Twenty Years to Sink In

He looked familiar. The voice triggered something in my memory. I had that nagging feeling that I knew him. It would haunt me until I figured it out.

Of all places, I was in a tackle shop stocking up on flies, flies I seem prone to lose too often in the creek. I should know the man that obviously knew his way around the store and was a regular customer.

As I wandered the store, a shovel was pilfering through my memory banks. I couldn’t shake that nagging feeling. I tried to ignore it. It was no use. Then out of the blue the lady behind the counter addressed him by his first name and suddenly I had it. He was my senior English teacher at Wind River High School.

Just a few months before, I was lamenting how I wished I knew where he was. I wanted to tell him thank you. He made me work hard in class. He challenged me. And sometimes, he downright confused me.

English in his class was not like any English class I had experienced before. The material he was teaching presented a dramatic departure from what I thought English was about: phonetic pronunciations and philosophy? Simple, complicated and sometimes elaborate sentence structures? What was love? Hate? Anger? Peace? When I was 18, none of it seemed terribly important to my future. Though I enjoyed the writing, I grew to enjoy the process of editing even more. Editing until the piece was skinny and as perfect as it could be. He taught me to write, then tear it down and write it again. He taught me so much that I still have the class notes in my desk drawer and when I am really stuck, I find my way to them.

As I started my college career, I tried out the sentence structures and methods of writing that I had practiced for a year, some professors liked it and others did not. I was confused. Later, I realized some of them were just sophisticated enough to appreciate the lessons I had been taught.

So on this day in the tackle shop, I couldn’t help myself. I’ve learned life is way too short. You must tell those who have made a difference in your life when you get a chance. The moment may never arise again. Looking back, I must have practically leapt at him, throwing my arms around his neck and saying, “Thank you, Mr. Norton.” I can’t help but think that I overwhelmed this very humble and quiet man with my profuse thanks. In reality, I have no way of truly expressing how instrumental he was in my life as I began to follow my passion for writing.

This is my second chance. I will approach it with more grace this time. Thank you, Mr. Norton, for demanding only the best from me. Thank you for pushing me and opening my mind for many things yet to come. Nearly twenty years later it is truly hitting home.

Lose the lid....

The cashier was a pleasant young man who couldn’t have been more than 16. He was helpful and had given me a curious smile when I put my two purchases down at his register. The gentleman who had helped me retrieve a bottle of eye drops from behind a display case door in the little grocery store was equally as nice and had also given me a nice smile, in fact, every one did as I came through the door and found my way around the store.

It had been a disjointed day where juggling work and caretaking responsibilities had left me distracted and needed to stop at three different grocery stores by the time I got home to retrieve everything I needed. I hate to admit to this as it makes me seem senile in my young age, but with a four year old tugging on my sleeve and my cell phone ringing and me gently watching out for the friend I’d taken to the doctor, I wasn’t as organized as usual.

At the first grocery store, I ran across a smart little coffee kiosk. Though, I don’t drink coffee, the proprietor was gracious to make my favorite, a green tea latte. The day was very cold and snowy and a warm treat seemed appropriate. When it came it had a coffee bean wrapped in white chocolate neatly resting in the divot on top. Wondering if I really should leap that far into the world of caffeine I let it sit for a while as I made my way around the store, through several phone conversations and pit stops by my four year old. At last I determined that it wouldn’t hurt, I was lugging down a little in the late afternoon.

For a reason that may also explain my temporary senility, I was mildly surprised when I picked it up and the chocolate was melted to the bean on the bottom leaving a nice white puddle on the lid. If I had been a teenager witnessing the scene, I would have said, “well duh” which is exactly what I said to myself.

It was still a good half hour before I made it to the car and really had a chance to drink my tea. Then I was driving for 20 minutes before I realized I had forgotten two key items on my first stop. Quickly pulling into the little store that served a rural community on my way home, I found myself smiling broadly at the people inside as they seemed to be doing to me.

Jumping back in the car and stowing the items away, I felt an itch on my nose. As I reached up to rub it a hunk of white chocolate neatly fell away into my lap. I’m sure all those people in the store I’d just left were really very nice and right at the moment giggling at the silly girl with the chunk of white something on her nose.
I looked around my car and demanded, albeit, jokingly, why no one had told me that I was spouting white chocolate from the end of my freckled nose. I was indeed embarrassed and glad it wasn’t a place I frequented and quickly made a note to self. Get rid of the chocolate covered coffee bean right way or lose the lid on the tea.

Christmas Wish

One of my favorite seasons of the year is upon us. I enjoy almost everything about Christmas; to me it means a change of pace, the excitement of decorating the tree, cutting pine boughs for the mantel, hanging the stockings and watching young and old light up on Christmas morning when there is a special surprise waiting for them. What I don’t enjoy about the season is the overt commercialism. It really struck home this year when I ran to Wal-Mart for a last minute fix for my little girls Halloween costume and they were putting out Christmas stuff?

This year my family has decided to give only presents that are handmade. It could be a poem, heartfelt letter, a painting, hand sewn Barbie doll clothes or anything created not purchased. We intend to put our energies and efforts into baking “good for you” cookies, doing good things for others and focusing on the best gift we possess: our love for each other.

We’ve also been stashing “the funny pages” as my grandmother calls them, from the Sunday paper. These colorful papers along with brown paper sacks are going to be our wrapping paper this year. When I was growing up, we never tore into our packages. We carefully untied the ribbon and used a pocketknife to cut the tape at the seams, folding the paper nicely and putting it into the paper box for next year. There was a time, when I was embarrassed about paper that had obviously been used before or wrapping a large package in several different papers so it looked like a patchwork quilt. Now I am much wiser and thoughtful. I understand the reason for re-using paper. It is expensive and wasteful. I read recently just how many million pounds of garbage wrapping paper adds up to each December. It was startling and sad.

My Christmas wish this year is to make a difference, even if it’s in my own little confines. About 6 years ago, a dear neighbor and friend, called me bright and early Christmas day and asked if I would go to the nursing home with her to sing Christmas Carols. Sure why not. I wasn’t spending the day with family. I should do something for someone. I didn’t know how much of an impression it would make on me. I’ve tried to put it into the mix for every Christmas morning since, whether Edith goes or not. It’s a beautiful way to start out a special day and I can only hope that the residents get as much joy out of if as I do.

So this Christmas, let the spirit of giving reign. Give back to the environment, your family and those around you. I promise, you will never feel better about Christmas!

Three of a Kind

What usually constitutes a decent poker hand, means, in this case, three girls very closely related, but not sisters, who love to be together.

We are not sisters, but might as well be. We are double cousins. Double what? You say. Ok, let me explain. Our mother’s who are sisters, married brothers. We have almost the same genes and lots of similar idiosyncrasies with the joy of not being siblings.

Jonel and I are 2 months and 7 days a part, Jennifer and I are 3 years, 7 months and 9 days apart. I’ve never had a sister, but in reality I have two. Both of them bring a lot of joy to my life.

Jonel is the most talented music teacher I know. She works in a school in a low income Tucson neighborhood bringing orchestra to life for children who would probably never get the opportuntity. When offered the chance to take over a well-rounded established program, she turned it down to build a fledgling program in a struggling school system. As a graduate of the Boston Conservatory, she could go anywhere, but true to her gentle ways she has chosen to help where there is no glamour, but the potential for gratification is huge.

Jennifer is a doctor. One who isn’t afraid to buck the system. She is a medical doctor, but that doesn’t mean she has to be beholden by anyone. She wants to help people, she stretches the limits, works beyond modern medicine and uses good old common sense. “Eat Bacon?!” She asks incredulously, “It’s my favorite food.” You see, she is a foodie, addicted to anything that might tempt the palate. She is also a terrific athlete, running marathons at regular intervals. She, too, is a humanitarian. She spent a rotation in Africa helping the less fortunate. And continues to look for other opportunities to give.

I remember as children we played on the ranch, where I was queen because I was a cowgirl and unafraid. And we played in the cities in which they lived. Once, we talked our Grandmother into taking us to a rated ‘R’ movie when we were in our pre-teens. She was horrified as she sat next to us and we covered our eyes for the love scene.

The three of us can go for months sometimes without communicating and then pick up right where we left off.

I am a very lucky person. Three of a kind is a good hand to hold. Especially if on either side the cards are people you love.