignity, and heroism in the face of death and destruction. The human spirit is amazing, especially when covered in cement dust and blood. Even when it knows it cannot possibly win in the end, it does not give up. Thanks, Papa Hemingway, for reminding me of this today.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
A Kiss For Luck and We're On Our Way
My cousin, Kelly, is getting married today. My entire family is there except me. I have the kind of job that tells me when I should be off and when I shouldn't. I teach school. My school district says I should be off on all weekends, a few days around major holidays, like Christmas and Easter, and, or course, summers. I would like to be off when my family has major events, like weddings. I just cannot get to a wedding in Dallas on Saturday, when I have to teach until 4:30 on Friday afternoon in Iowa.
Since I can't be at the wedding, and since I am feeling quite sorry for myself, I decided to go to a wedding anyway. I got out all of my daughter's wedding pictures that were taken two, almost three, years ago and had myself a little wedding of my own. It was almost as fun as actually being there today, except I didn't get any cake or free champagne today. Here's to all the newlyweds.
Needing Summer
Every year, as winter settles in for the long stay, I find myself wishing I had gone to the beach and enjoyed the previous summer more. I wish I had replaced the windows in my bedroom so the bitter draft would not be felt while lying in my bed. I wish I had spent more time outside. So, now, as I am surrounded by white snow and temperatures below zero, I find myself searching for signs of the summer. I need flowers, I need to hang clothes outside on the line, I need to see pictures of beaches. I need to plan a vacation, even if I never take it. I need to avoid the color white at all costs.
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