Saturdays

Some Saturdays start with what could be called early plans. Errands that must be done in a timely manner, coffee with friends, getting on the road to a relative's house. Those Saturdays break the weekday routine and feel purposeful.

But some of the best Saturdays start in a delayed manner. Meaning acknowledging the time on the clock and reflecting what I'd be doing on a weekday. Then rolling over, adjusting covers, and feeling so grateful for no plans except--glorious sleep.

Once I rise coffee is savored while reading, checking blogs, gazing at decorating and gardening shows. Nothing at all like the fast-paced, kid-crammed days of teaching. I so appreciate quiet, no expectation Saturdays.

It's still racism

My son called to ask--Didn't I want to come on campus tonight to show support? There's a rally on the steps of the administration building. I was tired, after the routines of our Friday lessons and those poor behavior choices. But the cause was a noble one. He had invited me and his siblings. It was a cause I would have drawn to his attention in his growing up years and now here he was, putting that awareness into action.

I met my daughter and we hurried through the cold night air, turned the corner of the old brick building and joined the gathered crowd. Articulate young people representing campus groups spoke, poems were read, candles lit, pledges made.

Question haunt my mind as I shiver in the bitter night air. Why are we still doing this in 2010? Why another gathering to protest an act of racism? Didn't we have enough of these back in the days when I was a student on campus?

Why did two young men consider, then carry out said act that ended in their arrest today? Why, in the cover of darkness, did they spread cotton on the lawn of an iconic black student building? How do we fight this thing called racism?

The answers came in the words spoken by the young people at the mic tonight. Take action to require diversity classes for all students. Engage with others who do not believe, dress, act, entertain like you. Prayer for guidance and love to rein down and prevail. A call to end racism.

Letting Me In

They give out just enough to let you know their pain. Just enough to let you see what prompted their actions.

I squeeze in moments here and there. Taking time from our academic schedule to ask what is it? What's behind this?

Little pieces of the puzzle in little bits of time leave me wondering.

Lost on the Field Trip

We lost someone on the field trip today. This is a little hard to admit, but it was me--their teacher.

Not really lost. I mean I knew where I was. I just wasn't with the rest of the parents, students, and teachers. And I would have to admit at several points I really was clueless as to where they were.

It happened during our annual fourth grade trip to the state capitol.
"I'm going to put this group of lunches with the rest," I commented to the others as I stepped inside my cousin's office.
We were using it as temporary storage so we wouldn't be lugging 40 plus lunches and a cooler up and down the halls of our tour. But when I stepped out of the office...they were gone. No one in sight. No sign of them. Nothing.

I began walking down the wide hall before me, somewhat distracted by texting my cousin, but as I turned corner after corner I did not see nor hear any indication of our large group. I retraced my steps, then climbed a set of marble stairs. At the top I looked around, peered in a door to the visitors gallery, but still no one. I walked on to the other end of this rather large building stopping occasionally at various balconies to gaze below. Still nothing.

Perhaps they went down that first set of stairs. So I hopped into an elevator to travel to lower floors and search, but no group of ten-year-olds did I see. Time was passing. I should text or call. Then I realized that would be impossible as we had not exchanged cell numbers. Great. I could spend hours wandering around this massive place. Time to admit defeat. I couldn't do this on my own.

So I made my way to the information desk and humbly explained my predicament. Could they radio our tour guide and ask him where he and the group were? The teacher is lost.

The Getaway

" Want to do lunch?" she asked. "Of course," I replied with no hesitation.

It had been a morning crowded with learning, but also discipline of willful children and their hurt feelings. Time away is just what I needed. A breather. Adult conversation. Laughter at our teaching predicaments.

Today would not be a lunch spent balancing a tray of food as I answered emails and shuffled those seemingly endless piles of paperwork that land on my desk. I will walk away from the papers and not look back.

We rushed to my car, jumped in, and sped away-feeling our cares dissipate as we drove down the road. We told stories of the morning designed to bring laughter.

Arriving at our favorite restaurant we followed the same routines which we have found get us the tasty food in record time. Some time spent reflecting on the seriousness of our troubled students and our answers for today.

But again, it was mostly time spent in adult conversation, laughter, and time away. Just what we needed.

Back to Writing

So glad the Slice of Life is up and running on Two Writing Teachers. I can't believe a whole year has gone by. While I've written in many other places, usually on paper-in journals-or snippets here and there, it has been quite awhile since adding to this blog.

So the challenge is on. Write every day for the month of March. Force oneself to focus on a slice, make the time to enter it, and do so in a timely manner. That is a challenge. But the results are so promising. Learn about one's self and learn about writing. Glad March is here.

Sharing

We dropped down the hill and the airstrips came in sight. The familiar red and blue taxi lights edged them. I loved hearing my Dad tell me about the colors, the angles of the strips of pavement, the types of buildings at the airport. I feel a connection here. I flew out of it a few times as a teenager, picked Dad up occasionally from a trip, knew he was down here flying planes to and from sites across the Midwest. This place reminds me of him, of how he used to be.

Dad sits silently in the car looking out on the field. I wonder what he is thinking. I wonder what he remembers.

My grown son follows the signs and smoothly gets us to our destination, the Airline History Museum. We pull up in front of a metal corrugated hanger on the flat concrete tarmac. It feels so good to be on an airstrip. The small plane engines purr in the distance. I see a red two-seater and am reminded of the time Dad took us girls along to a rural airstrip as he practiced landings and takeoffs. Two sisters would wait on the ground, while one soared into the sky with Dad. I loved every minute sitting next to him as we gently lifted up into the bluest sky. Coasting along with dad all to myself, amazed at how small everything was back on earth. He was in total control of flying us through the air.

Dad struggles to get out of the car, holding on to the door until my nephew gets the wheelchair behind him. He looks rested today and should be able to go through the museum okay. His legs will not allow him to climb steps and walk through the old planes. The stroke has left him unable to tell me stories of his flying days. His time in the Air Force or years in small planes. He can't answer my questions.

But we have each other today. Father, daughter, grandsons. Sharing our love of flying.