Reflecting on a Golden Childhood

I woke up laughing this morning. And when I was done snickering, I was nostalgic and reflective. I couldn't go back to sleep and got up early to get it out. Ben roused a minute and I told him the story from the dream. He laughed and went back to sleep. I must have slept well enough because I had random, vivid dreams.

I ate a corn tortilla, mini taco-looking thing. Angelia served some at a family party Sunday. I didn't eat one then because I don't eat corn. But in my dream, I ate it. And the tortilla was a good one, the sweetness and flavor came out like a well-made tortilla ought to. MMmmmmm. The intensity of taste and correct texture was in the dream. Still can almost taste it.

There was another one, political for some reason and one other about friends I would do service with at the church building.

But the one that has me dwelling in the golden nostalgia for childhood included women I have known the very longest (outside my family) that I still have contact with. They were the girls of Lakewood III ward.

When we moved into Lakewood and lived on Woodruff Ave, the ward was the 4th ward. My very first memory of that ward is Halloween. Mother took us to somebody's house where the kids had built a "haunted house" tour in their backyard. And the guide had the most interesting voice I'd heard in my short six years. I didn't know the family although I had been in Primary and Sunday School with them for about 2 months by then.

It was the Cope family. At the time, there were 5 kids. And they were fun-loving (still are), involved in everything, and seemed to include everyone. They were loud (not a bad thing I thought) and together. I always admired the family. Their mom was cool, and their dad became my bishop.

There were other homes I spent time in, I can picture the McAffe's, Bennett's, Harmon's and Larsen's. There were alot of us girls in that class. I went through school with these girls because I went to both Thomas Jefferson and Ester Lindstrom. We were at Roosevelt and Mayfair together. We weren't all part of the same groups at school, but we shared Primary and Sunday School lessons, MIA and girls' camp, roadshows and Seminary.

I dreamt there was some kind of reunion, so we were all women. We were at a community pool. In dreams, at least mine, juxtaposition is not a question, however bizarre it may be in reality. So it was no problem that when the life guards cleared the pool for 5 minutes and we stepped into the changing area, there was the Cope's home-which, as I now consider the layout, really wasn't so (remember juxtaposition in dreams) but we were comfortable thinking it was. As we waited, Stephanie, Bonnie, and Jody (with the fascinating voice) had just arrived. Karie and I were already changed, but I was having wardrobe issues and was glad for time to adjust an elastic band on top. Jodi doing a wardrobe check in the mirror and made a comment (in Spanish?!?! love my dreams!) which I caught and smiled at. But it triggered a memory from teaching. I told the story to the women who were the girls I grew up with.

9 years ago, I taught ESL Biology. I had a lab activity out, set up on the counters around the room. In those years, the style was that the hem of the shirt didn't quite make it to the waistline of the pants/skirt. Because of dress code, the girls overlapped as little as possible, we teachers reminded as much as possible, and the girls tugged down as pretentiously as possible. One girl in a short skirt leaned over at a station to complete the activity there. I was somewhat concerned about the skirt length and kept an eye out because the boys needed to finish their worksheet as well. She shifted and exposed the edge of her thong waistband, not the part of the skirt I had been worried about. I rolled my eyes and cast them about the classroom. Everyone else was engrossed in the work. Presently she must have felt the exposure of her back and made an adjustment. Instead of tugging her shirt down, like I expected, she reached for the waistband of her skirt. And got the thong, and gave it a tug. I still laugh as I imagine her face as she realized her error. I'm pretty sure I didn't laugh, but I'm pretty sure I smirked. When she turned around, she knew I had seen her gaffe. And apologized. I think I said something like I wasn't the one who was uncomfortable.

As I finished telling the story to my friends, I was laughing hard enough to bring tears to my eyes, remembering, and woke myself up. Smiling at my funny students, warm in the glow of childhood and nostalgia. Because as awkward and shy as I felt around the other girls, I could be amused and uninhibited around them as well. I always thought that was a liability. Today, I'm not so sure.

Laura, Caddie and I

I was a reader. Voracious. I don't read so much now because I sit and read. All at once. I don't do well stopping at chapters. And my life doesn't have those great blocks of time.
In my elementary school years, Laura Ingalls and Caddie Woodlawn were my heroines. Kinda still are. But I was a tomboy, and I understood their desire to get outside and play. Still do. And I was pretty sure I'd been born in the wrong time. I wanted to be a pioneer girl. My Easter dress in 5th or 6th grade included a pinafore. Mother had made this dress and pinafore, and I could pretend I was a pioneer girl. I still remember the image I had of myself standing confidently in the school yard.
But I didn't have the right shoes. Well, yes, one of those Christmases, I received lace up go go boots, but they were too high up my leg and didn't count. And sneakers just weren't pioneerish.

Many years later, I saw my shoes, practically exactly the ones I imaged so long ago.
I spent the money even though they were a half size too big. I don't remember how much they were. But I was divorced with three children and relying on child support and alimony. I didn't spend much on myself. But I favored myself that day.
They were my dancing shoes. I danced with many men in those. At dances in Utah and Arizona. Dancing was my escape those few years. For 3 hours a night, I danced my cares away. I wore them as a substitute teacher-"They look like witch shoes." "They look like Mary Poppins shoes." I didn't care. I had my pioneer shoes, the kind I'd always wanted.

The heels wore down. I had the tap replaced. I polished them and cared for them.
Then age set in and the pain I nearly always felt began to wear on me. I have to wear good shoes being on my feet all day. I balance comfort and cute so that my back and feet can get me through the day.
My beautiful black hook-and-lace shoes sit in the closet. Sometimes I dust them off to wear to church. If it's a good day, I've laced them up for school. I don't dance so much anymore, and only with my beloved. But I couldn't get rid of my shoes. They meant a childhood memory and self image. They carried me through the dark days of divorce and the aliveness of dancing. Should shoes mean so much? Really?

Then I saw these Saturday evening.
I couldn't walk away; I ordered another pair in olive green online because they were not in the store in my size. They zip (not pioneerish) and the buttons are decorations, but you should feel the leather! I paid enough for very soft, beautiful leather. And comfortable fit. My means have changed, but there is still a little pioneer girl, enough of a tomboy in me, who would really just rather be outside in the sunshine.

meh

I realized my shirt was on inside out at 3:15 pm today. At least I haven't gone anywhere since coming home from the temple and changing to work clothes. But you'd think Ben, Burton or Martin would say something. Oh wait. Never mind, they're boys and probably not paying attention. Where's the daughter when you need her? Or maybe she would think I did it on purpose. At least it would be someone to laugh with. Silly me.

Stirring the Pot

Karey White is a friend from my past. She found me on FB (I love that about FB!) recently. Karey knew me when. She knows a chapter in my story that many of my adulthood friends don't. She was there. We hung out the year I sat out of school.

Kary writes, blogs and books. I like reading Karey's blog (I'm waiting for the book). Sometimes I wipe tears from my eyes, and it could be from laughing so hard, grief or tender feelings-her writing has evoked all of them. She asks hard questions in her reflections; I've had to answer privately at times because of the experiences I've had aren't all "out there" on public display.

Karey blogged some book reviews last month. I got to thinking about reading. I haven't done much in recent years. Oh, I'll pick up a Louis La'Mour when I want light reading and to escape. But I certainly don't read like I used to.

I teach English now. And I ask the students to read. Perhaps I should consider setting an example. I haven't put much effort out in finding good books to read. So, gratefully, I copied down the titles and authors that Karey wrote reviews on. And put it in my purse. (At some point, the list will be digital on my Droid. I went to the public library after school today. I found one of the books "A Thousand Splendid Suns". And just finished it tonight.

As I read, I thought of my Afghani students. I can picture 7 of them. I met 5 of them in 2002. All were refugees. Two came from a family that was certain that President Bush had invited them here and was going to take care of them because a rocket had come into their home in Kabul. The boy lost a leg in that event. And as we worked with him, we figured out that there had probably been head trauma as well. There's more to that story that doesn't go here.

But the one I remember most is Yalda. I miss her. I am certain her mother misses her daily. Yalda was a freshman in my earth science class. The only Farsi word I know is because of her. And I can't repeat it. She worked hard. And came back to my class as a junior to take chemistry. And worked hard. She had little tolerance for lazy students. She got a job that year at Food City. She bought a TV and entertainment center for her mother and father.

Grand Canyon University has a yearly health career fair, and since it is down the street the A&P teacher would take his students to see the cadavers (and other exhibits.) I took about half of the chemistry class that year I had Yalda, and we walked the few blocks. The cadaver got Yalda thinking. Walking back to the school, she asked me about death and life after, was there anything? She was raised in the Islam tradition. She also had evidently learned something about Catholic beliefs because she referenced what she had heard about. I told her what I knew to be true. That there is something after. Our spirit does continue on, even if our body lies in the ground.

Within a week, Yalda was dead. I still tear up. It at the end of Ramadan. It happened the morning after the night that the faithful stay up reading from the Koran. Was she tired and careless? Was it too dark to see properly? Were the traffic signals, in fact, out of sync? The flashing yellow/flashing red was to have changed to red/green about the time of the accident. Whatever the circumstances were, she was struck by a pickup truck as she crossed a street walking to school early. The driver was not charged.

This blog is called "Meandering". My stories wander. I always come back to the original, but it seems I don't take a direct route.

Yalda spoke about 5 languages. The family had left Afghanistan and lived in Pakistan for some years. She really didn't get to go to school there because it cost money. Her dad was probably a school teacher. He was still there, within a couple weeks of getting permission to immigrate when she died. His paperwork was expedited to come be with his wife and children. He was a good step father. A good man and wife. I spent time in the home. I sat with the women as they broke fast together in her mother's home. I realized I was sitting with the equivalent of the Muslim Relief Society. They were gathered supporting the grieving mother at a time they would otherwise be rejoicing and rejuvenating their faith.

I am going to write a book report on "A Thousand Splendid Suns". If I'm going to ask the students to write and find the elements, I will do it also. I need the practice. I don't remember the last report I ever wrote on fiction.

Thank you, friend Karey, for making me think, hard. And for stirring the pot. It needed stirring.

Surfing!?!?!

Sitka. October 6, 2010. Surfing. Seriously? Is it real surfing? Really? Still shaking my head. OK. A couple of them were on boogie boards. Really? In Alaska. Is that allowed?

Growing up in Sunny Southern California, I apparently have some prejudices about what surfing should look like.

Insulated wet suits are not part of the picture I have in my head.

You should see the bottom when the tide goes out.

When Tom tried to teach me to surf in 1979, I was too scared. (What?!)

When Alma taught me in 2007, I was too out of shape (hey, it got me to the gym and working out). And I realized I wasn't "scared" in 1979, as much as feeling awkward in front of a boy (Tom, not Alma) I wanted to continue to impress. And I didn't want to deal with the learning curve. And how I might look. So I was still nervously laughing at myself at Launiupoko Beach Park. I'm vain enough to think I shouldn't have a learning curve. But I do. And I'm getting ok with that.

Once again, Alaska in the fall

Here we are in Alaska, in the fall.
It's the off season and the tourists and mosquitos are gone. One can walk into the Sitka Super 8 and get a room for the night. Or better yet, call a B&B in the morning and check in later that afternoon. I can recommend the Cinnamon Bear run by Terry and Sylvia.

If you don't fish or hunt, there's not a lot in Sitka. Some cool history is here. Well, wait. There is hiking. Back to fishing. It seems one must own a boat to live here. Nearly everyone, from the trailer dwellers to custom homes, there's a boat on a trailer parked on the property. Even the Super 8 had 2 boats parked along side.

Now, more on the hiking. The first hike we wanted to go on had police tape across the trail head. Not an active investigation going on, but an active bear. Specifically a sow and cub. They were spotted on the trail recently.

All the bear stories come to mind. And the joke. About wearing bells and what one finds in grizzly scat.

And somebody's talk about Bear Island up here. Bury the guts when your fishing and stuff like that.

We found a trail where the tape was taken down. And followed it. May we always have a trail to follow.

Another fall break.
I started this blog last year at this time. I've only posted a few times. Could say it's because it's just one more thing to do. Or not.

This week we're headed to Sitka, AK.
It's the title of a Louis L'Amour book, so I was quite excited when Ben suggested it.
Sitka sits on the footprint of the Tlingt village where the people have resided for hundreds of years I guess. Last week, the weather in Sitka was reported to be 55 degrees and rainy. The information also read that it seldom gets below freezing. I was trying to figure out what clothes I would be packing. I like wearing the fall clothes that I get to wear twice in January or February in Mesa.
This will be the third time that I will visit Alaska. I've seen such a small piece and could never hope to see the variety there. When I see pictures and documentaries of far away places, I see the camera's view, and I always wonder, what's behind the photographer. Why did he/she chose that scene? And can you move it to the right/left just a little, so I can see the view in context of the rest of the horizon?

Teaching the section of English 1-2 has made me much more conscientious of the details of grammar that I have been ignoring for a number of years. The subtleties that refine a sentence to more exact meaning.

It's not a bad thing, grammar. I learned to diagram a sentence in college. I loved the procedure, the order and rhythm of a sentence. Each word or phrase has a function and is in a place for a reason. I like reason and order. I like chemistry for that reason.

In science, it doesn't much matter what you discover or conclude, if you don't write it down, if you don't communicate, it pretty much didn't happen. And if you can't communicate your ideas, whether in science, in a blog, a letter, a phone call, a book, who will hear you, who will consider your ideas and respond?

Jack Clark in "Patriot Games" by Tom Clancy solves a dilemma based on that thought. His wife, a surgeon if I remember, was forever writing notes and ideas down to remember and would say something like "If it isn't written down, it didn't happen". OK-I got the notion from Tom Clancy. I remember reading it in the book and now I use it with/on my students. (Miss, I turned it in!" "Show me" "See, here it is!" pulling out of backpack "Where is the date stamp?" "oh. hm. I guess I forgot to turn it in")
But have you ever had to call a company and complain or resolve a problem, and didn't write down who, when, and what, and then expected something to change and it didn't and you had to do it all again? Document, document, document.

So expect some documentation as evidence that I was in Sitka Alaska.

And that's why this is meandering.