38

The thought of turning thirty-eight has left me feeling a little apprehensive and anxious the past few months. But it's not what you think. Many of my friends are steeling themselves for the milestone birthday looming ahead in the very near future and express their sorrow and despair about being "old." My prompt reply of "You're not old" or "I'm not old" is met with a smug smirk or an eye roll implying I'm delusional or in denial about just exactly how "old" I am.  While I've felt some apprehension about turning thirty-eight, my apprehension has nothing to do with the fear of being old.

I remember in 1988, when my father turned thirty-eight. I was ten.  I remember a similar feeling of apprehension and anxiety. My dad's father died at the age of thirty-eight, when my own father was only ten years old. Some people noted this fact--this similarity. While I knew my father wasn't sick, I still felt the anxiety creeping up inside of me. At ten, I remember thinking I was too young to be without my dad and twenty-eight years later that feeling hasn't changed. I remember feeling a sense of relief flood over me five months later when I turned eleven, as though some spell was broken. I'm not superstitious nor do I believe in ghosts, but I must admit I was spooked then. And maybe just a little spooked now.

While I don't know much about the days following my grandfather's death, I doubt the word "old" was ever used. More likely the refrain was "too young." My great grandparents were far too young to be burying their second grown child in a little over a year. My grammy at the age of thirty was far too young to be a widow. My father and his two younger sisters were far too young to be without a father. And at the age of thirty-eight, my grandfather was far too young to die.

Growing up, my grandparent's engagement photos were always on display. The double frame would migrate around our house from the piano to the shadow box to the coffee table. When I moved into my first apartment, my mother passed the photos on to me, and they have always found a new spot every time I've moved. Unlike many engagement photos today where the groom-to-be and bride-to-be gaze adoringly at one another in a "candid" moment, my grandparents were photographed individually. In the sepia toned photos, they look happy, healthy, hopeful, and most notably young. Looking at my grandfather's young handsome face, I struggle to even fathom how a little more than a decade later, he would be betrayed by his lungs-his breath and life taken away. I can't imagine the anger, the frustration, and sadness he must have felt at being denied the privilege of growing old. He never had the experience of proudly slinging his arm around his son's shoulders when he graduated high school or walking his daughters down the aisle on their wedding days or cradling one of his seven grandchildren.

Over twenty years after his death, my grammy married an exceptional man who was everything any grandchild could ask for in a grandfather. But I also remembered the void before him. When it was just my grammy alone in the house my grandfather built. I loved my step-grandfather, but I always called him by his first name because I knew the man in the double picture frame was my grandfather, even though I never met him.

This summer, I was struck by the following line from Christina Baker Kline's Orphan Train. "I've come to think that's what heaven is a place in the memory of others where our best selves live on." But how do you carry the memory of a person you never knew? How do you remember someone whose only presence was an absence?

My first year teaching while prepping a poetry unit, I stumbled across a poem by Lucille Clifton called "the thirty-eighth year."  I was immediately drawn to the number. In the melancholic poem, Clifton contemplates her life and references her own mother's death at the age of forty-four. Clifton's sadness and regret is palpable as she considers how she has lived her life in fear and contemplates her own mortality. After perusing some of her other poems, I found one she wrote twenty-five years later which she titled "There is a Girl Inside."  She describes herself as "A green tree in a forest of kindling." I always felt a sense of happy relief noting her youthful vigor as she approached the late autumn of her life. Thirty-eight and forty-four weren't the end; they weren't inauspicious. They were just numbers.

While I'm in no rush to get old, I don't fear it either. In fact, I hope I'm granted the privilege of growing old-- one day. The alternative to not growing old holds no appeal. I hope to one day sling my arm around my boys' waists when they graduate from high school, hold tightly to their arms when they walk me down the aisle on their wedding days,  and one day hold my grandchild in my arms.

My grandfather may not have been physically present in my life, but I still note his presence, his importance, his impact. If heaven is a place in the living's memory, he's there. A few weeks ago, my father was driving past the cemetery where my grandfather is buried and noticed a woman walking near my grandfather's grave. He turned his truck around and parked in the church lot. At first he didn't recognize his cousin who he hadn't seen in years. She had decided to stop at the cemetery to leave some flowers on a few graves and one of them was my grandfather's.

His life, his presence remembered.

When I look at my son, I note how his ears stick out just a bit like his great grandfather's.

His life, his presence remembered.

As I begin to pedal on the elliptical machine, I enter my age- first a three then an eight- and breathe in and out deeply and think of my grandfather.

I think about what thirty-eight isn't. It certainly isn't enough. It isn't old. It isn't unlucky. And it isn't anything to fear. And then I consider what thirty-eight is. It is unfinished. It is young. It is a blessing. And it's just a number. 

White Space

Yesterday afternoon the boys and I took the Cape May-Lewes Ferry. We had spent a few nights with a friend in Rehobeth and then moved on to spend a few nights with a friend in Sea Isle City (I'm a shore whore, mooching off anyone who will have me). After the novelty of the ferry boat had worn off and my boys settled in with their gadgets, I contemplated what I should do for the next forty- five minutes. It is almost August, and I have yet to finish writing anything this summer. I guess I've been suffering from writer's block and as a result I've allowed some of my other interests and hobbies to crowd out writing. Reading a lot of books, drawing and painting a bit, scrolling through my Pinterest feed, attempting to participate in the world of Instagram, and reveling in the egomaniacal ruthlessness of the Underwoods, I've thought about writing, opened my Blogger account, looked at the three unfinished posts and thought, perhaps I could better use my time playing around with the column widths and background colors to maybe make my blog look semi-respectable. I know writing is good for me, just like running and broccoli. And I honestly enjoy all three. But sometimes when you give up exercise or eating right for a week or two, you "forget" how good it feels to do those things and are content to lounge on the couch and eat brownies, and ponder how writing is good but not writing isn't really all that bad either. I even gave myself an ultimatum last week, no new novel until I finished at least one post. As I sat on the ferry boat, I thought about finishing up No Country for Old Men-seeing as I caved on my idle threat.

When I used to take art classes, my art teacher would always note my ability to overwork a piece. Poised to add another paint stroke or preparing to lift some pencil marks to create more contrast, my art teacher would say, "I think you're done."

I seldom feel satisfied with any of my own work--there's always room to make it better. I am constantly making mental notes and sometimes literal ones on how to improve my work. This past school year, my House Council co-advisor and I organized the school talent show. As I sat in the rear of the cafetorium getting ready to activate our polling system on my laptop, I opened a document and started listing all the improvements we needed to make for next year.

For the past four months I've been looking at three unfinished posts. Unable to really form them into something I deem worthwhile yet unwilling to move past them. As I sat on the ferry boat, looking at my bookmarked novel, I decided to go back to one of the drafts to tinker, to edit and to overwork. Navigating on my small phone screen, I highlighted a few sentences to move, in hopes to somehow correct the flow or create a flow. In the midst of cutting and pasting, the Wi-Fi connection cut out for a moment and then returned, and the next thing I knew Blogger was now saving a blank white page.

Mother effing pus bucket!

I violently tapped the undo button to no avail. It couldn't be undone. What was done was done.

I was pissed. For the past four months, I've been fiddling with that piece of writing or more accurately that piece of writing has been fiddling with me. I thought back to a painting I started and nearly completed many years ago. One evening, as my art teacher stood behind me silently scrutinizing my work, I began to complain about how much I hated my painting. She responded, "Paint over it then." I turned around and looked at her in disbelief. She knew how many hours I had already invested in this painting.  Shouldn't she be encouraging me to finish my work or showing me how to fix it? But she had noted my half-hearted effort for weeks and knew I just wasn't into it. And soon I realized she was right. The next week at my art class, I applied a thick coat of gesso over the canvas obliterating the physical representation of hours of my time. I think about how my teacher could have just handed me a new canvas, but she recognized the importance of me covering over my work. As I painted over the little girl standing near a lake in a half finished field of flowers, I didn't feel a sense of failure but a sense of relief, and two months later I finished a new painting on that same canvas.

After completing a Google search on how to retrieve a lost draft from Blogger, which I learned was impossible, I looked at the white space, the clean canvas, and started over. After about thirty minutes of nearly continuous writing, I was already happier with what I now read on the screen.  A technical glitch had saved me from myself.

While I truly value hard work and perseverance, there are times when it's good to give up, move on and start fresh. If you are a stubborn, persistent borderline perfectionist who sees asking for help as a sign of weakness, well, you need to take a step back and consider whether pushing through is going to leave you feeling happy and satisfied or just frustrated and fruitless.

Photo Story

I just finished reading The Giver with my eighth graders which sparked some great thought provoking conversations about memories. When I started the unit, we watched the music video for Jamey Johnson's "In Color."  In the song, a grandfather and his grandson are having a conversation about three pictures from the grandfather's past which tell the story of his life. As he discusses the photos with his grandson, he notes the feeling of fear he felt in each photo. While the song at first seems melancholic, the fear the grandfather felt in the final photo led to the proudest moment of his life. Since we spent so much time discussing the importance of memories, not only as individuals but also as a community, I tasked my students with finding three photos to tell a story about their life. The three photos needed to share a common theme or motif and reveal something or someone important to them and serve as an inspiration for an original poem. Whenever I ask my students to be introspective or reveal something personal, I likewise participate in the challenge. I feel it's only fair and helps my students feel more comfortable. So, I took a little trip down memory lane and culled through my own photos to give them a few examples.

The first story I shared centered around cars. I started with my first car, a Volkswagen Golf, which my parents bought for me when I was sixteen. I loved that car because of the freedom I felt driving it. I remember tacking up glow in the dark flowers on the ceiling to keep the sagging upholstery attached to the roof, how the handle use to come off in my hand when I moved the front seat forward for my passengers, and losing a hubcap at the end of one brutal winter when I hit a humongous pothole. The two Volkswagen Jettas I owned afterwards were certainly nicer, which was blatantly obvious from the photos, but neither of those cars ever attained the level of sacredness of my first, crappy car. Thinking about all the memorable, and sometimes foolishly dangerous, times spent in that car with friends or the summer nights driving home from my job listening to music and being alone with my thoughts as the warm night air rushed in through the sun roof under the star-filled sky leaves me feeling nostalgic.

In the picture of me with my first car was also my little Lady--our miniature poodle who was a member of our family for nearly twelve years. I showed my students the dog we owned before Lady, our Westie Jordan, who was hit by a truck on our dead end road only a year after we adopted him. I then shared a photo of Aztec, the greyhound we adopted when I was a teenager. Those three dogs were not only a treasured part of my childhood, but they all taught me important life lessons about love. While I felt heartbroken after Jordan died, I learned we don't just get to love one person or thing in this life and with time we can open ourselves up to others. A few months later, we adopted Lady who was so easy to love because she trusted people implicitly and always picked up on people's feelings. I remember one afternoon crying on the couch, and she hopped up beside me and put her little paw on my leg.  Her sweet disposition made her the most reliable, lovable companion. After we rescued Aztec, she often barked at me and would shake in fear when I wore a baseball hat. When we adopted her, we knew she had been abused at the racetrack, and we quickly came to the conclusion she was most likely beaten by either a teenager or young adult. Months passed before Aztec felt comfortable with me.  I had to work hard to gain her trust, but she eventually came around and would nuzzle her delicate face in my lap as I affectionately stroked the soft, silky fur in the folds of her ears. Those three dogs helped me learn in my formative years how to cope with heartbreak, how love and trust go hand in hand, and how lucky we are to not have just one love in this life, but many different experiences with love.

The next series of pictures I showed them all included my father and tractors. In the first picture, I'm probably five-years-old sitting on my dad's lap on our Cub Cadet riding lawnmower. It's winter time, since we're both bundled up and the trees in the background are stripped bare. I then showed my students a picture of my children sitting with my dad on his blue Ford tractor. It's summertime as I noted the contrast between the rich, swarthy hue of my dad's skin next to my boys' pale soft skin. The final photos were taken on a brisk spring day, and my boys are riding on the toy pedal tractor my father bought for them as he amiably walks beside them.

My father has always loved tractors and work. He is the hardest working man I know. After working a fifty hour week, his idea of relaxing, his hobby, is working on his farm. As a little girl, I was pretty girlie-- I loved Barbie dolls, My Little Ponies, and Fashion Plates. I don't ever really recall my dad playing with me and my girlie toys. What I do remember is working with my dad. I remember bumping along in the trailer behind our riding lawn mower as we rode into the neighboring woods to cut down trees for our wood burning stove. I would explore the woods as my dad's chainsaw whined its way through a tree trunk or would enthusiastically bellow "timber" as a tree collapsed to the ground. After my dad cut up the tree, I would collect the smaller pieces of wood and logs and load them into the trailer. We sometimes would stop to collect the sap from the trees we tapped in the woods and bring it home to boil on the wood stove leaving a heady scent of nature in our basement. I remember going to work with my father after he broke his foot. As a self-employed plumber, if my dad didn't work, he didn't make any money. His broken foot could only be a minor inconvenience as he figured out ways to still do his physically demanding  job. I still recall my muscles straining as I helped my dad mix the concrete to pour the steps leading up to our front door and wonder if my little hand print can still be seen more than three decades later. I cherish those times spent with my dad, and once again learned many important lessons. I learned about the satisfaction that comes with completing a job especially a physically taxing one. And even though I was very much a "girlie" girl, I learned from my father there's nothing wrong with a little dirt--it washes off. I also learned I was capable of doing anything. I remember one Saturday afternoon helping my dad on a job, and he patiently showed me how to solder a plumbing joint, carefully guiding and instructing me as I held the flame in my hand. While he knew I never would be a plumber, I think my dad wanted to show me I could do anything. In high school, I was the only girl in my drafting class, but I never doubted my place nor my abilities in that room nor any room mostly because of those experiences with my dad. In my own way, I hope to instill the same confidence in my children, showing them their capabilities and the pride found in hard work.

My students shared their photos and their poems with one another this past week. While all their stories were different, they were also the same. They wrote about family, friends, animals, vacations, birthdays, hobbies and all the complex and sometimes simple feelings associated with them. It was a great lesson about the importance of not only holding on to memories but also sharing them.

What's Your Jam?

For the past few months, my older son has been pestering me to buy him earbuds so he can listen to music on our old iPod. This summer we will be driving to Tennessee for a family vacation, and during our nine hour drive, I'm sure both of my boys having their own headphones will lead to a slightly more pleasant road trip. Last weekend, I bought them each earbuds, and both boys have been listening to music on the iPod or my phone, and my younger son Josh has turned into the Verizon man, as he shouts periodically, "Can you hear my music now?"

As I was making dinner the other night, Josh was lounging on the couch with my phone crooning, "you're wonderful, flawless, oooh you're a sexy lady." Yep, that's my five-year old innocently singing along to some "racy" Bruno Mars' lyrics, but then again, that's nothing new in the Reagan house.

My children's needs and desires supersede mine in almost every aspect of my life. Most evenings, I prepare two entrees for dinner. I have given up trying to watch the news or any TV program I enjoy. I willingly play endless board games, at bed time I read the same book over and over for weeks on end, and play outside with my boys in subarctic temperatures. But, there is one area I refuse to concede or compromise on--music.

If I am ever interrogated by the CIA, they can skip the waterboarding and just play Kidz Bop for roughly seven and a half minutes and I will cave like a house of cards. Whatever you want to know, I will tell you. Just stop the insipid children's music! My children have no idea who the Wiggles are nor have they ever heard a catchy tune by the Fresh Beat Band because "Mommy, don't play that." I loathe rousing Disney power ballads. One of my proudest moments was when my son Nate came home from school complaining about the awful song "Let It Go" that all of his classmates were singing.

Since they were babies, my children have always listened to Mommy's music whether we were riding in the car, cleaning the house, or jumping into pillow piles in the living room. And with the exception of a few Jay Z and Eminem tracks, I seldom censor what we listen to in our home and car. Before starting preschool at the local church, the teachers asked us to fill out a paper listing  the boys' favorite food, color, activity, TV program, and song.  As Nate and I worked one afternoon filling in both his form and Josh's, who was two-and-a-half at the time, I asked Nate about his favorite song, or I should use the correct terminology in our house, "What's your jam?" He promptly responded, "Drink in My Hand." I smiled as I wrote down the song title and felt it rather fitting since the singer's last name is Church. I fist bumped Nate and said, "Fill it up/poor it down/ I got forty hour week worth of trouble to drown." I then asked Nate about Joshie's jam. He promptly responded with the "X-box and Atari" song. I grimaced and asked Nate for another suggestion, seeing as I didn't feel it entirely appropriate to write down that my two-and-a-half year old's favorite song was CeeLo Green's "F*** You (Forget You)." Nate's next suggestion was "The Underwear Song" otherwise known as "Sexy and I Know It." Nope, couldn't write that one down either. We finally decided on "Fruit Loops," the Blake Shelton cover of the classic Kenny Loggins' "Footloose." Once while watching Josh, my best friend gave him a bowl of Cheerio's after he requested "Fruit Loops." He was a little perplexed.

Yes, my children listen to and sometimes sing inappropriate lyrics, but before you go judging me, I would like to point out my children are almost completely unaware of any inappropriate words and their meanings. When Nate came home a few months ago and told me one of his friends said the "s" word, I asked him, as I braced myself for his first step towards a loss of innocence, what the "s" word was that his classmate used, and he whispered, "Stupid, and that's not a nice word." I replied, "You're right. That word isn't very nice." Likewise, the "h" word and the other "s" word, "hate" and "shut up," are also off limits.

Growing up, I only recall listening to The Beatles, Beethoven, The Rolling Stones, The Four Tops, Journey, Linda Ronstadt, Prince, Frank Sinatra, and The Doors--no kids' music. The first time I heard Bruno Mars' "Locked Out of Heaven," I immediately was taken back to riding in my mom's Thunderbird listening to The Police's "Roxanne."  Probably the same age as my Nate, I remember loving how Sting rolled the initial consonant sound. If you asked me then what the song was about, I wouldn't have known. Even if I had paid attention to the lyrics, I probably would have guessed Roxanne was a crossing guard, and the singer was in a rush to get across the street, so "put on the red light, Roxanne." When Nate finally figures out what "Locked Out of Heaven" is really about, I doubt he's going to feel comfortable having a conversation about how smart and subversive Mars is comparing carnal knowledge of a woman to a religious experience, especially not with his nerdy English teacher mom who will go on and on about the irony, metaphors, and diction. For right now, we both just enjoy the "Oh, Yeah, Yeah" song.

While the excitement of our new earbuds has already begun to wane, I know their love of music will only continue to grow.

Best.Weekend.Ever.

Two weekends ago, we took our boys to Great Wolf Lodge. We had planned the same trip last winter which was foiled not once but twice by ear infections. So it was no surprise on Saturday afternoon, when my older son began to complain about his ear. After a visit to the Urgent Care, we managed to get the antibiotics he needed to halt the ear infection in its tracks. We departed Sunday morning; my brother-in-law's family following us on the highway. About an hour into our drive, my husband seemed agitated as he pulled off the highway. He wasn't feeling well and wanted me to drive the rest of the way to the resort. Twenty minutes later, he was heaving out the window of our car onto the highway. Hoping it was something he ate, we took our boys to the water park, but a few hours later it was painfully clear, my husband was the victim of an evilly, ill-timed stomach bug.

While I do not believe in Hell, if Hell does exist and I end up there, I guarantee Hell is not going to be hot. Nope, Hell for me is two things--cold and moist. As I stood in the wave pool, my eyes nervously darting back and forth between both of my boys, shivering in my bathing suit, trying to convince myself that I was not taking a communal bath with the hundred other people in the wave pool as band aids swirled in the water, I contemplated switching places with my husband.  When it comes to the stomach virus, I'm Katniss Everdeen. I volunteer as tribute for the Reagan District. I feel I handle the stomach flu with relative grace and appreciate the slimming effects of a good stomach bug. After eating at the buffet and dropping forty dollars in the arcade in less than an hour and coming away with a slap bracelet, bouncy ball and three Tootsie Rolls, I couldn't wait to crawl into bed and watch the Oscars to see the winners from all the movies I hadn't seen. Just as I settled into bed, my husband resting peacefully after a tumultuous afternoon spent in the hotel bathroom, my boys began to complain from the pull-out couch that they couldn't fall asleep because of the light from the TV. I settled for reading about the Academy Awards via social media. A few hours later, I was awakened by the restless flopping of my younger son and discovered him shivering, the covers wrapped around his older brother who was laying horizontally across the bed. I moved my younger son into my bed and spent the remainder of the evening dozing between kicks. The following morning, I returned to the cold, moist wave pool but enjoyed a short reprieve when my two-year-old nephew's warm urine trickled down the side of my body.

In contrast, this past Saturday, before seeing a matinee at the Walnut Street Theater, I enjoyed a pleasant lunch with my mother-in-law and sister-in-law at Talula's Daily. Post show, I met my husband for dinner at Maggiano's, and then we met up with some of my husband's work friends for drinks and enjoyed some live music performed by one his colleagues. In the morning, as I chatted with my hairdresser and enjoyed a Dunkin Donuts coffee, I contemplated how I was only a book and a three mile run away from the "Best.Weekend.Ever."

At Maggiano's, my husband and I talked about the family style dinners we had once enjoyed there with our friends before any of us had children. I thought about all those weekends we spent eating and drinking at non-chain restaurants, seeing the majority of the films nominated for Academy Awards outside the animation category, and blaming a bad night's sleep on too much wine. Those were the days.

But those days pale in comparison to my son's expression of joyful disbelief as we entered the water park, prompting a stranger to say, "That face is priceless." Those days pale when compared to the squeals of delight as my boys bobbed gleefully through the waves. And as we pulled out of Great Wolf Lodge on Monday afternoon, and my son uttered an unsolicited thank you for a fun trip, well, I guess it was a fun overnight with a few minor hiccups. And those hiccups make for a better story and ensure we'll never forget the perfectly imperfect "Best.Weekend.Ever."

My Ridiculous Fear

Yesterday, I circulated around my classroom to see my seventh graders' selections for their third marking period Independent Reading Project. I allow my students to read whatever they want in hopes they will read a book they enjoy. I smiled as I noted copies of John Green and Mike Lupica books and sighed when one of my student's held up a copy of Of Mice of Men already bookmarked. I squealed with delight when I saw Pride and Prejudice and told my student she was going to meet and know my all time favorite heroine in literature, Elizabeth Bennet. As I walked past the last grouping of desks, one student proudly held up her book and said, "This is the third time I'm reading this book." I frowned and asked, "Why don't you pick a new book? Maybe one by the same author?" With the exception of the books I teach, I rarely return to books I've already read. Mostly because there are far too many books I want to read and not nearly enough time. I have multiple lists of books I want to read on Amazon, Pinterest, and in my library account, and as an English teacher and former English major, I have an ongoing mental list of "classics" I have yet to tackle.

I know this may sound ridiculous, but another reason why I don't revisit books is out of fear. When I was in tenth grade, I read Harper Lee's To Kill A Mockingbird. It was the first book I read that made me realize the power of words. Albert Camus said "Fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth," and To Kill A Mockingbird revealed many truths to me. Whenever someone asks me what inspired me to become an English teacher, my experience with that novel is one of them. Last summer, I finally forced myself to re-read it. I found the same copy I read when I was in tenth grade; its yellowed pages only amplifying my growing fear. What if the book I so loved at fifteen turned out to be overhyped and mediocre? As I read the first few chapters, I felt anxious. It was good, but worthy of inspiring my future career? I was nearing an existential meltdown, worried my life was based on a a lie. But a few chapters later, I remembered what I felt over twenty year ago and closed the back cover a few days later with my truths in tact. When asked why she never wrote another novel, Lee responded, "I said what I wanted to say and I will not say it again." Perhaps Harper Lee and I share some similar fears.

I did recently re-read, Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar for my book club. I did not feel the same sense of trepidation I felt with To Kill A Mockingbird, but I did spend a lot time reflecting on my previous two visits with Esther Greenwood. I first met Esther when I was twenty years old while vacationing with three of my friends in Ocean City, New Jersey. After my friend finished reading the book, she passed the novel, sodden with sand, off to me in the middle of our trip. As I lay on the beach, I felt a close connection with Esther. While I did not relate to Esther's battle with depression, I completely related to her feeling stifled. Like Esther who excelled at academics, I too had excelled as a model member of my religious community, but like Esther, I began to question my motivation.  Was I motivated by faith, or perhaps just by my own intrinsic desire to excel? Like Esther, I balked at the expectations of my "society" to get married and then be in subjection to my husband. Like Esther I wanted more than a Buddy Willard telling me my opinions were foolish and worthless while raising his children. Like Esther, I felt limited by the "infinite security" set before me.

Five years later, Esther and I met again. She had remained the same, but I had not. After making some difficult choices, I was finally hitting my stride as a teacher and one of my new students who had already read The Catcher in the Rye felt she wanted to read something different for our "Coming of Age" unit. I suggested we do an Independent Study on The Bell Jar together. As we read the novel and discussed Esther's plight, I believe she found a truth in the novel which I hope she still carries with her.

My most recent visit with Esther will most likely be my last. The Bell Jar isn't exactly middle school material. But as I finished reading The Bell Jar for the third time, I thought about the person I was and the person I am. More than fifteen years later, I still loathe Buddy Willard. I still feel an immense compassion for Esther and the polarizing literary figure who created her and was her. And I still remember thinking of that moment at the beach, as Esther contemplates drowning herself in the ocean, she hears her heart beating "I am I am I am." And I still remember thinking in that moment "Who I am" and all the infinite possibilities.

Even though there are too many books and too little time, I think I will be overcoming my fear and dusting off a few book jackets to remember who I was and who I am.

This I Believe

As I was scrambling this past week to create a writing assignment for my eighth grade students, I weighed my options. Option #1 was yet another five paragraph essay. While my students can certainly use the "practice," I sometimes fear I may single-handedly destroy what little enjoyment they may find in writing. Option #2 involved my students writing short stories which I fear would single-handedly leave me hating short stories for the next few months. As I racked my brain for ideas, I remembered a writing assignment a former colleague of mine gave her seniors. I vaguely recalled the assignment, but with the help of Google, I quickly found the inspiration--This I Believe. In the 1950s, during the height of the Cold War, Edward R. Murrow, the famous radio broadcaster, solicited his listeners to write essays about their personal beliefs, "the rules they live by," in an attempt to overcome the pervading feeling of fear that seemed to have permeated America. These essays became a beacon during those days of fear and reminded Americans of the goodness in our world. In 2005, NPR revived the program for a few years, and now there is a website devoted to the idea called This I Believe.

Whenever I give my students writing assignments, I always contemplate how I would write the assignment. When it comes to five paragraph essays analyzing a piece of literature, well, I could write one in my sleep. But as I contemplated my own response to my latest assignment, I couldn't formulate my response on the spot. I quickly recognized the assignment requires thought, self-reflection, and sincerity which make me feel a little uncomfortable-- or maybe a lot. And in all fairness, when I ask my students to write about a topic which makes them uncomfortable, I feel it's only right and fair I participate.

I began to ruminate on what I believe and made a mental list. I believe everyone can and should be a little kinder to one another. I believe any action movie where Liam Neeson maims and kills terrorists, criminals, or bad guys is going to be spectacularly entertaining. I believe I would be much happier if I were ten pounds lighter. I believe brownies are the best food EVER. I also believe my belief in brownies may be (in)directly responsible for my inability to achieve the happiness of being ten pounds lighter. While I probably could easily write about all of these topics, I don't believe any of them truly reflect my core belief.

So what do I believe?

This I Believe--I believe in rainbows after the rain. And I believe sometimes those rainbows take years to find, but they eventually appear. In 1993, shortly after Thanksgiving, my grandfather was diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer. We had the fortunate blessing of having a few weeks to say our good-byes, and two days after Christmas he passed away. Up until that time, I had never experienced the grief of losing a close relative, and seeing my luminously, radiantly happy grammy crushed by her loss made it doubly heart-wrenching. Although my grammy learned to cope with the loss of her second husband and managed to gain back her optimistic outlook, her joy and enthusiasm for life never quite returned to the vibrancy she had while he was alive. The morning of his death, my grammy asked me to take down the decorations on the Christmas tree. As I carefully took down the ornaments and lights, I asked my grammy how she wanted them organized. She told me it didn't matter; she would never put up another Christmas tree. 

The pain of losing my grandfather lessened, but December 27th remained an inauspicious day until 2012 when my beautiful nephew was born. As a mom, I can honestly say the depth of love I feel for both of my boys is boundlessly equal. But as an aunt,while I love all four of my nephews and would do anything for them, I absolutely favor my nephew Gavin. Last month, we went with my brother-in-law, sister-in-law and my nephews to cut down our own Christmas trees. As we slogged our way through the muddy, waterlogged tree farm, Gavin tripped over a tree stump and face planted in the mud. Covered from head to toe in mud, he pathetically raised his arms in the air and cried, "Up, please." I didn't hesitate for a second to scoop him up.  Had it been one of my own boys, I most likely would've have felt annoyed pressing his dirty coat against me or have made him walk, but not my little Gavey. Perhaps my affection for him stems from the afternoons I spent snuggling with him on the couch after my sister-in-law returned to work. Perhaps my undying affection stems from his charming, endearing spirit. But I think on some subconscious level, he is my favorite because he is a rainbow after the rain.  

While my grandfather's life may have ended on December 27th, the love I felt for him did not. I still carry the memories and the affection we shared for one another and count it a great privilege to have known and cared for such a kind, wonderful loving man. Although it may be a coincidence that my nephew was born on December 27th, the significance and implications of this coincidence remind me of what is important in this life--to continue the cycle of love.

My grandfather was a farmer his entire life and attuned to the natural world. He respected nature and the beauty of its cycles. After the Winter Solstice, he would always cite the old weather proverb, "As the days get longer, the cold gets stronger." The winter he passed away was one of the coldest with 93 days of continuous snow cover. For my family, the coldness of that particular winter had nothing to do with the temperature. But eventually, the light eclipsed the cold, spring came, and my grandfather's orchard burst with blossoms, despite the harsh winter.

December 27th is no longer a cold day for me. It's a beautiful reminder of the cycle of life and the importance of loving people as well as one can while one has the opportunity. And in December, when rainbows are scarcely seen, I can always find one.