Home

There's something about the end of a trip when you can't wait to get home. A complete turn around from the excitement at the start of an adventure, the idea of getting home makes me impatient and cranky. I was booked on a 5:15 flight out of Chicago. This because we were told by the convention staff, to tell the travel agent not to book a flight before 3:00. But the convention ended with lunch and closing remarks, and the hotel shuttle had us to the airport shortly after 1:00. I made it through security and checked to see if there might be an earlier flight home. I was willing to spend my own money for a flight change if it meant getting home sooner. I scanned the departures screens and found a flight leaving Chicago at 3:00. Even better, my 5:15 flight had a stopover and this one was direct to Fort Myers, with an arrival time of about 7:00 pm! It was in a different set of gates from my current flight, but I had plenty of time to kill so I took a walk to the gate. I waited in line for about 15 minutes at the ticket counter, only to be told the 3:00 flight was already oversold and there was no chance I could get a seat. I was mad, and frustrated, and tired. I just wanted to get home, and now I was stuck waiting three more hours for a flight that had me stopped over in Charlotte for two hours and getting home at midnight. I sure was feeling sorry for myself. I decided to try and find something to eat and a place to stop and charge my phone before going to my gate. I just couldn't wait to get home.

**

I watched out the window curious, as fire trucks lined the tarmac at a standstill. American Airlines employees in neon vests surrounded the area and the aircraft rolled in slowly, deliberately. An American flag was held high, draped off airstairs standing free, rather than up against an airplane lifting passengers to board. First responders in uniforms stood solemnly on the ground, tiny little figures beneath the massive aircraft. Travelers lined the terminal windows, pushed up against the glass, and waiting. Some snapped photos, others desperately trying to hold their hands still enough to capture video on their iPhones.

There had been rumors at the close of the convention of flight delays into North Carolina, due to a fire at RDU. I was flying into Charlotte. I snapped a quick photo, unknowingly. I texted it to my sister  in Durham wondering if she had heard anything about a fire. I thought the Chicago crew might be showing some sort of solidarity for a possible tragedy in North Carolina.  She assured me there was no such news. Hours early for my flight, I sat and watched. I waited, feeling uneasy about the people around me snapping photos and taking video. I got a sense it was an invasion of privacy. In just minutes it became clear to me why. I felt a rising fullness from my gut up into the back of my throat. I had trouble swallowing. My eyes were warmed over with a light stream of tears pushing up through my bottom lids. My heartbeat sped.

The ramp from the plane was lowered and a side rail raised. There was no jetway. There was no flight crew in pressed uniforms. No passenger disembarkation. Just an empty gateway from a giant American Airlines plane. And from behind one of those large cars that usually carries luggage from the terminal to the plane, came a crew of sailors in service dress whites. They approached the ramp, and were met by a different kind of airline crew. These men had ground uniforms on, and they came out of the door of the plane, maneuvering a box, draped in another American Flag. It was clear, these sailors were here to carry their fallen brother home.

**

I was finally home. Midnight at the Southwest Florida Airport is nothing like rush hour in Chicago, or even prime time on Friday night in Charlotte. Sure there were flights arriving and people waiting for their loved ones. But this airport is always laid back and vacation-like. Heck, it's Florida. As a wearily trekked out of the gateway and out the terminal, walking along the floor to ceiling windows I glanced down to the tarmac thinking about the soldier I saw ceremoniously arrive home in Chicago. This certainly couldn't have been the homecoming his family had been waiting for. I wondered if American Airlines was specifically chosen for this type of flight or if it was coincidence. I don't know the details of the soldier or if I am even understanding the events as I think I saw them. There was no explanation for those of us watching from inside the terminal.

I was awe-struck by the emotional feelings I was still having, thinking about what I saw. I suppose it may be because in the past few years, I have become close with a friend who is a military wife. I thought about her photos of the day her husband came home to their four-month-old daughter for the first time. As I was in sight of the escalator down to baggage claim, I heard someone running from behind me. I turned back and then forward again, and I saw a young lady running toward me from the front. The steps from behind got heavier and I could hear the breathing that went with them. Soon I saw a soldier in fatigues run past me, and the girl toward him. She jumped into his arms and wrapped her legs around him, and they turned in circles embracing. Everyone looked at them with ear-to-ear smiles, and I was overcome with emotion. My eyes welled up once again. Another soldier is home.

Full Belly, Warm Heart

Few things can match the love and pride you have as a parent, but days like today come pretty close to it for me. I was on a shuttle from the airport in Chicago, over to my hotel to meet a co-worker. We're in the Windy City until Friday evening for an educational conference. I was watching a video on the shuttle for a restaurant at the hotel, and flipping through FB to see if there was anything interesting going on. I was really just killing time until I arrived at my hotel.

And then it hit me. The restaurant. Chicago. One of my favorite students (I know we're not supposed to say that, but I can't help it) from early in my career, is now a professional chef in Chicago! I quickly flipped to his FB page, double checked he was still in Chicago, and posted a quick and brief question to his page: Are you working tonight?

I was with a small group of teachers, and our conference didn't start until the morning. We all arrived in the late afternoon and planned to head downtown to flutter around like tourists, see the Bean, and check out Chicago. As we roamed, I checked back to FB and had an exchange with Mario.

Understand, I had this witty, skinny wise ass (in the best way) kid in my class for a couple of years. I got to know his family, and I felt like a proud momma when I watched him walk across the stage at graduation. We connected online a few years ago, but I hadn't seen him since that graduation day. Now he's 30ish and a professional chef in Chicago. He's worked for some big name restaurants and under big time chefs, and now he's running a casual eatery downtown.

My friends were happy to oblige, and we walked a mile and a half to find the spot. I can't describe to you how great it was to see him. I could feel my smile from ear to ear. We hugged, we chatted, and I let him go do his thing. I told him I wouldn't leave without saying goodbye. 

My friends ordered a bottle of wine and a cheese plate, and we added an order of house made pickles and a jar of house made beef jerky. All of it was terrific, and we sat and talked for an hour or so. When the server bought the check, he said there was a little bit of love in it and walked away. My friend looked at the check and then looked up and said, "A lot of love." Our check had been comped 99%.

It was time to see Mario again and I asked him if he had anything to do with our check being comped. His answer, "No, we comp checks all of the time when a bunch of nice ladies come in." We laughed and talked some more. He told me he called his mom and told her I was there and promised to take a photo and send it to her. I was thrilled, because I was going to ask for one too! He offered to hook us up with reservations at a couple of other restaurants he's worked at, and we exchanged phone numbers. I agreed to get back to him tomorrow when I knew what we wanted to do. 

I gotta tell you, seeing Mario totally made my day. My trip just started but seeing him will no doubt be the highlight. I just can't put it into words. Without getting into his personal business, I saw him go through a difficult time in his educational career. He stuck with me. He allowed me to help change his mind about what the school experience could and should be. And in the special environment created at this very unique school, we shared a little magic- the magic of a classroom community. I've written about the teaching experience before, and Mario is just another success story from that very special place and that very special time. 

And below our photo and my post on FB, his mom posted this: "Laurie you were definitely is inspiration and believed in him!" An inspiration, I'm not sure. But I did believe in him. I still do. And he's made his family, and this old teacher pretty damn proud.

Juices are Flowing

Life has ebbs and flows. We go through periods of creativity and spiritual dormancy. Often these patterns mimic other things going on in our lives- work and family, global events. Little by little I'm feeling an awakening. I closed out my 2016 blog as the year came to an end, and I have committed myself little to writing since then. I've written a couple of pieces, participated in a writing retreat with my writing circle, but I have not been able to get motivated enough to write substantially or sustainably. I think that is all about to change...

I am in a state of transition right now. I am about to start a new job- more like a new position. I'm not changing who I work for, I'm just moving from a local venue to a state headquarters. My husband and I are getting ready to break ground on a new house next week, and my son is attending his senior prom next Saturday as we await his college acceptance notification. A lot is about to change around here. I am aware of the idea stress is stress, and even positive events in our lives can create stress. I can feel some of that anxiousness, feelings of unsettledness, as we wait for all of these things to unfold. But in the last couple of days, I've also noticed some feelings of awakening...

I have completed a lot of years of formal education. I have four degrees, almost 20 years practical experience in my field, and what I feel is a wealth of knowledge and skills I have been eager to put to use in a bigger way. I am going to be able to do that now. I have been reading and writing all weekend, and I feel like all the little trap doors in my mind have opened to a labyrinth of creative thinking. I have thought about how my writing circle will work to stay together insight of some changes within the group (I'm reading a great book to help). I'm tuning back in to my connection with the National Writing Project through readings and practices I've set on a shelf in recent months, even years. I've started some research on an idea I really think will inform my work and make a significant contribution to the young people we serve in our program.

I'm feeling it. I'm feeling the writer in me waking up from hibernation. Maybe it's spring, Maybe it's change. Whatever the reason or the cause, I welcome the feelings of invigoration.

Sports Fans Don't Have to Be A-holes

Really, they don't.

It's NFL playoff time, college bowl season. Fans are going wild as their teams vie for final rankings and post-season play time. Yes, fans want their teams to win, but it is also about extending the season for additional viewing. When your team falls flat with a losing season and doesn't qualify for a bowl game or the playoffs, your season is all over. That means no game to look forward to on Saturday or Sunday. Mega fans of the sport will shift their loyalties to their back-up teams, or major rivalries. Some would say the true fans will watch any of it just for the sake of the competition. I say go for it. Enjoy all of it in anyway you can, however you like. It'll be seven months before the season starts again.

But here's the thing. Being a fan, doesn't mean having to be an asshole. Pride for your team, cheering your guys, does not require mudslinging. Nowhere in the fandom rule book does it state one must try to steal the joy of the game from friends and family (and strangers) by insulting the fans of the opposing team. Fellow sports fans on my Facebook page might take note of a couple of things:

First, I often post banners, photos, team videos and stats of my favorite players and teams. Most of them are in response to great plays while I'm watching the games. Others, like video clips, might be from the team page to highlight a great play from a recent successful game. On occasion, I'll even post disappointment with my own team for a poor performance. But I never trash the other team. I don't get any rush out of that.

Second, those who tag me or post photos, trash talk, and memes about their teams on my page, as they are gearing up for games against mine, I ignore them. I decided some time ago, not to engage in negative exchanges on FB, not on the election, not on controversial topics, and certainly not on sports. So post all you want, but be prepared for me to scroll on by without a word. I will not be baited. This goes doubly for people who I don't often talk to or who have nothing to tag me in except to trash my teams. You know who you are.

At this point, I have probably offended a few readers. Some of you are thinking sour grapes, and I can't take it when my team losses. Others will say I'm "sissifying" the sport by denouncing banter among fans. I'm not saying never do it. I'm just saying know your audience. It's not me. Post it on your own page, and allow those who want to engage with you to engage. Post it on mine, and I'll scroll on by. I'm doing my best to keep positive energy in my life.

I've been through some highs and lows with my teams. The Canes were at the height of success while I attended the U (yes, I actually went there), and for awhile they took a bit of a nosedive. This year, they seem to be working their way back up. The Dolphins are just starting to taste some success for the first time in years. It's not always easy being a fan of the teams that aren't on top, but a fan always holds out hope. You brush off a loss and hope for better next time, or next season. You don't trash the other team.

Sports fans don't have to be assholes.

Image retrieved from sacredheartboosters.com

Angel

It was a chilly day in January. I was a new mother, trying to figure out how to work my newborn into the everyday tasks of my life. Things were great when we were home. All the gear I needed was available at my finger tips. It was packing to get out of the house that made life challenging. Did I pack the bottles? Did I have enough diapers? What if I need something I didn't bring? It was quite overwhelming at first. This day was no different. It was the six week check-up for my newborn Jacob. I was still struggling to physically feel like myself again. Don't get me wrong, I was loving motherhood. But admittedly, I was still quite emotional. I had finally come to terms with the idea I could not breast feed, and though seeing Jacob finally put on some weight, thanks to bottle nourishment, I was still harboring a bit of guilt. I knew I had somewhere to be, and if I dwelled on the little things, I would never get out the door and to the doctor on time.  Not having my husband home meant I had to get the baby and the stuff out on my own. I was already feeling rattled. But I buckled my little chicken in the car seat, and we were off.

I can't recall, but this may have been the first time we drove anywhere alone. I had to take my eyes off the baby in order to drive, and I wasn't altogether comfortable. I drove along apprehensively, much the way a new driver does. It was an awkward carefulness. Jacob was a bit fussy in the back, not an all out cry, but enough to make me a bit anxious. I was rigid and guarded, and I just wanted to blink us to the doctor. I was in the left lane, up against the median, because the doctor's office would be a left turn. Out of the blue, a car on my right swerved toward me with no notice at all. I was blocked in between the car and the median and my reflex was to pull away from the car, so I jumped the median curb and slammed on my breaks. I was up on the median with my right tires hanging out in the lane. I freaked out and started panting and Jacob must have reacted to the sudden motion of the car and my panic, and began belting out a tiny but fierce baby cry. 

I couldn't get to him, because there was no safe way for me to get out of the car, and I had to get us back and moving. I was panicked because it was the first time I hadn't thought about an asshole driver pissing me off, I was worried about the safety of my baby. And my heart was pounding out of my chest. I could barely choke back my own tears. I calmed enough to get us safely back in the lane and continue to the doctor. My hands were shaking, my baby was wailing, and I just wanted to go home. I turned on the radio softly to try and settle my nerves, and out of those speakers came the soothing sound of Sarah McLachlan. In the arms of the angel, you may find some comfort here. It didn't take but one or two bars, before Jacob and I had calmed. He stopped crying, and I stopped shaking, and together we got through our first trauma. 

I know it will sound like a generalization, but I kid you not. From that time on, whenever I put that song on the radio, my Jacob would calm and coo, and often fall asleep. It became my go-to song in the car, and with the exception of one or two times, it always worked. Sarah's Angel gave us comfort wherever we were.

Bubbie

Bubbie, I want to learn how to cook our family recipes. Can I make copies? These were my words to my Bubbie, my mom's mother, when I was finishing up college and planning to get married. I wanted to be able to cook all of our favorites.

Why don't you come over, and I'll show you. It was like a golden ticket to the best of the culinary arts schools in all the world. And it was mine. And it was free of charge.

A roundish woman in her 80's, with a beautiful, full head of silver hair, my Bubbie stood about five feet tall. Maybe. Though I had great love for both my grandmothers, my paternal grandmother died when I was 5 or 6 years old, and unfortunately my memories of her are few. Bubbie however, lived to be 92, and when we moved to Florida in 1987, she became an everyday part of my life. She was such a good cook. Not a gourmet by any means, there was nothing fancy about her cooking, just yummy homemade treats, and lots of traditional Jewish fare. Hands down, the. best. matzoh ball soup. Ever.

I remember the day I went to learn the recipes. I brought a notebook, but it did little good. There were no recipes! Everything she made was from her head, the way a true cook creates. No instructions, no measurements, just a little of this and pinch of that. And of course she always reminded me, The most important thing is to put in lots of love. That's what makes things taste so good.

She amazed me. I think back now about that day, and it could have very well been a cooking blog, or a story cookbook. I don't think I wrote a single thing down, I just watched her. Every time she did something, she told me a story or explained why she did it a certain way. She was a product of her generation, she grew up in the Great Depression. Everything got used, and nothing goes to waste. Only need an egg white? Find a use for the yolk. Or freeze it for use later. Thanksgiving Turkey picked clean? Use the carcass for a pot of turkey soup. Like so many others from the time, she remembered throwing whatever they had in a pot to make soup. She ate chicken parts that made my sister and me squirm.

And kitchen gadgets? She didn't have any. Her favorite tool was her hands. I remember as she poured eggs from one bowl into a mixture in a another bowl, she used the side of her hand to wipe out every drop. Not a rubber spatula, but the half inch-wide surface created from the tip of her pinky, down to the heel on the side of her tiny little hand. The most advanced kitchen gadget she had was an electric juicer. I ended up with it when we cleaned out her place. I still have it. It makes me smile when I use it to squeeze fresh orange juice.

I loved to watch Bubbie cook. I loved the smells in her kitchen, and my Zaza trying desperately to wait for the latest dish to be presented for tasting. She didn't even seem to mind when he grabbed something off the plate to taste before it was formally presented. He loved her cooking. We all did. We could taste the love in every bite.

Dads

"Forget AIDS,  I'll double bag it every time. I do not want to be a dad." I nodded, agreeing he was too young to have children. "Not now, not ever. I never want to be a dad." I was perplexed, and couldn't help but respond in surprise.

"Really? You don't think you'll want to have kids some day?"

"Nope. I never want to be a dad. Dads are assholes."

 And he swore, as much as he liked girls and acting like a player at only 16-years-old, he'd always use condoms because he never wanted kids. Okay then. We left it at that. My high school students, mostly boys, needed this class. But we agreed we would be open, not personal.

**

We connected on FB several years after he graduated. I taught this kid for four years. I got to know his family, and he worked for my husband on weekends. I have a book's worth of stories about him and his classmates. We were a family. I handed him his diploma when he graduated. I always had a very special place in my heart for him. I asked him how he was doing.

"I'm getting married," he told me. "And I have a kid on the way." I wasn't sure how to react. I waited for more information. "Yeah, it wasn't planned. But we're going to make a go of it. I love her, and I'm not going to leave my kid without a dad." He insisted they were happy, so I was too.

**

The other night, after several FB posts reflecting on personal growth, I started to become concerned. I had seen similar posts over several days, and I was worried. He and his wife had moved up north to be near her family. Last I heard he had a great job, a beautiful little girl, and he and his wife were doing great. But the daddy pride and family photos were replaced with words of wisdom embedded in reflective memes.

I messaged him, "Everything okay with you kiddo?" He's about 30 now, but I'll always think of him as one of my boys. And I always called him kiddo.

"It's been a rough year, but I'm getting better." I didn't even inquire further. I didn't need to. "I just got out of rehab." All of the air pushed out of my lungs. My cheeks flushed and I wanted to cry. I wanted to give him a hug.

"Well that's bad and good, right?" I was appealing to the fact he got help.

"Yeah, I got caught up in all the wrong crap, fucked a lot of stuff up." We continued with banter about the Miami Hurricanes (he's a big fan of my alma mater), and he told me he was back in Florida living with his aunt and trying to get back on his feet. In between the small talk, he dropped bits about what was happening. "I'm learning a lot about myself. There's a reason I got the way I did." It seemed positive he was doing the personal work one needs to do when dealign with addiction. He shared that he likes his sponsor. And as I wondered what happened with his wife and daughter, and where they were, he let it all out. There were lots of drugs and alcohol and partying, and he was living what he described as a shady life. And he got caught and that sent him into a downward spiral resulting in more of the same. He lost control and knew it, so he asked his mom for help and they checked him into rehab. And he seemed remorseful. "I just don't want to fuck my daughter up. I lost everything."

And we talked some more, and I offered support. He was excited his daughter was coming for a visit after the holidays. He and his wife were at least on speaking terms. I reminded him nothing is impossible, and while I made no crazy promises about what I knew nothing about, I encouraged him to believe it may be repairable. He has some work ahead of him. But I'm certain about one thing. Not all dads, not even the ones with problems of their own, are assholes. At least this one isn't.