The Rise of My Movie Awareness

Run, Hines, run!

Not a soul told me that the Steelers would be in the new Batman movie. It could be that here in Connect-i-cut nobody cares. Nevertheless, nobody told me. So I had to learn this via Facebook, on account of I'm friends with Hines Ward. (swoon). 

Hines took his son to the premiere, which I thought was sweet. Then I hear that my other Steeler friends went. And I got to wondering. Which I am wont to do.   

Who else was invited to this soiree? 
Apparently 14,000 extras who agreed to wear winter duds in August at Heinz Field.  OK, so I can see why I'm not in this pic. I don't agree with heat in general. But Polamalu was there. Keisel. Roethlisberger. And even former Coach Bill Cowher. How am I s'posed to reckon with the likes of that?

All in all, I'm left with the quandary of either leaving my kids alone or finding a sitter while the Mr. and I go the movies. It's gotta be on a Tuesday cause Enfield has $5 movies on Tuesdays. All day. All night. Can't beat that. Even with the force. Or whatever.

I've been living through other people

I've not been blogging, so I must have been reading, and currently I'm averaging about 2 books a week.    Here's where I've been, so to speak.

Frank releases a new book each summer, just in time for school to shut down. This one was worth the year-long wait, and it was my first read of summer break. Loved the dip in the Low Country, the love of family, and the salt in the air.

v

Mom loaned me this one since I'd not read it yet. More of the same sunshine and sea with instantly likable characters and a nice little romance to boot.

I finished this one on the train and let me tell you how  this educator psyches me up for school. But not so much that I'm ready to go back now. I have more to read.

I'm half-way through this other Clark book. Still uber  inspired, but not ready to say goodbye to summer yet.

I'd forgotten all about the guilty pleasure Stephanie Plum/Bounty Hunter books I used to love. I found this at the library and snatched it up. Hilarious and an easy, fun read.

So of course I had to grab this one at the library when I went back. It's just as fun, and now I'm all caught up. Wonder what she'll call #19.

I'm almost done with this one - the book of our church small group  this summer. Love the way Furtick writes, like we're hanging out together on the back deck. Only I can pause him and get up to go to the bathroom if necessary and come back and pick right up. 

Mom told me she loved this Siddons book, so I borrowed it from her. I made it through all 600 pages, but I didn't love it. I liked it. I loved the Southerness of it. But I thought the book was a little weird. Nothing like....

... this book. I grabbed this at the library and loved it, especially since we go to OBX every summer. Siddons nails description and reminds me a bit of Pat Conroy (when, oh when, will he write me another book???). This one provided a bit of mystery, too.

This is on my night table to read next. Camden read it in 2 days and loved it. I know I will, too. Basically, I'm told anybody with a heart should read this book. :)

Also up for next week - this one recommended by my friend Jodie. 

And this one to finish - a Virgil Flowers mystery.
To hold me over till the latest Lucas Davenport is available at the library.

June By The Numbers

18 feet across

4 feet deep

*1 house for sale in Operation Downsize the Mortgage

*$14 saved by buying generic Tea Tree shampoo

*$5.30 for 2 Icees and a large diet Pepsi from Target

*4 round-trip Amtrak tickets to Virginia

*7 glorious days in Virginia

*2 meals at Chick Fil A

*3 meals that included Heavenly Ham on knot rolls

*1 FULL cannolloni florentine from Roma's and about 12 breadsticks

*1 taco salad from Famous Anthoney's and a fine boxed wine from the Van Allmans. 

*6 abdominal muscles that cause excruciating pain when I giggle or sneeze on account of me eating so much in Virginia and not exercising till karate last week.

*1 cat who is more like a dog since we got home

*1 hamster who still wants to escape

*1.75 months left of summer vacation till school comes along just to end it

*1 humongous prayer that this house sells so we can move on to our next chapter. 

In which Stephen King and mammography share a post

I had my annual mammogram yesterday. And of course it was awkward making small talk with the radiologist as she pressed and compressed and manhandled me all over that General Electric glass plated machine. I was praying that thing wouldn't go all Stephen King on me and squeeze, squeeze, squeeze till I popped like a tick. 

Is there a special course that radiologists take to learn how to conversate (as Camden puts it) while feeling up the patients? My radiologist, Amy, was very good at it, the conversating. I don't think I blushed nary once.

Also, I had no idea GE was in on the mammogram gravy train. They made my machine. This is an exact replica of the machine I got intimate with yesterday. My machine's auto-stop squeeze feature was working fine.

All this to say, get your girls checked out, ladies. And pray Stephen King doesn't read this blog.

The hills are alive...

Home has a sound.

A sweet, syrupy twang that settles in my soul.

It oozes over my skin like butter on a hot biscuit.

Envelops me like kudzu on, well, southwest Virginia.

Home has a sound.

When we were at home last week, I couldn't get enough of listening to people talk. The waitress at Roma's, the clerk at Ingal's, the voice at the Sonic drive-in - oh my goodness, I could have listened to him repeat my order all dingdang day! Even my own mom has a down-home lilt in her voice.

This sound is so different from the clipped break-neck speech up here in Connecticut. It's soothing. Slow. A drawl that, honest to goodness, takes me back to Hee-Haw in the best possible way. (Did you know this? My dad's mom's name was Minnie. My dad's dad's middle name was Pearl. They wanted me to be named, um, Minnie Pearl!)

Home has a sound, indeed.

Home Coming

We ended our week-long trip to Virginia with our favorite couple on the whole wide earth. 

Jack & Lois

  Lois & Jack

     Dodo & Mo

Dodo would be Jack. Mo is Lois. Because Lois mowed the yard a lot when we lived next door at 618 Walnut Ave. She mowed it so much that one of Camden's first words was "Mo." And later, when we went to eat supper with Jack & Lois/Lois & Jack, he shrieked his greeting to her, "MO!!!!!!" And he turned to Jack and coughed up, "Dodo!" We have no idea where that came from. Truth be told, Dodo has always been the more reserved of us all. 

Last night we met up on Dodo and Mo's front porch, the space of many a meet-up back when we were neighbors and supper bums and best friends. Oh, that porch has seen some fits of laughter. We used to drag the baby monitor over there after Camden had drifted off, and we'd hang out till we were all sleepy with bellies full of Chinese delivery and burpy giggles. 

That baby monitor would just drone on, the comforting static soothing us into a nightly ritual.

Oh, the stories that front porch can tell.

Take Wanda Peters, for example. Now, Ima not going to tell you the whole Wanda Peters story. But you just have to know the belly guffaws it would incite. I never knew dear Wanda, but Lois did. And that story will go down as one of my favorites.

Then there was the time that Lois, who had never thrown away a piece of paper that she might possibly find a use for one day, swore she still had her 1980s-era pool and spa license. Oh, yeah, we taunted her. "Prove it!" Well, I swannee, she did. She marched right up to her guest room or attic or some such place in the house and produced that dingdang license before we could call TIME. We just thought she was a hoarder.

Our whole friendship started out when we bought the crazy falling-down house next door to J&L. On our first night there, we realized the gas hadn't been turned on, so we had no hot water. Lois, who had already christened the move-in day a "Ben Gay Rum" event, offered up her bathroom in less than a second. Two hot showers later, some Ben Gay for sore muscles and a splash of rum for sore bones, we had friends for a life time. That very week, Jack saved us from certain death when he warned us about a certain casserole we should not eat. I cannot divulge more details. Just know we are alive and well to this day thanks to Jack's "patch up". Thank you, Jack.

Oh, I could go on and on and on. Dodo and Mo are more precious than gold. Of all the examples of faith and marriage and loyalty, Dodo and Mo are at the top of the heap. And even after all these years away, they're still keeping the porch lit, watching for friends in the dark, teaching us how to love and keep on loving till well past bedtime.

Home

Connecticut - topping 100 degrees

Roanoke, Virginia - topping 100 degrees

Norton, Virginia - a soothing 86 degrees

It's good to be home.
Always, good to be home.

Skinny Buddha

Friday nights used to mean small group Bible study.

Then for a brief respite, it meant Chinese delivery and TV reruns.

Last night it was a karate tournament. 

The boys and I were thankful spectators. Curt was a competitor who took 3rd in sparring. 

Today he has legs the size of tree trunks to prove it. 

The sparring is really play-fighting. You aren't allowed to make contact with your kicks and punches, but when you block a hit, you likely will feel it. There was a lot of feeling going on last night. 

But the main idea of this posting is that our school beat another school to bring home the "Buddha".  I put it in quotations not to be mindless, but to show that I recognize that this piece of sculpture is not an honest-to-goodness Buddha. It's more like a Confucius. But, as I was told by an instructor at the tournament, who will not be identified on this blog, "Battle for the Confucius just doesn't sound as good." She's so right. Battle for the Buddha clicks. Fight for Confucius is not clicky in the slightest.

Now that Windsor has the Buddha that is not a Buddha, I figure we'll be all smiley as we spar one another in class. We'll go nuts about our victory until, oh, say, Christmastime. Then we'll forget about the skinny Buddha until it's time to consider entering next summer's tournament. At that time we'll go all hog-wild about defending the Buddha, and in one year I'll be posting some other ludicrous blog entry about my husband's tree-trunk legs and the bruises and our overall pride that our school owns this fine piece of art for 365 days.

Long live wimpy Buddhas.

I Write The Songs

It takes quite a lot to make me cry. In fact, I can go for weeks without shedding a tear, but this week has been a doozy.

I cried Friday night after SCREAMING a mad holler when I was one frustration beyond my breaking point.  I cried. I felt better after that. Sometimes you just have to let it out.

I cried Sunday morning in church when the holy spirit was moving all about the space that is our church - a New England high school auditorium - during the band's praise and worship time. Oh, how I raised my hands and lifted my out-of-tune voice. Those were happy tears.

I cried that night when I started putting together the DVD of our 2nd grade year together. I selected  music I thought would speak to our year, set it to the 400+ photos I had taken, and sat back to watch. I told Curt that I wasn't sure I'd be able to say goodbye to this class. And I cried.

Yesterday, my teacher friend across the hall asked us to pray for her daughter whose baby was due that very day. Her daughter had lost that baby just after Christmas. We all prayed for comfort and peace. Teacher friend came to me after school with glistening eyes; her daughter just learned she was pregnant. I cried. 

Today Tiana brought me a Diet Coke and a pack of Twix. I cried. Jessica brought me the sweetest card and a gift. I cried. Miles tried to give me his published book, Jack's Anger. I cried and made a deal with him that if he came to read it to my class next fall, that'd be just perfect. I could not take his book; his mom needed to save that. She'll cry.

A half-week of tears. And tomorrow is the last day of school. I have a feeling that I'm not all cried out yet. Perhaps I should load some Barry Manilow on my iTunes and have myself a good old bawl. Or I could watch my newly burned DVD and weep just the same. 

I'm not so sure I know how to say goodbye to this bunch.

Mocking Birds

I asked my kids last week to write down things they hear me say all the dingdang time.

Not a one of them said "dingdang".

But here's what I apparently do say to them:

Oh my stars and bars!

Oh merciful heavenly days.

Even my dog sits when I ask her to sit. (RIP, EmmaLemmaLimaBean)

Heavens to Betsy.

Ooooooooooh, cla-aaaaaass!!!

Class, class!

Classity class class!!!!! (It's a Whole Brain Teaching thing.)

You are my favorite.

I love you!

And I do love every single one of them,

seeing as how they're all my favorites.

Camden has been bugging me for DAYS to list his LOT of Nerf guns on Craigslist.com.

I have promised him for DAYS that I'd do it. 

And then I didn't. 

Yes, I know fully well what a sucky mom I am. 

Well, said child sneaked up on me tonight and caught me reading random Facebook postings and homey blogs. I had absolutely no excuse for NOT posting his artillery. This was his moment.

And it was mine, too.

I'm so thankful I picked "Post it!" instead of "I'll do it later." Because we all know that LATER means WHEN I'M GOOD AND WELL READY WHICH MAY NEVER HAPPEN.

It took less than 2 minutes for me to type up and post the selection of colorful guns you see above. The boy is hoping to score enough money to buy himself an X-Box 3605eleventy7 gaming system. Or something like that. I really hope he gets that much for this big box of plastic guns. He's certainly shelled more than that out on Nerf in the past few years.

I have to admit, though, that a part of me is sad to see this era come to a close. Those guns sparked some serious battles in our home. Battles that elicited laughter and screams that had us doubled over in giggles when the white flag flew. There's a very big part of me that doesn't want to let these guns go.

Revenge of the Nerds

See that girl in the red tee and her Curves capri pants to the left near the net? That's me eyeing the ball in yesterday's Faculty vs Eighth Grade volleyball game. What on God's green earth possessed me to sign up for this? Surely not my nifty tan. Oh yeah, I freely choose to make an oaf of myself whenever the opportunity presents itself. Chance to be an oaf? OK, I'll take it, Alex, for $200!

My volleyball oafness goes back to the early '80s. Volleyball was my nemesis in gym class. I would stand at the serving line and hold that ball forever. For. Ever. For many, many evers. I rolled it around in my hands. Rolled it a bit more. But I wouldn't serve it. Could not serve it. (Could be that my hair was in the way.)

I knew that the second that ball left my hands, there was no tellin' where it was gonna fly. Certainly not over the net. Oh, I could bounce that ball all around the gym, but I could not make it go to the other team. As a result of my deftness with the volleyball, I was the most fought over kid in gym class.  

"Ah man, we had her last time. It's YOUR turn!" 

"Uh-uh, WE had her. You have to take her this time." 

Way to make a girl choose the band. (Go band!)

How could I possibly climb out of the misery of my youth and answer the call of my now-school's faculty team? Well, to be honest, I took the bull by the horns, I grabbed the golden ring, I answered an email. I paused for a fraction of a second before I hit SEND and there you go. I put myself on the faculty volleyball team. I did this without full disclosure. Nobody knew my past. Nobody had seen my large hair and Sally Jesse Raphael glasses. Nobody had called the Class of '86 to check my Permanent Record. I figured I was golden. How long could this game take?

It took an hour.

We played three games.

We lost every single one.

But that's not the highlight. 

I could explode the moment with you and make you relive every excruciating moment of me fondling that crazy orange volleyball before finally getting up the nerve to let it fly. But I really don't want to dwell on unpleasantness. I just want to tell you that one time. ONE TIME. One time, I let it fly - over the net ----- OOOOOOOOVVVVVEEEEEERRRRR TTTTTTHHHHHEEEEE NNNNNNNEEEEEETTTTTTTTTT -------- where the eighth graders bounced it around a bit but could not return it.

YES! I scored my first point! MY FIRST POINT! EVER! IN MY WHOLE ENTIRE DINGDANG LIFE! 

And that is my slice of life. 

I may never outlive it.

Fridaysomething

June 1 by the numbers:

7.5 school days till summer vacation

#86 Steeler Hines Ward will join NBC sports, so I can continue to smile at that pretty face

Volume 35 is fine for TV shows, but too loud for commercials

38 things left to do to list the house

 6 sneaky little things I've taken down in my classroom even though we're not supposed to start till June 11

27 years of giggling at David Letterman

1 Google hit that declared that Kobe Bryant does, indeed, play for the Lakers.

4 minutes till my coach turns into a pumpkin.

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.