The Important Thing About Wednesday

Have you read The Important Book by Margaret Wise Brown?

We use the writing pattern in this book a lot in 2nd grade. We write about our Big Cheese friends with this format. We write about nonfiction topics. We write main idea and detail sorts of stuff. It's an easy pattern to mimic, and it eliminates a lot of the work in figuring out how you want to say what you want to say.

The important thing about Wednesday is 

it's smack-dab in the center of the week. 

Wednesdays are median days. 

Down-hill all the way days. 

I-can-make-it-because-I've-made-it-this-far days.

Wednesdays are spelled funny; 

nobody every says Wed-nes-day.

Wednesdays are honorable. 

It's still a work-hard day. 

You can't cancel work. 

You can't just stop. 

You have to push on, treasure what you're doing, 

because living for Friday is just boring 

and you can only do that 52 times a year.

But the important thing about Wednesday is 

it's smack-dab in the center of the week.

For Sale

Living in Connecticut has its advantages. (Read: I'm trying to be positive.)

The autumns are beyond gorgeous.

It snows on occasion.

It's ever-so-slightly cooler than, say, at the equator.

So, the weather's all right.

But there are parts that have left us, well, a little luke warm. 

Like when the taxes kept going up.

And the mortgage equity kept going up.

And, thus, the mortgage kept going up.

That part sucks, frankly.

So with a lot of prayer, we've decided to downsize. We're in the process of staging this house for sale in hopes of finding a smaller, cheaper home here in Connecticut. There's no doubt for Curt or me that God still needs us here. We, in fact, believe in our heart that God wants us in New England to support our church. And there's the no-small-fact that I teach at the Christian school here in town, which is a God Wink in and of itself. God's not done with us up here in this mission field. 

But that leaves us with a list of tasks that might possibly stretch to Virginia. Tired is not even a word for what I feel right now. Still, God has given me great peace, if not an abundance of energy and an extra day in my week, about this change. It doesn't matter that this is the first house we've attempted to sell that's not a guaranteed company buy-out. It doesn't matter that we have relationships here on Somerset Drive. It doesn't matter that we have to pack our own boxes and then move them to who-knows-where. Who knows? None of that compares to the calling on our lives to be good stewards of what God has given us. And quite honestly, Dave Ramsey is breathing down our necks.

So, I will turn in now and pray that my brain will turn off tonight and let me get some cotton-pickin' sleep so that tomorrow I can come home from school and turn back to The List and check off a few more items. 

And I'll pray that this little trip we're on will seem like just another little adventure for my family. Won't you pray for us, too?

That Old House

We decided to buy our first house while I was recovering from the extraction of four wisdom teeth and flying high on Percoset. 

"This Percoset is something else," I declared to my sister on the phone that night. 

"Well, it oughta be, you could probably sell it for ten bucks a pill in the park across the road," she giggled. Said house was across the street from the Highland Park, which was not necessarily known for Percoset dealing. But, being a public park and all in a town where night tended to be dark, you never know.

The house was built in 1912 or so. A typical American four-square that had been subdivided into five apartments during the Great Depression. This house would have been better situated in a war zone than the beautiful historic district of our town. There were nails the size of railroad spikes in some upstairs walls. An extension cord ran from the enclosed upstairs porch through the wall to the one upstairs bathroom, providing electricity for hair dryers and such and shared by the two apartments on that floor. There were five stoves (not gourmet), five refrigerators, five kitchen sinks. No dishwashers. The basement apartment was below code because it was below minimum ceiling height. The attic looked as if it tried to be an apartment, but couldn't quite pull it off. This place was a disaster.

And I, swimming in the effect of a legally-induced drug euphoria, agreed, "YES! WE CAN TOTALLY FIX THIS PLACE!"

Curt was possibly never prouder. Until we bought the place and he bore the brunt of the labor of turning it into our home. I could clean and paint, mind you. But that was about the limit of my skills. Curt toted appliances to the dump, fixed the wood sash windows, arranged for electrical work, tore out extra walls, rebuilt stairs, sanded hardwood floors, built a new deck, demolished two bathrooms, bla yada yada bla bla. Curt turned 5 hideous apartments into a home meant for us. 

I can't begin to enumerate the tasks that turned this disaster of a building into the home that welcomed our new best friends and next door neighbors Jack and Lois and our two sons Camden and Benjy. I can tell you that our favorite part of this house was quite probably the front porch. From here we could look right into the park, which did not appear to be a drug zone or anything but a peaceful oasis from the city less than a mile away. We could wait out the thunderstorms here. We could chat it up with Phillip when he moseyed by on his way down the sidewalk. We could make supper plans with Lois as she hollered from her porch next door. We (read Curt) even installed a watering system here that automatically watered our Kroger-bought ferns every single day so we could keep up with the neighbors. Our ferns were beyond beautiful.

I'm almost puddly with the memories. I do miss our first home. 

This entire post was brought to you, not by Percoset, but by Ed and Tracy's house in Hartford. Our small group from church met here this morning to help them paint their new very old home. I confess to old house envy bordering on downright covet-ness. Their big, amazing old house with the shiny and gorgeous chandelier and humongous old iron tub made me think so very much of Walnut Avenue and the home we loved and loved and loved.

Fridaysomething

Trinity Christian School's Eagle, my son. 

Back when I was an esteemed editorial assistant at the Roanoke Times, (I used to answer the phones and pray that nobody wanted to talk to the intimidating reporters, aka Shamy. I also took the free obit listings. And I pulled together the weather report. Oh yeah, I loved the cafeteria's navy bean soup.)

Back in my days working in the features department, I often got to pen the Fridaysomething column that got plopped at the lower right of the front features page, the Extra section. In other news, I also compiled the Friday calendar that ran on the inside pages. To this day, when stressed, I wake up in an anxious sweat that I've not pulled together the calendar. THE PAPER'S GOING TO PRESS WITHOUT THE FRIDAY CALENDAR; OH, NO; WHO'S PLAYING AT THE COPPER KETTLE? WHERE DO THE PEOPLE GO TO DANCE!!! Nightmare proportions, I tell you.

Long story short, I'm calling this posting FRIDAYSOMETHING. In memory of my days at the Times that fuel not only my stressed-out dreams but also my formative years and a ton of happy memories. Remind me to post my favorite Fridaysomething for you. Yes, I clipped every dingdang one of them and I have a folder of every byline I ever had; I confess.

So, here commences the Fridaysomething. Perhaps I've stumbled upon a weekly that will prompt me to blog at the very least on Fridays.

Camden, 122, and 12

I love this boy. As well I should; he's mine. Can you tell?

Glasses? 

Blue eyes? 

Blonde hair? (Well, my original hair color was blonde, many years ago.)

Extreme good looks and intelligence??? BAH!

Daggonit, I'm just so in love with him.

Camden took over the camera tonight at the school spring concert. As I uploaded the 122 pictures to iPhoto, I found myself amazed at the shots he captured. 

But the ones that took my breath away were of a special little guy in kindergarten. Camden has a hero-status with this boy, D. 

D adores Camden. He looks up to him. This uber-confident kid breezes into my classroom after school seeking my son's company. Camden takes D outside to play, hangs with him on the playground. He totes his prized Star Wars toys to school for D to play with. He joins him in his mom's kindergarten classroom to mess around with whatever kindergarteners mess around with. C and D are tight, I tell ya. D invited C to his birthday party, a Nerf war Army themed party. C arrived decked to the hilt with Nerf armor. He had as much fun as D and all his 6-year-old friends. C is 12.

So when I uploaded these 122 pictures to my computer, I was overwhelmed by the quality of the handful C had captured of D. Camden, who has seldom held children in high regard. 

Camden, who has the patience of a flea (and me). 

Camden, who is growing up before my very eyes. 

How precious to see this in the photographs my own son snapped tonight as he roamed around the gym during a spring concert.

I do love this boy. I love how he is learning to love others. 

I love how he is growing up right in front of me. 

All 12 years of him.

Tuesday Slice of Life Without Emma

 

Today is the second morning in more than 20 years that I've awaken without a dog. It's the second morning in my boys' lives that they've rolled out of bed and not tripped over or annoyed a dog in their get-ready-for-school routine. 

We knew Emma was near the Rainbow Bridge. Her tumor had grown and spread to both lymph nodes. The vet could feel her rib cage and tell that her lungs were affected, too. 

We knew. And I think she knew, too.

We came home on Sunday to find her tumor split wide-open. She eased herself down on her haunches in the middle of the kitchen and let us say goodbye. We hugged her. We rubbed under her ears, right in the sweet spot that makes her groan with happiness. We shed a few tears. 

We knew. 

She knew.

Curt took her to our vet just around the corner. Within the hour, he was home. I heard him come in, and then I heard the jangle of Emma's tags on her collar. But next I heard Benjy's wail. I couldn't put it all together in my head.  I ran downstairs to learn what I already knew. 

Emma was gone. 

Collage by Claudine Hellmuth

Curt came home with Emma's collar, but no Emma. She'll come back to us in a quaint little jar, uhm, urn, to sit beside her mutt sister Ellie the Lab. 

  

It's weird not having a dog.

Today I grabbed a handful of Whole Food's rosemary bread when I got home and lay back to read a bit before the boys' karate class. I started to lay the uneaten bit down, thinking that I'd better put it far from the edge of my side table so Emma wouldn't snag it. Then I remembered, it didn't matter where I put the bread. She wouldn't come even if she smelled it from heaven. 

This morning I wanted to fill her water bowl, the one I painted for Emma and Ellie in 1998 at The Glazed Bisque-It in Roanoke. But it wasn't there anymore. Her food bowl was gone. Her cloud bed, too. 

But I did find a tumbleweed of dog hair drifting across the wood floor in the dining room. That brought some comfort. We'll be sucking up bits of Emma fur for months around here.

When I come home from school, I want to hear her hop down from the couch, shake herself thoroughly with her collar a-jingling, and then rush to greet me and the kids. Then I'd throw open the back door so she could make water outside, as my dad used to say. But there's no greeting when I come home. Not even from the cat. Ingrate.

When I sit around with Curt in the night, watching crime fiction shows on TV and checking emails, I expect to hear Emma yelp for something - food, to go outside, love. But there's no yelp. No hound dog howl. It's awful quiet around here these days.

Tonight when I was helping Benjy clean up his room, I found a bone under his dresser. Emma used to curl up in Benjy's room where she'd drag her uneaten bones to his palace and deposit them as presents to the Prince of Windsor. I'll have to throw that bone away. No dog would have it now. Not with Queen EmmaLemmaLimaBean's germs all over it.

Honestly, I think even Ein the cat, who is being stalked by Emma who was afraid of Ein the cat in this picture, misses the mutt. Ein is a lot friendlier all of a sudden. He wants me to pet him, to rub him under his chin and tell him how handsome he is. And when I quit, he comes back for more! 

Somehow, Emma was able to train our cat when even we cannot. 

Rest, Emma. We'll see you later, Lima Bean.

Barbara's Note

I finished student teaching in December of 1994, four years after I wrapped up my BS in political science (Yeah. You read that right, Poli Sci. I had the most credits there; I went with it.) I figured I'd sub till the following school year, but wound up stumbling into a fifth grade classroom in an inner city school by March of '95. This class was one hot mess. The previous teacher had difficulties, and that's all I know. I was the new teacher, new in every way: green, inexperienced, armed with equal parts innocence and optimism and idealism. Sure, I could turn this class around....

Then I met Barbara.

I couldn't even make this bunch walk in a line to the art room.

Barbara was a leader the class, giggling hysterically when I prompted and scolded. She riled up the others. She defied and guffawed. Yes, guffawed. She didn't do her homework. She didn't take notes home. Her actions screamed: I DON'T CARE! And yet, I knew she did.

This idealistic newbie teacher assigned to her room believed that this girl really cared. Not that I knew anything about how 10-year-olds think. But thank the good Lord that He handed me that intuition.

I could have given up. The time I burst into tears in front of this class during a particularly miserable fractions lesson was a low point. Then there was the time I spent 20 minutes of precious class time training these kids how to walk in the hall. I should have just let them run hog-wild in the four-lane down the hill, for all the good that did. I could have stomped out and gone home to a good book and my feather pillow. But I could not leave. These kids were under my skin. Especially Barbara.

By the end of May, we'd settled into a not uncomfortable routine. We could make it to art class on time, albeit noisily. We could popcorn through reading class. Heck, we could read. I had met all the parents, and I had their support. Barbara laughed, oh, she laughed daily. But she laughed with us more than at me.

One afternoon at recess, Barbara sat down beside me on the sidewalk. Just sat there sort of smiling. We watched the other kids run around the parking lot (our playground) and chatted about the upcoming 5th grade graduation. She was apprehensive about leaving this school, her turf. I felt a pang of sadness that I would not see her around next year.

Graduation was sweet in the way wrestling matches are. The parents were wildly appreciative of their kids' accomplishments, clapping loudly and whooping it up the entire time. This was not the polite graduation of my own country upbringing. And before I knew it, Barbara slipped a note into my hand, hugged me, and was gone.

I kept that note in my teacher's desk every single year. I read it whenever I doubted my ability to be a teacher. I treasured this note of thanks and gratitude whenever I met a Barbara I thought would drive me over the edge. I wish I still had this note. I think it's lost in the myriad of boxes that have followed us from Virginia to Ohio to Pennsylvania to Connecticut. No matter. I can still see Barbara's loopy handwriting with doodly hearts above the "i"s and feel her own heart, and I know that God gave me Barbara that year to teach me something about myself. I am a teacher. I teach them all, the good and the bad, the smart and the struggling, the easy and the tough. And I probably love the Barbaras just a little bit more.