The Injustice of it All

There is just something about walking down the high school hallway and spotting my child happily skipping down the way with her buddy Jake.  That happy face makes up for my bratty last hour class.

And then there is something about seeing her with head down, that small body trudging as if the world is hers to carry. My heart sinks and something catches in my throat. That was today.  As soon as she spotted me, those big blue eyes got bigger and wetter and the chin wobbled a bit.  She has some trouble with some boys knocking her around, but today was worse.  Her feelings had been trampled and abused.

I should say that Bell's social skills are lacking.  We have few friends with children.  She plays with us. She can tell you about scarab beetles and Osiris or the life cycle of a butterfly or how the moon was created,  but she isn't really good with other kids.  Jack and I were odd ducks as kids . . . still are . . . so we aren't sure what to tell her.  Jack didn't mind being a loner.  I did mind, but I never figured out the trick to it all.  I think we are just programmed to fit into Davis Hall and not the rest of the world.  Mostly, she lets the coldness roll off, ignores the turned backs, and just plays on the fringe of what ever group gives in that day.

Today, some adult was handing out candy in her building.  She tried to join the other kids, but some of the other teachers' kids wouldn't let her.  Maybe there was a reason that those kids got candy.  Maybe it was a prize for a good grade.  What is certain is she felt rejected.

I cannot fix all the world and make it nice.  I can intervene some, but I would not let her grow if I fought her battles.  Instead, we talk about standing up for ourselves when boys push us around.  We talk about forgiveness when we are rejected.  We talk about how doing our own thing is cool.  In reality, it is hard to find the balance of independence and not caring what the world thinks, of listening to Whitman, Emerson, and Thoreau.  We balance that with walking in love and making sure that we are the ones who do no harm.

We will learn how to make it. Things might get easier in high school when she can get in Ag or GT, do speech and drama . . . Find out that there are lots of weird kids out there.  But today, all I had to offer was the comfort and safety of my arms.

Some Rum with that Sweater?

A few years ago I was introduced to real fruit cake.  This is the sort that has not encountered  any sickly sweet, gummy candied fruit.  Instead, it has pounds of dried apricots and pineapple, dates and figs, sour cherries and cranberries.  Cups and cups of toasted pecans and walnuts.  Are you drooling yet?  I mix the concoction with other good things and bake very slowly.  Hours go by.

Then things get more interesting.  After I dig out some clean tea towels, I give each cake a healthy swig of rum or brandy.  This year I made mini cakes and tried all sorts of liqueurs on them. (My father-in-law has already claimed the role of official taste tester so don't beg).  Once each cake is pleasantly damp and wafting fumes of alcohol from my now sticky kitchen, it is wrapped in a towel.  I further ensure its integrity by sealing it up in a zip lock bag.  Now each will get to ripen for a month with periodic re-wettings with the rum or brandy . . . Or amaretto . . . Or . . .

In years past, the fruit cakes lived in a dark cupboard of the laundry room.  Oh, if life were so simple.  My washer is in my kitchen and the dryer is in the well house.  There are no cupboards out there, but I have a strong suspicion there are lots of mice.  The kitchen is much too warm.

To me, the solution was perfectly logical.  The only dark, cool place that was also cat/mouse/dog proof was the hall linen closet.  My sweater drawer had a little space, so those aromatic little cakes were tucked in with the cardigans and cowl necked sweaters as if they belonged.  I saw nothing wrong with this, though my family bluntly laughed at me.

It still seems a good idea, though I had no idea that THAT much smell would leak out of those sealed bags.  I opened the drawer for the first time today for a cardigan and it was a little stout.  I am sure I aired out by the time I got to school.  Let us hope that the look from the student at my desk today was at my crazy hair and not my rummy self.  My principal always gives me a hard time so after a funny look from her too, I just stayed in room.  It just seemed the least complicated.

O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree

Our tree is up and in typical Wilson - Rucker fashion, it is a bit haphazard.  That's okay.  By the time it comes down, it will be positively disheveled.  I hold with the notion that trees are for children.  They are magic, delight, and wonder all lit up and tinseled to our heart's desire, even the child's heart in this grown up body.  When I was a child, my mother always made hot chocolate and we decorated the tree  we had all trooped into a pasture to cut down.  If she was really good, there was singing of Christmas carols too.   Sappy, right?  Not for us.   It was just mystical.

Trees, at least for me, are not about decor, design, or style.  I shall never end up with a tree that is decorated in just one color or theme.  Better Homes and Gardens won't be doing a holiday photo shoot with us.

Instead, it is a family tree.  I did discreetly move a few of the 7 identical balls off the single branch that held them.  I might have moved a few of the favorite things out of cat pawing reach.  Overall, though, it was decorated by Bell and me (Jack brought it in,  put it up, and did the lights) and we used a hodge podge of decorations that were given to us and that we made, filling in the gaps with a few store bought things.

Some favorites on the tree are the eggs that Jack and I blew out and painted when he helped me put up my first tree after I was on my own.  We dyed them with Rit dye and then blew the centers out.  The problem was that the dye rubbed off on our mouths, and we both walked around for a few days with rainbow lips.    A lot have been broken so Bell and I made more last year to go with the few originals.  (We blew first, colored second.  Yep, older and wiser).  There are the ginger bread men that Jack and I made the first year we were married.  Once again, some have been broken so Bell and I made some additions two years ago.  Of course, there is an ornament that Bell has picked out every year, sometimes Hallmark, sometimes not.  I might be seeing a definite Disney theme here.

The stockings have been found.  Bell put the "God people" under the tree (I do realize there is some culture clashing in that).  The iron reindeer are out.  The Elf has been making his appearances and even whisked the Christmas list away last night.  Right now, it is pretty and perfect, but it is temporary.  Buttercup has already been removed from it once.  She was giving it the hairy eyeball and swatting ornaments.   Coco just wants to alternately sleep on the tree skirt and wrestle other cats under the tree.  Huxley has stolen and eaten a 2 year old gingerbread man.    In a few weeks, the lower branches will have been redecorated several times as whims seize my child.   That is all fine.  It is what Christmas trees are for at this house.

Good Company Feeds the Soul

The last day of a break is always a little dismal.  I don't ever want to leave that routine of getting home and family things done with out being rushed.  But this break is done and over.

We had planned on being at church and then dinner with the family, but church got nixed when Jack needed to help his mom this morning with some car issues.  This was the last chance to see my grands though, so we went ahead and headed to Loco for lunch.  I used to see my grandparents almost every day they visited since their cabin is right up the trail from our old house, but they were down 10 days this time and we only managed two visits.  Not cool.  Not cool.

It was a bittersweet visit.  I can tell that they have aged a lot in the last year and that makes me sad.  I have always been super close to them and even lived with them twice, so the whole old age thing makes me weepy and morose, but it was so right to be able to pop down to the cabin to check in on them and have them invite my child to stay for lunch.  According to Bell, it was the best lunch ever with each bite filling her mouth with "an explosion of taste."  Jack and I lunched up at the big house because we had company.

One of the church families came for lunch and fellowship.  Their kids and my sister and brother are all friends and both families are enjoying becoming better friends.  My grandparents came for dessert and everyone chatted and laughed while the younger set played cards.  It was good to see everyone from 6 to 83 enjoying each other's company.  We all knew that we were on the same page in life, choosing the same things.  There was no awkwardness, no pretense.  Just fellowship.

Not a single exciting thing happened today.  Instead, it was the sort of day that left me feeling content, blessed . . . My soul just felt fed from the day with those I loved and admired.

Sisters can be super-cool amazing

Since we were Ruckers on Thanksgiving day, we got to be Wilsons yesterday.  We loaded up our food contributions and drove to Loco in the sunshine and wind.

It was a typical holiday meal for us.  All five of us children plus two spouses and three children were there at my parents' house.  My grandparents made it down.  There were no extras this year, no friends, no girlfriends.  Just us.  The food was perfect right down to the stuffing that was my mama's mother's recipe.  Also typical of my family, there was a house project going on.  It is a rare year that my dad hasn't been building or remodeling something.  The addition he built for me when I had given up on Jack.  My grandparents' cabin.  This year he was putting a hardwood floor in my addition that has now become a huge family room. That means some sawdust, a really loud nail gun and and a planer on the porch.  There were stories, laughter, and squealing of small children.

I think one of the highlights of the day was my sister.  Rachel and I have an odd sibling relationship.  I am nearly 20 years older than her and never lived at home much after she was born.  I was almost grown when Ian was born, so he and I never got fuss either.  That means that they never bit the foot off my Barbie (thanks Tucker) or got barbecue sauce on my friend (and thanks Ben).

Ra has always been a quirky kid - artsy, tomboyish, funny sense of humor. In the last year, she has really blossomed into a gorgeous young woman, but she is still quirky and artsy.   Really the only difference is that she now wears lipgloss to ride a horse and young men drool when she walks past.  Yesterday, she let me read her children's story that she is writing.  It was about two small children who go plum picking with their mother.  She had notes in the margins about what pictures should be for certain paragraphs. I felt like I was reading my childhood or perhaps about when I have taken Bell berry picking.  It was vivid yet written in language that would appeal to a child.  The story might have been too real for city people who don't know about cow skeletons in pastures, but perhaps that realness is what appealed to me.  It reminded me of  Robert McCloskey's  Blueberries for Sal.  It was not surprising that sis wrote something worthy of any child's bookshelf.  She has made a lot of my jewelry.  I have a pile of artwork that she has sketched or painted for our house.  She is just that super cool kind of kid.  It is just that she isn't a kid any more.  She is the kind of girl I want Bell to grow up to be.

The Gathering of the Clan

 I see all these jokes on Facebook about enduring family gatherings, and I honestly don't get those jokes. When I was a little girl up until after Isabella was born, Thanksgiving and Christmas always meant a trek across the state to Bluejacket.  Holidays meant that all of  Dad's family would gather at my grandparents' house or at one of Grandpa's sibling's homes.

There was no dread of unpleasant relatives, no one to avoid.  It was the simply the gathering of the Wilson clan . . . and we were a clan.  There might be 15 to 25 of us on any given holiday.  It was a time of reconnecting, of good food that never saw the inside of a can or box, it was the children's table.  Before dinner it was playing on hay bales and being ran out of the kitchen.  Some years it was the big sled being pulled by the tractor.  On warm years after dinner, it was shooting skeet or just bottles and cans, all the while showing off new guns, cherishing old ones, and teaching the children the art of being a good shot.  Often there was a lot going on during those holiday weekends.  Wood was cut for Grandpa.  We picked pecans.  We butchered a hog or a steer and maybe a deer.  Movies and popcorn and shelling nuts made up our evenings.  The very first year Jack came, he got sucked into butchering day . . . I remember my family being proud that he just jumped right in as part of them.  My mom said he was more Wilson than some of the Wilsons.

The best and most important part was the stories.  As we sat around the big table, we didn't have small talk or discuss politics.  Instead the adults told the stories of their youth, of war and depression, of high jinks and escapades.  Grandpa would tell of pranks he pulled with Uncle Bob.  Grandma might tell of the time she looked out a window and saw a handsome man on the street so she whistled at that man who became Grandpa.   Perhaps there is the story of the time Uncle Ben shot Dad with the BB gun or the time Dad dumped ice water on a sunbathing Aunt Margaret.   We learned the lore of the family, of what and who we came from.

 We became a clan.  If you do a kindness for one of us, we are all grateful.  If you wrong one of us, you will contend with all of us. We became a clan that loves each other no matter what, even if we don't always agree on politics.  We became a clan that counted every cousin family, no matter how distant.

My dad's parents are all that is left of that older generation.  The distant cousins are all moved away and we have outgrown my grandparents home.  I think they must be in awe that though they only had two sons, they now have 8 grown grandchildren and three great grands.  We simply ooze out of the house now, so the gatherings have relocated to Mama's house.  My Grandparents come down,  my sibs are all there.  My child fights with her cousins.  But the stories are still told and we are still family, still part of the clan.

It's My Job

Last week was a dark week and I have thought long and hard about writing about it . . . I read about teachers who get fired over things that show up online.

Every week, I am supposed to contact the parent of each student who is failing.  I always try to get all this done using the school's computer and phones, but it does not always work that way.  There is one particular parent that I was unable to get in touch with and ended up calling him from my cell one evening. The parent was polite and seemed supportive.  There were no problems with the call until a week later.

The student of said parent often has trouble getting to class on time and the principal gave the student some days of in school suspension.  The kid was furious and believed I was lying about the tardies. At bedtime I received a ugly text message saying a few choice words and that I "needed to change it."  No name.  No specification as to what "it" was. I was angry, but just deleted it and determined that I was not going to let it ruin my evening.  I was tired and did not really think about who might have sent the text.  I just deleted it.  It did ruin my evening though.  I fretted, tossed, and stewed myself into a midnight headache.

Morning came with another text saying that ignoring the sender would not make "it" go away. By now, I had decided I knew who was sending the messages and my suspicions were confirmed with a little sleuthing at school.  The tardy student had been texting and got my number from said parent.  By now I was angry.  Jack had teased me about something before school not knowing about the texts.  I responded with a complete melt down full of tears and snot.  This was not a good way to begin the day.

I, of course, headed straight for my principal's office.  She was pretty angry too.  The kid was questioned, refused to give up the cell phone to be checked, I had to write up a detailed report, and I was still angry.  I was angry because it made me look like I can't handle my class.  I was angry because I have worked so hard to help this kid who is often a jerk.  I was angry that because no actual threat had been made there was little I could do, especially since I had deleted the first email.  I was angry that Jack now felt like he wasn't doing his job as protector of the family.  I was angry that this kid could  waltz back to my class having gotten away with being rude and ugly.        

I spoke with kid later in the day about an assignment.  Oh so polite.  This kid was a model of good manners.  That seemed to just take the heart out of my week. I am over it, it is a new week, I have 90 other kids that I mostly enjoy.    I actually spent the afternoon helping this kid salvage the research paper that had been ignored for a week even though it was due today. Crazy and weird, I know, but I need to be professional.  There cannot be any suspicion that I am being vindictive.  It is my job to teach.   But I won't forget.  My desk drawer will stay locked.  I will watch my child closely on her way to school.  I will be vigilant . . . Because that is my job too.