Sometimes it’s good to be reminded that we do have an impact on other people, whether we realize it or not. My dad, who has Alzheimer’s, moved into a nursing home in February 2015. It was a transition my family both dreaded and anticipated. Would he be all right without my mom’s constant, patient presence? Would he get along with the staff and other residents? It was sort of like sending a kid off to college—except, of course, that young people leave in order to create their lives. Old people leave in order to gently finish theirs. The first couple of months were rough, but eventually we settled into a new routine. That routine included my dad’s roommate, Harry. Harry wasn’t a typical resident in the memory care unit. He was fully mobile. He could still read. He could carry on a conversation so well that you’d wonder why he was there—until he let it slip that he would be driving his truck back to the Twin Cities later that night. Harry seemed like a guy you’d find telling jokes to the gang over morning coffee at a small-town café, or maybe over beers at a local bar: blunt and a little gruff, but with a twinkle never too far from his eyes. One day Mom and I were in Dad’s room, talking to Harry about his long career as a trucker and farmer. Dad piped up, “I haven’t grown up yet!” To which, quick as wink, Harry replied, “I’m sorry to tell you this, but you won’t make it.” My mom, especially, enjoyed Harry’s company. On my dad’s sleepy or uncommunicative days, Harry would make her visit more interesting. He spoke Low German, as my parents did. Low German (“Plattdeutsch”) is a funny, expressive language. I had no idea what their bantering meant, but it was clearly a treat for both of them. More than a year went by. Then one day Harry was gone. Just gone. He’d died in his sleep. Mom and I went to his funeral. The service, at a local funeral home, was well attended by extended family, but it didn’t seem like anyone had a particular connection to him. But Mom and I went to pay tribute to Harry because, no matter what the story of his past life, he’d added humor and grace to a poignant period in our lives. He had become part of our story. A couple of years ago I gave a spontaneous hug to someone I didn’t know well, someone who was dealing with an intense, ongoing family crisis. It was a parent-to-parent moment, a “there but for the grace of God go I” moment. Recently this person made a point of seeking me out and telling me that my impulsive hug had marked a turning point for him. He’d been in despair, looking for a sign that life wasn’t as bleak as it seemed. And then I showed up. I was the sign. I was the sign even though, at the time, I was probably at the lowest point in my life. Divorce. Struggling kids. Career disappointments. The sense that I’d failed miserably at everything I’d ever cared about. I was utterly broken—and yet my brokenness didn’t matter. In spite of it, I had become part of someone else’s story. This week marks the beginning of another year of service in Reading Corps. At training today, my program manager shared an essay by Rachel Naomi Remen. The essay explored the differences between helping, fixing, and serving. As I came to these lines, I teared up a little:
So, yes, a crusty 92-year-old with dementia can become the bright spot in our day, and a middle-aged woman scraping along at the bottom of life can provide a foothold for someone who needs just that.
Whenever we share of ourselves authentically and without reservation, we are serving. We are whole.
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Our apps have a life of their own, don't they? Recently Google Pictures began sending me notifications: X number of years ago on this day... I was a bit startled to see this picture come up on my phone, out of the blue: Creepy! But let me explain. Five years ago my parents moved off their farm to a house in town (Mountain Lake). They moved in March, but the folks who would be renting the homestead weren't going to be arriving until August. So every week or two that summer, I drove from the Twin Cities to spend a few days helping them clean out the house and some of the outbuildings. It was a hot, dry, Sisyphean summer: Would we ever, ever reach the end of things to be packed or sorted or discarded? Would it ever, ever rain again? The dolls in the above picture had been stored for years, maybe decades, in what we called the "chicken barn" (even though no chickens had lived there in my lifetime). Those dolls were my well-loved and well-worn childhood friends. My mom made clothes for them out of fabric left over from the clothes she made for me—in fact, the orange dress on the doll to the right came from the dress I wore on my first day of kindergarten. The day we tackled the chicken barn was supposed to be very hot, so we got to work especially early. And when I discovered my long-lost dolls, I set them out to catch the sun's first rays. After being shut away in the darkness for so many years, they deserved a little time in the golden glow of a July sunrise. Among those in my age group (early 50s), helping parents move is a common scenario--exhausting yet brimming with memories. So I won't stop with the dolls. Here are more photos from the summer of 2012. Maybe some of you will relate. I'm pretty sure this cowboy-themed toy bin helped me learn my letters and numbers. And then there's KerPlunk, a canister of Tinker Toys, and a leather-stenciling kit that belonged to my brother. Also in the chicken barn: the remains of my brother's purple-ribbon 4-H bug box. I think he went to the state fair with it. At one point it held a prized luna moth as well as a cecropia moth—true victories in the world of 4-H entomology. Now for something pretty! This intricate tissue-paper flower was made by my grandmother, along with several others. I wish I knew the occasion. These pictures are imbedded in my brain. The mountain one hung over the organ in the living room. The fruit one was in the dining room—but the troubling thing is, I had to really think to remember where it had been. And it's only been five years. More pictures that had been around as long as I could remember. But by 2012 they'd been relegated to the basement, where my dad had made room for a computer desk. This work of "art" was my doing. I put this puzzle together during all the snow days we had when I was in seventh or eighth grade. That was the era of my maroon body suit. (For some reason that's what comes to mind when I think of working on this puzzle.) A weed missed by the mower seized its chance to really show off. Even a key can be a sensory memory...its smoothness and weight... and the way you had to feel for just the right place to turn. I remember spending the better part of a day packing up the pantry. But what good old-fashioned farm pantry it was! During one visit I worked into the night and then took a few pictures. The lattice work cast an intricate shadow, and the picnic table seemed to float in midair. The view from inside the breezeway, facing the yard light and granary. A mama cat named Babe was happy for some company. Headlights on corn...one of the eeriest images there'll ever be. Hard to believe now, but as a kid I did undertake sewing projects now and then, mostly for 4-H (and always under the watchful eye of my mom). The tennis dress and the skirt I made from these patterns both ended up in my daughter's dress-up basket.
The dust of a summer's work covered my Sorento. A few sparse raindrops turned it into a canvas. My daughter, then 15, came out with me sometimes and amused herself by taking pictures. This is one of my favorites. It's how I like to remember the farm: both dreamy and substantial, and always inviting you to get up off your feet.
Three dogs and a bunny All three of my providers had small white dogs: Harley, Scooby, and Coconut. When I first started visiting Harley’s house, he would often sit beside me—occasionally even on my lap—during morning meeting. But as we all got used to each other and to our routine, Harley stayed out of the circle. I like to think this was intentional: he showed the kids what to do and then stood back and let them do it by themselves. Scooby was a barker. He barked not just at me, but at parents who were dropping off their kids. There was no such thing as a quiet entrance into the house. But he quickly got it out of his system, and when he stopped, the whole house seemed a tad quieter than it would have otherwise. Which, in a house full of preschoolers and toddlers, was not a bad thing. Coconut didn’t come inside the house, but sometimes wandered up to me when I arrived. Seeing him was a treat. (Just saying “Hi Coconut!” made me think of Russell Stover Easter eggs…or Almond Joys…mmmm…..) At Coconut’s house was another pet, an incredibly soft bunny named Yasha. Yasha had a big cage on the porch, but he also had free rein of the house and often decided to attend morning meeting. (A few of my vocabulary cards have the slightest trace of a nibble.) The kids were very sweet and gentle with him—and protective, too, informing me that I could only use two fingers when I petted him. I adored Yasha. There is still some gleeful, pet-loving child in me who even now grins at the thought of a real live bunny running around in the house. I mean, how cool is that?! What is it? What is it? What is it, do you know? I think I liked the What Is It Bag almost as much as the kids did. This was a red bag that we used as a transition. Every visit, we put something in the bag—usually an ordinary household item—that had some connection with the book we were reading that week. We’d sing the little song that went with the What Is It Bag and then very dramatically pull out the item. Depending on what was in there, sometimes the kids got to feel the bag and try to guess what it was. Usually it wasn’t too difficult to find something for the bag, but once in a while a little more effort was required. I made a mad dash to Home Depot just before closing on a Sunday night to get wood scraps and paint samples to go with our construction unit. I ducked into LeeAnn Chin and bought some frozen yogurt, then helped myself to a few sets of chopsticks. (The chopsticks not only went with our book, but could be used to make all the letters that had straight lines! Neat!) If I wanted to include something edible—snap peas, asparagus, and “Dinky Dipper” cones come to mind—I’d plan my grocery trips around my What Is It Bag schedule. My favorite things to share, though, were personal. The homemade wooden blocks my dad played with as a child. The tiny little baby outfit both of my children wore when we took them home from the hospital. My odd figurines: a happy hedgehog holding bananas, a pig peeking out from under a barrel, a whole lineup of funny bunnies. For the mail carrier theme, I brought in a box filled with old letters—a decision that came close to being a disaster. Some of the rubber bands that bundled the letters together were so old that they let go at the slightest touch. As the letters got mixed up, a card came to the surface that I hadn’t noticed earlier. It was a hot guy in a Speedo—something a college roommate had sent me as a joke when I was all of 20. Whoops!! I stashed that one deep into the pile as fast as I could. I was a little flustered the rest of the visit. That card was beneath the dignity of Miss Nancy. Singing, chanting, and Alphabet Yoga At every visit, we sang our souped-up version of the Alphabet Song. This song was an incredibly efficient tool. It taught kids letter names, letter sounds, words that started with each letter, and motions to get kids up and moving. As the year went on, we developed some variations. We went around in a circle or mixed up the order of the letters. On Fridays, as a special treat, one group begged to do the song “upside down.” They lay on the floor and I held the cards upside down. (The “rain” for R went up!) Another provider would stand behind the kids like a puppeteer and move their arms and hands to make the motions—which cracked everyone up. After the Alphabet Song, we got into the habit of doing Alphabet Yoga, in which we used our arms and bodies as “magic pens” and made the strokes of a letter we’d talked about earlier in our meeting. A few of the girls really got into these imaginary letters: “I made a pink and purple and rainbow S!” “My T has a black bow tie!” “My m is green with lots of sparkles!” In one group, the lowercase letters were treated as "baby" letters—we used our fingers to draw letters on our palms, and we spoke in falsetto. Let me tell you, it's pretty amusing to hear young kids speak in falsetto. Some of the transition songs were actually chants. (“Letters. Letters. Letters have names. What is the name of thi-i-s letter?”) I enjoyed those as well. There is something very satisfying about speaking in predictable rhythms. And clapping, too! I think we’d all be better off if, a few times every day, we’d take a break from all our super-important business to sing a little, chant a little, clap a little, stretch a little. About halfway through the year, my coach recorded me singing the Alphabet Song with one of my groups. Normally I don't care to see recordings of myself; my tendency is to be very self-critical. But what struck me when I saw that video is this: I looked happy. I looked like I was having fun. Seeing that video marked a turning point for me. I began to trust that in spite of my own doubts and limitations, my best self was coming through. No such thing as perfect If I’m doing the math right, I visited each group of kids somewhere around 100 times. No two visits were the same. And while some visits went better than others, I quickly learned not to expect every single aspect of a visit to go well. There were just too many variables. Tired kids, excited kids, sick kids, fidgety kids, frustrated kids, sad kids, late kids…my own mood, energy, and organization…the content of the lessons…the weather…the presence of other adults...the day of the week…holidays and birthdays. I did my best to be prepared, to have a game plan going in, but I still ended up changing things on the fly—or realizing after the fact that I should have changed things on the fly. But what gave me heart is the immutable fact of those 100 visits. I showed up and did my best, day after day. So did the providers, and so did the kids. And every one of us learned a whole lot during the course of the year. Growth happens One of the greatest privileges of being a Reading Corps tutor was to observe, up close, each child’s growth. It was immensely gratifying to see their benchmarking scores go from red to yellow to green. But my favorite moments were the breakthroughs that happened during sign-in. After weeks or months of making unrecognizable scribbles on the white board, a child would make a real letter—and I was thrilled beyond all reason. You made an H! Look at that fantastic R! I couldn’t help but clap and cheer. It reminded me of when my own kids were little, and how exciting it was when they rolled over or took a few steps without holding onto anything. The milestones were normal and expected, but still, when it’s YOUR kid, you’re so proud you just about burst at the seams. Much of the growth wasn’t as obvious, though. It was only when I stopped to reflect that I could see it. Younger kids who were hardly talking in the fall were saying the vocabulary words in May. Journal pages went from simple drawings to elaborate stories over the course of the year. This kind of growth is like the changing seasons. There’s not much difference between one day and the next, but there is always a steady, invisible pull that takes us to the next stage. You wake up one morning and it’s spring.
Y-a-y, friends! At our initial training last August, we tutors were asked what we were looking forward to the most. We all said, “getting to know the kids.” At the end of our service, if we’d been asked what we would miss the most, the answer for all of us would be, “the kids.” Oh, the kids. The girl who wore a bear costume during sign-in and called the two t’s in her name Iowa and Niowa (later changing them to Skyah and Chase). The toddler who was a ringer for Mr. Clean. The boy who shouted, with movie-star grace, “I love you! I love you!” from the yard as I got into my car at the end of my visit. The smart-as-a-whip girl who rallied her peers like a plucky character in a Disney movie when it was time to say the vocab words as fast as they could. (“Come on, guys! We can beat her. Let’s do it!”) The identical twin boys whose beautiful Russian accent turned ordinary words into soul-stirring poems. The three-year-old boy who made a dashing late entrance in sunglasses and a Spiderman outfit, improbably managing to look both comical and suave. The sweet, sweet girl who wore frilly skirts every single day and filled her journal pages with tiny circles. The always-active boy who felt my arm during a tutoring session and announced, as if it were a good thing, “It’s squishy!” The girl who wrote my name on the whiteboard…followed by an equals sign…followed by a heart. The boy who always tapped at the window as I was leaving, so I would wave goodbye. You understand, what I’ve written here just now is the barest of impressions. Altogether I worked with two dozen kids, and every one of them made their way into my heart. I had a unique vantage point: I wasn’t responsible for them in the way the providers were, and I wasn’t with them all day or every day. I had the luxury and the privilege of simply…noticing them. Witnessing them. Shortly before my last week in Reading Corps, I talked to a high school classmate who is an administrator in a large ECFE (Early Childhood and Family Education) program. I asked her if she had any tips for dealing with the emotions of saying goodbye to kids, knowing you may never see them again. She said no. “You want to be attached,” she said. “And if you’re attached, there’s no way around it.” A part of me wants to keep writing, keep writing…to linger over this experience as long as I possibly can. It’s like when the kids wanted to keep our greeting song going. After we’d gone through all the names (including a whispered greeting for any babies sleeping in another room), we’d sing for the pets, for the provider, for any other adults who were around, and then at the end we’d finally wrap things up by singing, “Our friends are here today. Our friends are here today. Y-a-y, friends!” So I think that’s how I will end this. I am picturing all of the wonderful people I’ve met this year—kids, providers, coaches, fellow tutors, parents, helpers—and I am lifting my arms up. Y-a-y, friends! Dog Walk Discoveries (April to June, 2017) In early spring, glimpses of blue... The statue and the stump have the same attitude. Some pictures make it very tempting to play with all those filters that are so readily available on our computers and phones. Lucky for me it's an easy walk to get to this path in the woods. Sidewalk acrostic poems! Danae, I totally believe that you are delightful, awesome, nice, and elegant. Destiny, I'm sure you are delightful as well and I'm hoping you will finish your poem! Batmobile! That is one big pink flamingo. Finally got a shot of this monkey! (Or whatever it is!) For almost a year, every time I've walked by there's been a tall van parked in front of it. I know this is hard to make out, but there's a black spiky light fixture next to blackened flower pots and dead flowers. Makes me think of a Tim Burton movie. This has got to be an optical illusion, right? Or else: There was a crooked man, and he walked a crooked mile. He found a crooked sixpence upon a crooked stile. He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse, And they all lived together in a little crooked house. A birthday tree! I had never seen one of these fun tree wraps before, but my son told me he's seen them in Cedar Rapids (Iowa). Curious... Tie some netting onto a wheel and you've got yourself a bird feeder. A river of mulberries, flowing down to the street. One of my earliest memories is helping my mom spread a sheet beneath a mulberry tree and gently shaking the branches so the ripe mulberries would drop down. Dog Walk Discoveries (January to March, 2017) A January thaw made for lovely walk. That little nubbin of a Christmas tree is well placed. The sidewalk is willing itself to bloom! Kind of makes one think of a dystopian novel, doesn't it? Trash or story starter? These charming ducks live at the Rau-Strong house, which is on the National Register of Historic Places. But since the Riverview Library is right across the street (and I can remember "Riverview" much better than "Rau-Strong"), I always think of them as the Riverview ducks. Someday I would like to sit under trees like these and spend hours simply looking up. I've always liked cannas. My mom used to grow them around the light pole in our yard. Even the fall litter on the sidewalk looks alluring when the light hits just right. I'm liking this rendition of red, white, and blue. Finding beauty in what is broken... The tiger is still on guard! (See last month's post.) I took this picture from some distance away, so it's blurry, but look how this little fairy house glows! A giant glowing turkey on a hill. The holiday season has arrived. Here are some pics from my walks in Mountain Lake. The arch in the above picture, reflected in just one window of the old bank building. If this isn't the perfect symbol of starting a new year... and for me at this time, a new life... In front of the antique store: white flowers in the snow.
This funny statue reminded me very much of my late beagle, Dorie. In the winter, Dorie would suddenly plunge her head and shoulders into the snow, tail wagging all the while. I always wondered what she was after. A frozen bit of sandwich? Burrowing mice? Whatever the prize, to her it was well worth a faceful of snow. If my water bottle had a top like that, I'd leave it on the sidewalk, too. I love the idea of fish lawn ornaments! The best way to play with an extra-large tiger plush toy: put it in your yard and watch the double takes. These sculpted faces reminded me of a trip I took to New York City with my daughter and her friend in 2013. We stayed at an apartment on the Lower East Side that we rented through HomeAway. The apartment was very cluttered and had a weird vibe (I'll save that story for another day). I don't think I'm done with these sculptures quite yet. They still haunt me from time to time, so perhaps they are looking for a home in a story. Sometimes it's just the pattern of lines that catches my eye. Like this green tangle... ...and these brown leaves hanging down like tiny wizened bats. A weeping willow and thick vines. On one side a downward cascade; on the other, a staunch climb up. These next pics were taken on a walk early in the morning on October 1. More interesting lines...
A few inspirational messages... We knew this day would come.
In the spirit of Halloween, here are a few of my strangest finds from the last few months. Because, deep down, we all want to be ducks. No triangle eyes or jagged teeth for this pumpkin. Nope, this one gets long eyelashes and elegant gloves. A new genre altogether—the patriotic pumpkin. Where are his teeth? And his eyeballs? And does his smile have to be THAT wide and creepy? I think this is supposed to be a man with a great big jutting jaw covered in a massive beard. But there's no color, no definition other than the skis. My eyes swim looking at him. Have you ever seen such a look of disgust? (I've placed this guy
near my cat's litter box—seems like a good place for that permanent scowl.) Whenever I see signs like these, I think of Susan Patron's The Higher Power of Lucky (2007 Newbery winner).
Clearly, the children who made this l-o-o-o-n-g path were NOT slow. They had a mission! This photo and the one above it were taken 20 days apart, and I can't recall if it was the same street. All I know is that I very much wanted to go up that red carpet! Maybe kids who make l-o-n-g paths and red carpets grow up to draw dragonflies that dance in the streets. A particularly majestic cat... Holy infant, mother and child... And now for some general floral loveliness. How I adore summer. For the longest time, I remembered this gleaming carousel horse as a unicorn. Understandable, right? Bee cheerful. :) This little dinosaur practically looked alive. The one in the bottom right corner—not so much. (Did the bunny have anything to do with it?) A flip-flop planter and a pipe-smoking sea captain. Fun! I noticed this tree because it was wrapped in white lights. Sometimes it's merely the angle of the sun that gives us new images to ponder. Like this ordinary stucco wall... ...this lacy leaf shadow... ...and this busy bit of sand. How many stories are contained in these tracks? Finally, a Little Free Library with some wise words from Dr. Seuss's Lorax:
Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It's not. In July I continued my habit of taking very long walks early in the morning, and I was amply rewarded! More flowers, more sidewalk poetry, more amusing lawn ornaments, and more stories. Doesn't this flower look like it's lit from within? Some mushrooms are really flowers at heart. Through the trees, a glimpse of a pond I didn't know was there. Here's an albino squirrel I see frequently on my walks. (Or maybe it's not the same one?!) I would like to believe this little guy brings me good luck. On a beautiful Sunday morning, this squirrel was enjoying his breakfast—an entire bagel. Maybe he's got the New York Times stashed away somewhere too. A birthday balloon determined to celebrate until the last possible moment. Not much to look at here...but wait, isn't that a word on the garage? No joy here... No joy here, either... But here the joy has been given permanent status. Now for some lawn ornaments... This yard is a story in itself! Do you get the feeling the shrub is reaching with all its might toward the broken branch? A food or water dish for a stray cat. Acts of kindness are all around. A shattered TV on the sidewalk... ...but how lovely, the shattered bits of sky! Old box springs ready to be picked up.
What hurt you today was taken out of your heart by the meadowlark who slipped the silver needle of her song in and out of the grey day and mended what was torn.
In closing, here's another flower. Always reach for the light.
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Nancy Loewenis a children's book author, editor, tutor, mom of two adult children and one feisty cat, and collector of weird things. Featured Posts
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