The Porch Light Flickered

On a day when my age was undeniable, I was thrown back in time to the summer nights of my youth. Unwelcome in a conversation that was as vital as any I've had recently, the signal came from inside her parents' house. The porch light flashed on-off-on: time to go inside. Tonight, the porch light flickered, but we were allowed to stay out just a little while longer.

Tonight, we were girls. Jennifer in the porch swing, long legs dangling, idle feet in and out of her father's borrowed shoes; Tonya on the porch ledge, back against the pillar, leg swinging over the edge. A passerby would have seen two grown women tiptoeing around the boundaries of middle age. In a way, the passerby would have been right. Jennifer will turn 37 next month; I turned 39 this month. She has a 7-year-old son and worries that he could be an only child. I have three teenagers and worry about paying for college. These are not the worries of our youth.

However, that same passerby would have heard the soft murmurs of an easy conversation, voices filled with emotion and cushioned with the comfort of years. We talked in the way that only old friends can talk. Months pass without contact, but buried in our busy lives is a friendship that endures. Time and distance are reality. I live in Illinois and she in Indiana. We have families and jobs--we have lives. Somehow, though, this friendship lasts.

Years ago, our stream-of-consciousness conversation was about the tyranny of our parents, the demands of our teachers, and the details of our plans for and exploits in love. The stream-of-consciousness conversation still flows, but now it is about our aging grandparents, our own families, and what love turned out to be. Then and now, the conversation wove in and out of our very hearts. Our words were different from all those years ago, but the tone was the same. The difference is the undiluted honesty of our conversations now. The bravado of youth has been replaced with the courage to act on our convictions and the belief that affection and admiration should be shared.

Would that passerby have thought "middle age," or would that passerby have thought "friends?"
Both are accurate, but only one is forever.

And the porch light flashing on and off? Her son. Full circle.

Six Minutes

I keep thinking I'll get "the" sunset photo, so I took off again tonight, shortly after 8:00. The sky was beautiful, the sun was slipping down the sky, and I was idle.

Under 10 minutes passed between deciding to go and actually taking the pictures. For six minutes, I stood at the side of the road, camera clicking, filters and lenses on and off and on again, through forty pictures. In six minutes, the sun went from a fat, fluid, blinding orange in a pink sky to a wisp of pink in the dusky blue-hour sky, and then it was gone.

Six minutes.

In my non-science brain, sunsets amaze me. The sun goes down, goes away. I watch it happen. In my brain, if the sun is gone, the sky should be dark.

Instead, we are left with the most beautiful light of all.

Dear Summer . . .

Here I am, nudging the line of spring into summer's territory. Tomorrow. Tomorrow is report card day. Translation: Summer starts tomorrow. The grades are done, the room is packed, and the requisitions are nearly finished. Yes, I'm eager. My plan is to leave school tomorrow and not go back until August. Not to clean, not to work, and not to visit. Nothing until August.

This year, summer vacation is sacred. I do not exaggerate when I say the next two months are therapeutic--they are restorative and healing. After a school year that only administrators and lunatics would call good, this summer is to be treasured. For two months, I am in charge of my time and who shares it.

I will stay up until I'm tired and sleep until I'm not. I will be part of a love triangle involving my camera and my hammock, splitting my hours between the two. I have photography skills to learn and a newborn to photograph. I have a pile of books and hours to spare. I have an iPod Touch and wireless internet. This year, I deem all these things necessary.

Yes, summer has a project in me. Summer has work to do, because this year has drained me. There are a few requests I have of summer: May my brain recharge enough that I can finish a book in a respectable amount of time and a sentence without searching for words; may my body recharge enough that I stop looking like shit and feeling like yesterday's shit; and may my attitude recharge enough that I rise out of the bitchy range . . .

I'm kidding about that last request; bitchy is fun. Really.

So, Summer, here I am. Heal me. Relax me. Relearn me. Warm me. Massage me. Summer, work your magic.

This Is the Time

If only I could take a picture of a fragrance, I could capture today. My yard is blessed with a fragrance so powerful it's nearly tangible. No chemical, no scientist, no candle can capture this scent, and who knows how long the scent will last. If only I could take its picture and save it forever. Spring.

After what seemed like a never-ending winter, spring is solidly in our midst, and we in hers. The lawn is lush, the lilacs are in full bloom, the apple blossoms are waning, and the lilies of the valley are sneaking their tiny white blessings into the air. The overwhelming and unadulterated beauty is a welcome assault on the senses. This is perfection beyond the control of man. Spring.

As the flowers grow, so does the peace. Our bodies relieve our minds. Bare feet are just around the corner, pant cuffs are inching their way toward pasty-pale knees, freckles are emerging from hibernation, and hard-earned callouses are fast forming. Spring.

After months of keeping nature out of the house and ourselves in, windows are open. Friends linger a few moments longer at the propped-open-on-a-toe back door; we venture out to the patio and coerce the weather into coming inside. We drag it with us on sheets hung out to dry and bouquets snatched from trees along our path. After months of man vs. nature, we are one. Spring.

This is the time, finally. Woven into a child's hair is the singular scent of a day spent outside. Worn into the soft lines of a mother's hand is the love of her flowers. Young neighborhood shouts are hushed by the newly-green leaves on the trees, and a voice glides down the block, calling children in for delicacies from garden and glen. With every sense God gave us, it is here. Spring.

For My Freshmen, My Freedom Writers

Dear Diary,

I had my freshmen do this last week--this diary assignment. They really enjoyed the Freedom Writers movie and were even interested in the actual entries from Freedom Writers Diary. In a move so predictable it must be an English teacher cliché, I had my freshmen mimic the assignment. Surely they could see that coming, right? How could they not.

I'm glad they could see it coming. I might have seen the assignment coming, but I could never have imagined what they would write. I am a freshman teacher. They are my favorite level in high school, and I am my best teacher when I'm with freshmen. Can't explain it and have given up trying. I tell the kids with my words and the world with my actions that I am an advocate for people that age. I have always meant that, but now I mean it more than ever.

Their diary entries astonished me. They broke my heart and earned my respect. Of course there were a few, but really only a few, who couldn't take the assignment seriously and wrote about things that don't matter. Most of the kids, though, not only wrote about thing that made a difference in their own lives, their writing will make a difference for someone else. Their openness, honesty, and trust make me proud. I will never look at them the same. I thought I knew what their lives were like, but those diaries were so raw, so to-the-point, so desperate, that I learned I didn't know anything. I had no idea what these kids had gone through.

Rape is not uncommon. Students wrote of sexual abuse in early elementary school. They wrote of molestation and rape in junior high and high school. Some wrote of both, and wrote with an honesty that cannot be manufactured. Since I started reading these entries Wednesday, I've thought of little else. Now when I look out into my classroom, I don't just see the goofball who can't sit still; I see the young man who has seen violence firsthand. I don't see the girl who always has a boyfriend, I see the girl who trusts no male for very long. I don't see the long sleeved shirt and jacket in a warm room; I see the bruises underneath. I don't see a lazy head down on a desk; I see an overnight babysitter trying to get through school every day.

When I look out into their faces, I don't see my students; I see people who have lived lives. I see my very own Freedom Writers.

That Third Question . . .

An artist-friend is working on a new project that deals with inner peace. In preparation for her work, she asked several people to answer the following the questions:

1) What is your occupation?
2) Where do you find inner peace in your life?
3) If you could choose an object that would represent this peace what would that object be?

Well, number one is easy. I herd cats for a living. Adolescent cats posing as students in the wagon that is my classroom. When I say number one is easy, I don't mean the job is easy. Believe me--I earn my money. I dare you to make twenty-five 14- and 15-year-old walking hormones sit down, shut up, and focus on a specific task. Assuming you can do it, you will have earned your money and it won't have been easy unless you have access to some airborne sleeping potion. And if you do have that access, TELL ME!

Yes, the first question was easy. Just like with children, first questions should be easy. Otherwise, there wouldn't be second and third questions.

Again, like children . . . The second question isn't as easy as the first, but I can handle it. Where do I find inner peace? Hmmm . . . Outside. Cliché, I know. Can't help it. Deal with it. Yes, definitely outside. Here's where the cliché ends, though. Outside. Four-wheeler. Camera. Cooler. Me. That's it. I want to be on my grandparents' or uncle's land, or the land between. Inner peace and outer peace are not the same thing. That four-wheeler? It's noisy. Very noisy. My camera? Chock full of new technology. The cooler? Packing aluminum cans full of carbonated beverages. Nothing natural there! And yet . . . That four-wheeler takes me places I can't walk to right now. My camera helps me gather souvenirs of the astonishing beauty I find. And the cooler, well, the cooler just holds Diet Mt. Dew, which tastes wonderful and makes me happy.

I can take off on an adventure with myself and my favorite things and return a calmer, better person. I can feel the wind blow the frustration out of my body. So where do I find inner peace? In the woods on a four-wheeler with a camera case strapped to my person. Reasonable, right?

That third question, though . . . Just like the third child, the third question is work. The third question makes me grateful there isn't a fourth question. Don't tell. An object that represents inner peace? Really? I struggle with this question. In my wonky world, inner peace is thoroughly intangible. I don't know how to crown a tangible, materialistic object queen of my inner peace. I know what brings me inner peace, but does it represent inner peace? I don't think I can buy inner peace. There's the rub. I'll cross the four-wheeler off the list. I love it and love riding it, but it's surely not the key to inner peace. The cooler would just be silly. Yes, I love my dew, but it's not inner peace. It tastes good. It perks me up. That's pretty much the extent of my relationship with the dew. Of the participants in my perfect day, my camera is the closest thing to inner peace that I take along. My camera is the only thing that can distract me from rush-hunting mushrooms in the spring. It can pull me away from my family and take me into my own world where beauty is recordable and my eye is super-human.

But still . . . is my camera inner peace? Surely not.

Maybe inner peace and outer peace are more closely linked than I thought. Yes, I'm ridiculously happy riding that four-wheeler. Its constant noise almost turns into white noise. Not real noise, but a type of silence. It's impossible to worry too much about everyday concerns when I'm holding onto the handlebars and flying down a trail. Looking through the lens of my camera at a bee making love to a flower, I am unable to see ugliness. Even the nettle, that prickly, untouchable plant, shows a beautiful flower. Through the lens I see the flower and the bee; the thorns are thrown out of focus. I have to think, though, that inner peace can't truly be represented with an object. I think inner peace is in me and those objects dust it off and let it out.

What if I don't have to find inner peace? What if it's with me all the time and I just have to let it out? Ride it out, focus on it, feel it. And if that's the case, why the hell don't I summon it up more often?

For Once, For Coop

When I was a kid I thought I'd like to be an Indian scout. Yes, there's probably a more PC term than Indian scout, but that term is grandfathered in. I thought that would be an awesome job to have. Adventure, discovery, risks, quiet, and all outside. Yup, Indian scout.

Indian scout or not, sometimes I need to take off by myself. I need to go down a path, not knowing for sure where it will end, but knowing I will find my way. I have been in desperate need of a break. My paths of late have been crowded with noisy, stressed-out people, family dinners, last minute shopping, and my life. I had the best Christmas in recent history, but it was definitely time for a break.

Finally I had the chance for a break. It was beautiful, clear day that would let me get a picture I've been trying to find for weeks. My ultimate break involves a four-wheeler, a cooler, my camera, and me. That's it. Sadly, it's not really four-wheeler weather here right now. I can always find something to take pictures of, though, and I do need to perfect my picture-taking skills with my new toy. I took off, not on a four-wheeler but in a minivan, in time to practice some camera tricks I've read about but not mastered, planning to end up on Gin Ridge as the sun was setting. Son #2 asked if he could go along in hopes of spotting herds of deer, but I said no, I really liked to go alone.

Not to be outsmarted by stupid me, fate intervened on the first leg of my journey; I got a rock in my tire. I had to go back home. Son # 2 was still there, and I asked him if he wanted to go with me to the Ridge. Yes, for once I recognized and fixed my mistake before it was too late. My teenage son had asked if he could do something with me, and I had said no. I got it right the second time around. I asked if he wanted to go, and he jumped at the chance.

I drove. He rode. We didn't talk much. Son #2 understands that conversation isn't always necessary. Of all the people I live with, he's the only one who understands that dynamic. He was content to ride and look, and to change my camera lens when I asked. We saw herds of deer, beautiful land, and a stunning sunset. We stopped in the road to look. We decided to go right, left, or straight without knowing what was down some paths. We found our way, we found ourselves, and we found our peace.

I needed a break, and I got it. Son #2 saw the deer he'd gone to see, I found the pictures I'd been looking for, and I also discovered something else. That Indian scout business? It's hereditary.

In No Particular Order

I have some questions. I know--I always have some questions. Deal with it.

Does WalMart have a Freak Signal? Think "Bat Signal" for weirdness. Sadly, I am in WalMart more frequently than I care to admit. You may make your own inferences about the aforementioned Freak Signal right now if you must, but trust me when I say I am NOT the freak this time. WalMart has gotten my money twice in just over 24 hours, so I have a pretty good sampling of what's going on there. Last night, I was sitting in my van making my list (okay, making my list and eating an Arby's roast beef). I wasn't there very long, but in the amount of time I was there, I saw The Village People walk into the store (Halloween), a freakishly tall and frumpy man wage and lose a war with what must have been a killer wedgie, and a 22-year-old man swing his grandmother's hand over a pillar. Sweet more than freaky, but odd, nonetheless.

Last night, Halloween. Today, Hitchcock and Hedren do WalMart. The first time I saw a bird, I thought the progressive lenses were messing with me. It happens. The second time I saw a bird, I thought perhaps the drugs were to blame. The third time I saw a bird, someone was right beside me and he saw it too. I watched that bird scoot its little bird self under the shelf and muttered to my new ornithologist friend that the little bastard better not fly out from under the shelf at me. The fourth time I saw a bird, the little bastard flew out from under the shelf at me, because I'm stupid like Tippi Hedren and set myself up for that. On the fourth sighting, I yelped "God," turned my cart around, and got out of there. If I'd have kept going, those birds would surely have messed up my hair and turned me catatonic. I've seen the movie.

Something else I would like to know, if some science-type could dumb it down for me, is why Prednisone makes me want to eat my house. Not necessarily MY house. Anything, really. I know "increased appetite" is a listed side-effect of Prednisone. I don't want or need an increased appetite and was pretty intent on ignoring that side-effect. Mind over matter, right? HAH! Why is that? I don't really expect an answer to this one, I'm just wondering. Mostly I'm hoping the hunger passes and I'll quit caring about the "why."

And what about that corn husk riding the wind? It struck me as beautiful. Winsome. I don't find corn fields beautiful, and there are thousands of husks in one spot. Why, then, did one husk capture my attention? Did it have to be alone and airborne, unique in that moment, at the mercy of the wind, to make me notice? This question will probably get my full attention shortly. Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow. This question has been trying to find its answer for a couple of weeks. What a silly thing to wonder about, much less write about, but the question won't go away.

Now a work-related question: When certain parents come in for parent-teacher conferences, do they realize that their mere presence answers every question I had about the student? Truly every question. For instance, the parent of the student who knows better than I how to do my job spent the entire conference offering suggestions about how I might do my job better. Not vague suggestions, either, but things like which spelling words I should do and what skills students that age should master. I'm grateful, too, for her input. Frankly, it would never have occurred to me to consider a class's weaknesses or study the benchmarks for grade levels. Good thing she came along. And then there is the parent of lights-are-on-but-nobody-is-home. I was trying to conference, but when I looked her in the eye I realized that nobody is home because she can't remember her address.

I better let it go for now. I think I'll look some stuff up. Maybe find some answers. If I can ever get all of my questions answered, you'll know, because the countless light bulbs powering up at once will make a glowing spot in the sky. And here we are, back where we started--the Freak Signal. Why is that?

Breaking Through

For a few minutes today, I was the calm, level-headed woman in the English department. I've been in this department for over three years, and I am NOT the calm, level-headed woman. Diana is the calm, level-headed woman. That is how we've always done it.

Today was a different story. In fact this week has been a different story. She's clearly losing it. She can't make a sentence--a dangerous affliction for an English teacher. She can't complete a thought. She can't remember to bring things in from her car. She is spontaneously leaking happy sounds. She's glowing, giddy, and giggly. That's right; Diana is in love.

His name is Owen. I've never seen him, and she's only seen pictures, but Diana is smitten. I assume he's cute, and his gene pool leads me to believe he has an excellent personality and a wit that will keep his friends on their toes. Yes, Diana has fallen hard.

She has never met Owen, yet she loves him more than he can ever imagine and has loved him since before she knew he existed. Owen is the past and the future at once, to the extent that she is in love with his very name. Owen Benjamin. Benjamin Owen. Owen Benjamin.

For a while now there has been a level of Diana waiting to break through. Inside the calm, level-headed, well-spoken director is another Diana. Inside this woman is a grandma who will make her entrance, meet her love, and welcome Owen Benjamin into his personal version of happily ever after.

It's All Relative

Until a few years ago, I thought my family was normal. My family is on my Facebook and Myspace pages. They are the speed dial numbers in my cell phone and the most frequent recipients of my email. They are my neighbors, my friends, and my confidantes. A good friend's family is the same way, so it seemed normal to me. After all, this was all I'd known.

At some point, however, I began paying more attention to other families. Maybe it was when I started teaching and reading what teenagers wrote about their own families. The sabotage, mistrust, abandonment, distance, and damage amazed me. Maybe it was another of those "getting older" features that seem to have joined forces in my life. It doesn't matter what made me realize; the point is that I do realize. My family is not normal. Not normal at all.

Nope. If we were normal, we wouldn't have spent all of a Sunday working in a field of trees. Normal people wouldn't care that soft maple trees have overtaken the field and filled in what should be a 10-foot space between trees. A normal family would have gone to church then maybe have had a dinner, but would certainly not have dragged out every cutting tool they could find, rounded up chainsaws and bodies, tied back the hair, and started cutting. A normal family certainly wouldn't have enjoyed work that left some of us sick and all of us exhausted.

Of course, normal is relative, even with relatives. Our family has its tomboys and girly-girls, sweat-soaked guys and well-dressed men. Somehow, we all fit, just as the crazy cuts of a jigsaw puzzle eventually fit together to make a picture. In our family, it is perfectly normal to have many people laughing to the point of gasping, crying, and clutching their sides. It is also normal, a short few minutes later, to see those same people crying, but not of laughter.

We may not fit in the normal puzzle of family, but our puzzle is far more interesting, challenging, and beautiful. Most of my life I've avoided being like everyone else. That drive to be different is partially conscious and partially subconscious. Even now, as in love with my family as I am, I am not like everyone else. And just as with my quirky wardrobe and funky hair styles, I wouldn't change a thing. Normal is overrated.