A Day at School Remembered…

  

 

 

Inside the old schoolhouse at Columbia State Historic Park, CA

 

I teach.

I used to teach public school…lots of grades.  My favorites were Second Grade and Kindergarten…what absolute joy!  Well, most days.  What’s the difference between teaching K and 2nd?  

To sum it up in a generalizing kind of way:

Second Graders are becoming readers and writers. They  know how to tie their own shoes, and they can “hold it” until recess (usually).  They know classrooms have rules, and they  love school!  Best of all, they love their teachers. 

Kindergartners usually don’t read nor do they really know how to hold pencils yet (and that is OK).  They need help with their shoes, buckles and buttons.  They do not know when they need to go to the bathroom until they MUST go.  They have no idea what Big Kid School is and they are terrified of it.  And, best of all, they love their mommies.

My second year in second grade I met Max (name changed to protect the innocent, and the not-so innocent).  A beautiful boy with olive skin, floppy chocolate brown curls, sparkling eyes and a laughing smile.  Bright, too.  Dressed like a Rock Star on the first day of school, Max makes a statement.  

In true Teacher Style, I begin my orientation assuming my role as the Captain, guiding my young charges to help me help them.  We’re meeting and greeting.  Each child sits at his or her assigned desk with a neatly printed name-tag, a brand new pencil and fresh, untouched crayons.  

All at once Max jumps out of his desk, onto his chair, and flies to the top of  his desk.  With arms straight into the air, fists clenched above his shock of curls, he shouts, “I love Rock and Roll!”

I stiffen.  Yes, I am shocked, but I’m a pro.  The Captain glides to his side. His short little body is now elevated to 5’1″ by virtue of the fact that he’s standing on top of his desk.  My 5’1″  body, defined by my gene pool.  For all to hear, I command,  “Not in my classroom you don’t.  No, Max.  You will learn of Mozart, Beethoven and Brahms.  You will enjoy Miles Davis and David Grisman, but not Rock and Roll.”  I stare at him, just inches from his face, and hiss, “Now sit.”

The other cherubs sit wide-eyed, never having witnessed such events (unless they were in First Grade with Max).  They shift uncomfortably, not certain what the New Teacher will do.  I turn to them, and give them a quiet, comforting smile as if to say, “Don’t worry, little mates.  The Captain is here, and  you will be safe.”

Then I lean in to Max’s ear, words only for him to hear:  “If you ever do that again, you will be in such big trouble. Don’t mess with me, kid. I used to teach Eighth Grade.  I  know all the tricks.”

Max looks up at me with some respect.  He isn’t dead, and the teacher has “won” this round.

Round Two…A few months and a few small battles later:

There comes a day when Max steps over the line with me and with his classmates.  I send him outside the door for a moment to reflect on his ill-deed.  I take a breath.  Fortunately, my teacher’s aide is in the room to watch my Little Crew so I can step outside to “chat” with my pal. Here’s the gist of the conversation…

Me:  Max, I am very disappointed with what just happened.

Max:  You’re fat (His First Grade Teacher had warned me about this).

Me:  Yeah, I know I am really overweight. I need to work on that. I’ve been thinking about starting a new diet and exercise program. Thanks for sharing your concern.

Max: (Tactic #2) You’re old.

Me: (voice drippy sweet) Yes, it’s true. I am ever so much older than you.

Max: (Tactic #3) You’re an old grandma!

Me:  (Big smile) You’re right! I am a grandma. I love being a grandma. I have wonderful grandchildren. They are clever and smart, just like you.

Then…Max melts into my (fat) arms.  He hugs me, looks up and smiles.

Me:  We’re in this together, Max. I’m here to help you learn how to walk through the world.  

That day we find a new way of being.  Oh, there are other rough days with Max, but he knows I care.  And that’s the heart of teaching, really.  The rest just falls into place.  A teacher who cares, a student who accepts and understands, even surrenders to that embrace.

State standards. Testing.  Teacher Accountability.  School Report Cards. “No Child Left Behind.”  I say, “Nuts to you!”

Live, love, laugh and be happy.  Let’s give joy to our children.  Let’s give them what they really need…a place that welcomes learning and curiosity.  A place that facilitates discovery, construction, invention and reflection.  A place that teaches us ALL how to be human.

To back up for just a moment:  There was a bit of Rock n’ Roll in our classroom that year.  Occasionally I played some classic Beatles tunes, a Beach Boy song or two.  But our all-time favorite was The Banana Slug String Band, singing “The Ant Song”–a lively tune with a strong repetitive chorus and a lot of good science presented in song.  Everyone, including Max and me, would get down on all fours. We’d scramble around the room like little ants, combing the carpet for  little tidbits of classroom trash while we sang along to the rousing chorus. Boy, oh, boy…Did we have a clean floor!

I’m B.Z. Smith.  I tell stories.  Here’s one of them.

Corey West…Butterfly Rain

A 5 year-old girl cannot stop drawing.  A 10-year old girl gets in trouble for doodling on her schoolwork.  A 12 year-old girl is compelled to do ART!  A 15 year-old girl sells her first drawing to another artist who reproduces it into something else!  An 18 year-old girl is urged to do something practical with her life…not just art.  Funny thing:  They’re all the same girl:  Corey Overholtzer West, one of Tuolumne County’s best known young and emerging artists.

Finally, at 23ish, Corey begged her family to let her do what she had always done, what she was inspired and driven to do.  Her grandfather agreed to send her to California College of the Arts. 

Now married to Will West with a 21-month old son, Corey paints full-time.  Well, not just paints…She sews…She sculpts…She builds…She makes jewelry.  This woman is a creation machine!  It is her life.

Currently Corey is showing at Banny’s Café & Wine Bar in the “Food for Thought” show where she took a First Place for Mixed Media.  Next week she opens in “The Returning Show II,” a showcase for young and emerging artists who grew up in Tuolumne County.  But THIS week, I interviewed Corey for yet ANOTHER SHOW…”ArtPrize” in Grand Rapids, MI.  Here is the article I wrote…

Sonora artist Corey West loves to push edges, to discover new ways of expressing herself through her art.  Now she has taken on a whole new challenge by entering an international art competition with over 1200 other artists showing in 159 different locations.  This week Corey crated and shipped Butterfly Rain to Grand Rapids, Michigan, for “ArtPrize,” a highly competitive show sponsored by the Dick and Betsy DeVos Family Foundation.

 “When we first heard of ‘ArtPrize,’ my husband urged me to compete,” explained Corey. “He wanted me to create my ultimate masterpiece.”  She reminded her husband that their son Joel, 21 months old, is that ultimate masterpiece. 

That is when Corey decided to paint a portrait of Joel for her entry. Butterfly Rain, a mixed media painting that measures 48” wide by 96” tall, depicts Joel’s face looking up at a butterfly.  “The theme of my painting is childhood’s innocence and the sublime wonder of our earliest experiences with nature.  In this case, I painted Joel transfixed by the image of a butterfly in flight.”

To heighten the impression Corey created a three-dimensional butterfly sculpture that is fixed to the painting in line with her baby’s gaze, eyes mesmerized by the dramatic focal point.  The 14” by 12” butterfly is composed from heavy-gauge wire, wrapped in delicate silver wire, then adorned with gemstones, jade, recycled glass, shells and ceramic shards.  It pops off of the painting, suspended in air.  Corey paints with a strong mark using a series of textural layers of acrylic paint, various high quality art papers, beads and artist-rendered stencils of ghost-like iridescent butterflies that float across the image. 

In its first year, “ArtPrize” is taking a radical approach by eliminating traditional judges and curators.  This art show’s mission is “to reboot the conversation between artists and audiences on a grand scale” (http://www.artprize.org/mission). The winners are selected by popular vote, rather than by judges with the stated intention to create an open dialogue and exchange between the public and artists. 

There will be at least two rounds of voting as competitors move up the ranks toward the final first prize of $250,000.  The final ten competitors will all receive significant cash awards. The sponsors and organizers realize that their method may generate discussion and perhaps dissent because of this non-traditional format, but they welcome that dialogue as a way to bring art to the general public on a level that engages action and response.

“This is a major step for me to push out my career and expand my audience,” stated Corey.  “Plus, I’ll be traveling to Grand Rapids to participate in this huge art reception.” Indoor and outdoor venues include The Gerald R. Ford Presidential Library, The Gillett Bridge, The Urban Institute of Contemporary Art, plus hotels, restaurants and churches.  Corey’s work will be on display at Monroe Community Church, a progressive new church, located in a downtown warehouse.

“This has been one of the most challenging tasks I’ve ever taken on in my career.  I hope the people of Grand Rapids appreciate my work.  I’m going forward with the knowledge that many fine artists will be competing with me,” Corey shared, then quickly added, “If any Tuolumne County people have friends and family in Grand Rapids, encourage them to attend.  I hope they’ll vote for my painting.”

 Corey has participated in many local and regional art shows, including Sonora Art Trails.  She has shown her work in New York City’s Chelsea District at The Agora Gallery.  Currently she exhibits in downtown Sonora at Backspace, 67 S. Washington Street and at The Ventana Gallery, 19 W. Bradford Avenue.

She paints at Studio West, 19312 Industrial Drive in East Sonora, where Corey also does high-end matting and framing.  To visit her studio, call for an appointment at (209)533-4278.  Corey’s website address is www.coreywest.artspan.com.

 

UPDATE:  In the interest of transparency and full disclosure, I’ve been reminded that I should let all readers know that I am helping Corey with art promotion.   We have also discussed that I work as her art representative, along with one other artist, Geoff Wynne Fine Art Photography www.geoffwynne.com.   That said, I’m just learning how to do this kind of work and I’m not very good at it (yet).

Home from Strawberry…

Piles of laundry, clothes to put away, get the car washed…Yep, we’re home from Strawberry.  Even four days later the phone rings, and friends ask, “How was Strawberry?”

Well, how is life?  How is going to church and feeling filled with spirit?  How is standing in pure, stunning sunlight, watching leaves dance in mountain breezes?How is music flowing, circling all around you from dawn until dawn?  How is listening to giggles and gleeful laughter from little kids having such a grand time?  How is listening to a mom soothe a crying kid who is on complete overload from just too much Strawberry Kid fun?  How is striking up deep conversations with someone you just met…A Strawberry Virgin–like Becky and Ed from LA, first timers?  How is standing in line in a filthy, dusty bathroom, laughing with other women about the showers, the hot water, sharing soap, toothpaste, passing TP with strangers…No! There are no strangers at Strawberry!  How is holding and loving almost 30 years of friendships born and nurtured in this one beautiful, natural place?  

A backwards journey goes something like this:

Pulling onto Highway 120 from Evergreen Road, I can no longer tune in Hog Ranch Radio on my car radio.  The station has a short range, just a few miles.  By now I’m more than five miles from Strawberry’s Epicenter, Music Meadow.  Just a few moments before I could catch it!

88.1 FM on the dial, Hog Ranch is the Festival’s official Radio Station, broadcasting Mainstage Music, Workshop Broadcasts, camp news, history, special announcements, the Sunday Morning Revival Show from Birch Lake. From Festival Day #1 when it roars over the airways until noon on Festival Day #5 when Bix Beeman and the whole Hog Ranch Team sign off, our camp radio station offers a unifying voice pulling 5,000 people together. The Hog’s history at Strawberry is rich, highly textured, and is a vital part of Strawberry’s Story….more about The Hog in the future.

As I pull out of my campsite, The Hog is playing “The Breakfast Club,” which is aired from the Dining Hall each morning. Sign up and sing for your breakfast…That’s the basic idea.  Anyone can give it a try.  Just rehearse, plan and prepare.  Some groups are incredibly tight and professional, the sort you’d expect to see on the Strawberry Stage; others are just coming out of the box.  In my own camp, I’ve sat around listening in, eaves-dropping, on a group or two as they rehearsed one more song before trekking off to the Dining Hall to play for their “supper.”  Back in camp we listen in on the Radio.  Every “decent” Strawberry Camp brings a radio to tune in to The Hog.  You can even go home with the semi-annual Hog Ranch Radio T-Shirt, a real collector’s item!

This morning a group from Anywhere West Coast is singing and playing “Leaving on a Jet Plane.”  Normally this song would sort of, well, bore me.  But Camp is closing down for the winter.  All of the Strawberry Revelers ARE leaving, saying goodbye, packing their bags.  This time the song touches my heart; tears trickle down my cheek.

I drive under the big wooden Camp Mather sign.  Goodbye Waves come my way from everyone along the trail. I bid adieu to my summer home, my heart of hearts…The Strawberry Music Festival.

Just minutes before I was still parked at my camp, getting ready to pull out, saying those usual “See Ya Later, Alligators” to my camp pals.  Lots of hugs, a few camera snaps, email address exchanges.  Wait!  One more story about the guy who stopped by camp the other night to play a new song he’d written, how poignant it was, bringing tears to our eyes.

And just before that: Wash the windows.  All that camp dust obscures my view of the road. I’m kind of short, so one of my Strawberry pals hops over to help me.  Helping each other all through the festival….”It’s The Strawberry Way.”

You hear that phrase a lot at The Strawberry Music Festival.  It goes back to the earliest days of the festival when a tradition, a culture formed that has stayed with us ever since.  At Strawberry no one is in a hurry, no one is pushy.  There is a lot of respect, kindness and generosity among these merry revelers. And so many people bring their kids!  This festival has a huge commitment to the Strawberry Kids…for them to have fun and to be safe. For five days we all come together to create a Utopia of Artistic Bliss right in the middle of the forest.

On Sunday night, our last night, we strolled from one camp to another, listening to music.  You see, Strawberry isn’t just a place to go to hear (and see) professional musicians play on a stage.  It is a musicians’ music festival.  Every camp is filled with guitar players, mando players, fiddle and banjo players.  Lots of these campers are professionals themselves, gigging all around their neighborhoods.

 The nighttime drift of tune upon tune upon tune fills the soul with real food.  Communion, it is.  Where two or more people gather to share the joy, the ecstasy and grace of music…That’s the Strawberry Way.  Little kids, learning to play fiddle sit and jam with virtuosos…That’s the Strawberry Way.  And Sunday night is especially Holy because it is our last night together as a family, as a community.  We all know the show is about to pack up and we will soon spill back into our daily lives.  So, let’s hold it and love it before we go…That’s the Strawberry Way, too.

Stayed tuned.  There’s more.

I’m B.Z. Smith. I tell stories.  This is one.

Strawberry Music Festival…

Is NOT in Strawberry, CA.  A lot of folks who do NOT attend The Strawberry Music Festival get this wrong.  Here’s a bit of Strawberry History…

The very first Strawberry Fest was held at Leland Meadows on CA’s Hwy 108…Address: Strawberry, CA. Hence, the name Strawberry was adopted for the fest.  But at the end of Year 1 the team of producers decided that Leland Meadows was not the best venue for the event.  They went hunting for a perfect spot, and found it at Camp Mather, Evergreen Rd. off of Hwy 120.  As the crow flies, the two sites are incredibly close–less than 16 miles.  Of course, DRIVING the distance is a whole different story…It’s more like 65 miles.

What was different about Camp Mather?  Owned by the city of San Francisco, Mather provided a paradise for this Love Fest.  Plenty of tall pines provided shade. Little cabins, tucked in the woods, housed performers, crew bosses and the occasional “camper” who wanted to pay the extra dough.  A big dininghall, an amphitheatre for workshops, horseback riding, bike trails, a little camp store, tennis courts, a swimming pool, a big baseball field to serve as the Main Music Meadow…and my favorite:  Birch Lake!  And all of this sitting right on the border of Yosemite National Park.  Sweet!

Here we were at a “luxury” campground where everyone could spread out, relax and learn how to live The Strawberry Way!

Speaking of which, it’s time for me to pile in the car and hit the road.  My guy has our tent pitched, our campsite ready.  His guitar is tuned and already “working,” I’m sure.  I’ve got the house buttoned down for the house-sitter and the kitties.  The ukulele and concertina are in the car.  I’m looking forward to a little jamming with my friends from Blue Shoes Ukulele Auxiliary Orchestra.  I’ve got a list of stories, old and new.  Cynthia Restivo will be joining me on Saturday & Sunday for tandem stories.  The baby plants that I planted this week?  I hope they’ll survive with “Mom” gone.  Kitties, be happy until we return.

When I return, I’ll tell you more about The Strawberry Way…

In the meantime, get out to watch LIVE MUSIC this Labor Day Weekend.  If you’re close enough, call Strawberry at (209)984-8630 to find out if you can still get a ticket.  It’ll be worth the trip…and it’s a beautiful drive.  Maybe I’ll see you there.  I’ll be at Birch Lake telling stories.

 

I’m B.Z. Smith.  I tell stories.  This is one of them.

Visit with a Senator…

“The best time to plant a tree was 20 years ago.  The next best time is now.”—A Chinese Proverb.

On Monday, August 23rd, my guy and I were invited to attend a very special meeting.  Here is an account of our afternoon…

On a summer’s afternoon a small group of friends and family gather at Red Rock Ranch, Robert Woolley’s home. The wide, flat expanse of land, framed by the slowly rising Sierra Foothills catches the sun’s glow.  The Red Rock Arabians gracefully graze in a nearby pasture.  Butterflies, dragonflies and hummingbirds dart through elegant Mediterranean gardens touched by gentle breezes. In the distance, soft green light shimmers off millions of leaves in row after row of tiny trees, budded in Spring as a promise to the future.

 

Our future.  That’s why we are all here.  While this summer day might seem like any other at Dave Wilson Nursery’s Red Rock, it is not.  Joining us on this lovely day is  U.S. Senator Deborah Stabenow (Michigan-Dem). As a member of the  U.S. Senate’s Agriculture Committee, Senator Stabenow is an influential decision-maker on funding and issues concerning agriculture programs, nutrition programs and rural development.  In addition, she serves on the  Senate’s Energy and Natural Resources Committee, and chairs the sub-committee on Water and Power.

 

After a quick tour of the growing grounds at Red Rock Ranch, Senator Stabenow, who has served Michigan since 2000, comments on the ranch’s beautiful landscape. But quickly she notes the essential difference between Michigan and California…Water!  Surrounded on three sides by  The Great Lakes, the world’s largest concentration of fresh water, Michigan’s water issues have a different focus than arid California.  She reiterates the critical need for deep study and dialogue over mounting water issues.  

 

Water is life.  We all must learn the complicated interconnections that will impact and are influenced by this precious resource, given by providence.  In the next year we will all be confronted with critical  decision about water rights, water usage, water sources.  It is essential that we prepare to make wise decisions for future water policies.

 

At Red Rock Ranch we enjoy an informal August fruit tasting from DWN trees as we engage in vital conversation about the needs of California farmers and agriculture.  The Senator, catching a quiet moment in the middle of a whirlwind tour of the Central Valley, smiles warmly in the graceful setting.  Affable and relaxed, this senator speaks with conviction about her work in our nation’s capital, including the Farm Bill, which contains new provisions for schools to purchase locally grown fruits and vegetables, and in so doing, improve the quality of school nutrition. 

 

As we munch on  Flavor-Grenade and Dapple Dandy pluots,  yellow peaches, white peaches and an  Asian pear, Senator Stabenow shares stories of children in her home state who are now enjoying locally grown delights.  She also teases us with a tidbit about her friendship with the Queen of California Cuisine— Alice Waters of Chez Panisse.  Stabenow explains how Waters has spent recent years developing  The Edible School Yard to promote hands-on cooking and gardening in classroom curriculum.  With funding from The Chez Panisse Foundation in Berkeley, CA, schools can receive grants to redesign their lunch programs, using fresh produce as the cornerstone of cooking.  Senator Stabenow refers to schools in her own state (MI) that are following this model.

 

Not only does our small group have a chance to hear about important projects that Senator Stabenow and her colleagues have created, we also have opportunity to share with her our own individual concerns for rural California and agriculture in the Central Valley.  Our focus is on agriculture, of course, but she manages to give a nod to the important  Health Care Reform legislation that awaits our representatives when they return to Washington, DC, after Labor Day.

 

Robert gives the Senator a brief overview of the history and practices of the Dave Wilson Nursery and the tree nursery industry.  He explains to her the significant contribution that immigrant labor gives to not only DWN, but to many other family farms in the Central Valley.  He urges her to better understand the importance of wise decision-making on  immigration reform laws as he gives a thoughtful explanation of the vital importance of California’s immigrant workers and the institutional knowledge that they provide to various agricultural concerns.  In the case of DWN, many employees come from immigrant families who have worked for DWN for generations.  These loyal employees hold vast pieces of knowledge and understanding.  Unfair discrimination hurts not only the worker, but has detrimental consequences for the farmer and all of U.S. agriculture, as well. 

 

The hour with Senator Stabenow flies by quickly, but we manage to cover a wide spectrum of topics. From water issues, nutrition in the schools, to immigration laws for a few quiet moments we are included in a circle of influence with one hard-working member of the U.S. Senate.  Deborah Stabenow’s warmth and ability to listen thoughtfully with focused attention will be remembered.  

 

And thanks to Robert Woolley of  Dave Wilson Nursery for being a gracious host!

I’m B.Z. Smith.  I tell stories.  This is one.

I live in the UNITED States of America.

I opened my email to discover that I had gotten another one!  You know, those emails that well-meaning friends send around to raise our ire.  The one that came today arrived from someone whom I admire.  This person does good work in our community, is talented, and well-spoken.  So, when my mailbox said, “You’ve got mail,” I hoped to find good news from my friend.

I should have noticed that the subject field said,” FW: Mad and Sending to Everyone.”  Uh, oh.  I should have heard that tin-can robot from “Lost In Space” yelling, “Danger, Will Robinson!” as he flailed his arms about, alarms blaring, lights flashing, spinning in circles.  But I got lured in.  I read it.

It was “The Story of the WWII Memorial Revisionist History Scandal” a story that has been drifting through cyberspace since 2004 when the memorial opened.  Apparently four words were left off of FDR’s inscribed quote, and according to the email….INTENTIONALLY!  Oh, what words?  Four little, tiny, hot-button issue words: So Help Us, God.

This week’s blogpost is my reply.  You don’t have to agree with me…never!  (Unless you do agree with me, of course.)   So, here you go:  The email that I sent back, complete with links…

To my dear Friend,

I hope you’ll understand and even appreciate my reply. Please indulge me:

 I was a history major in college and worked as a librarian for many years.  So it’s in my bones to check sources, to verify the facts.  

 I found many sites that analyze this story (which has been circulating on the web since 2004).  In about 10 sites, the story is proven to be false, or AT LEAST out of context.  There were a couple of sites that gave support to this author’s premise, but most established that the premise is mis-guided.

 According to the research that I did after receiving your email, the inscribed quote is actually just a very few words lifted from a much longer speech.  The words “so help us, God” are contained in the speech, but they were not Roosevelt’s final words, as the circulating story states–“the end of the quote.”  In fact, there is another paragraph of the speech that follows these 4 words.

 I’m sending you links to some of the sites I explored. The first one is an audio clip of Roosevelt giving the speech.  You’ll hear several outbursts of applause, including a round of applause for the sentence under scrutiny.  The second link contains the entire text of the speech. The third link is the WWII Memorial’s official website. 

http://www.americanrhetoric.com/speeches/fdrpearlharbor.htm 

http://www.truthorfiction.com/rumors/w/wwiimemorial.htm

http://www.wwiimemorial.com/default.asp?page=home.asp

http://hnn.us/articles/7899.html

http://www.snopes.com/politics/military/memorial.asp

http://urbanlegends.about.com/library/bl_war_memorial.htm

 Were those 4 words important to the speech?  Yes.  Were they left out intentionally as a deliberate act of revisionism?  I doubt that. To begin with, anyone taking the time to find the facts and the actual speech could do so in just a few minutes, as I have done today.   Revisionist history by definition is where there is a conscious attempt to completely re-write the facts.  These facts are just too easy to find, too readily out there in the world for anyone to deliberately try to revise their meaning.  And if the omission was deliberate, or even perceived as such, then do what it says to do in our Constitution:  Petition.  According to the WWII Memorial’s official website there are reserve funds to maintain the memorial.  If enough people petitioned, perhaps some of that  money could be used to add the 4 words.  If there are enough people who are called to Citizen Action in a true grassroots effort, I’m sure it could be done.

 My only reason for taking the time to dig around and to send you what I hope you’ll believe is a well-intended, thoughtful response is this:

Right now our great nation is torn on so many fronts.  Too many people from all sides are trying to poke holes in the strength, “the righteous mighty power of the United States” (phrase borrowed from the FDR speech that is in question).  

 When I was teaching, every day I walked the kids through an explanation of the words of the Pledge of Allegiance, to give them context that would be meaningful to a little kid.  I always loved getting to that word INDIVISIBLE!  I would explain that our 50 great states had chosen to join together into one great nation–a UNION!  We are  UNITED states.  And INDIVISIBLE means that no one can tear us apart.  We will work together to get through our differences, our difficulties.  Then when we REALLY need to rally, we will all UNITE.  

Now I see so many people intentionally tearing at that fabric, trying to pull us all apart.  The most clear evidence of this is the recent announcement from the Gov. Rick Perry of Texas that he might support a secession.  I was born in Texas, a 7th generation Texan. I do not want that to happen!

 Our parents demonstrated the full meaning of being UNITED on that Great Day of Infamy.  Our fathers signed up to go to war.  Our grandparents and mothers dug in to help out.  Victory Gardens, Rosie the Riveter, The Women’s Air Service Patrol, Recycling–like we still haven’t seen since.  SACRIFICE to hold a nation together in its glory, in its darkest hour.  Christians, Jews, Buddhists, Atheists, Nativists, Muslims, Mormons, Quakers, 7th Days, and everybody else–They all united to serve our country after the attack on Pearl Harbor.  No one was untouched.  Just like what happened to our generation on September 11, 2001.  No one was untouched, and we won’t ever forget that horrible day.

 Yet even in the shadow of 9/11, the problems that we face today are nothing compared to the great struggles of our parents’ generation.  An agrarian society geared up and transformed itself into a manufacturing super machine in just two years!  Our entire nation was forever transformed as people left farms, and urban centers flourished.  How in the world did one country manage to create such huge systemic change in such a short time?  They were united around a common cause–to win a war, to stop Fascism.  Today people throw that word around, Fascism, and they don’t even really know the actual definition of what a Fascist government is.  Today too many people do not take the time to study, to check facts, to learn! 

 Everyday I think of my own father.  He gave valiant service in the U.S. military for 22 years and then continued as a military contractor for many years after as a consultant, a flight instructor and a contract pilot.  He fought in WWII, in the Korean War, in the French-IndoChinese War, in the Burmese War and in the Vietnam War.  And this I know for certain:  My dad loved facts.  He loved history. He loved learning and knowledge, pushing my brother and me to excel in school.  He taught his kids to love their country with all its warts and bumps and all its glory.  He also taught us to ask questions, to shed the light of learning where there was ignorance and to never accept somebody’s story as gospel until you’d done your homework.

 So help me.  Let’s check these kinds of emails out for their basis in fact before we send them along.  If we do not, we only serve to further DIVIDE our great nation.  And right now none of us needs to be pitted against the other.  

 Friend to friend.  Neighbor to neighbor.  Let’s all pick up our shovels and help give glory to our nation.

 And if you want to send THIS email along, I invite you to do so…

 With great respect,

 bz

 And to my dear blog readers, if YOU want to send this link along….Please do so.

I’m B.Z. Smith.  I tell stories. This is one of them.

Finding Heroes…

We all need heroes, those people who give our society guidance by their own deeds.

One of my heroes was Eunice Kennedy-Shriver, who died yesterday.  While the world was mesmerized by those handsome, powerful Kennedy men, I kept looking at their sisters.  And I saw that Eunice and her sisters were born to serve the people.  In a time when women were not allowed in The Boys’ Club, this one woman made her own mark on the world and changed the lives of millions.

Eunice Kennedy-Shriver valued each person’s worth. Inspired by her mother Rose, Kennedy-Shriver witnessed the joy and strength that her disabled sister, Rosemary, gave to their family.  Eunice championed the rights of people with mental disabilities. She pushed her brother, President Jack Kennedy, to address the needs of people with mental retardation, to set up commissions that would reveal the abhorrent conditions of injustice that our most vulnerable citizens suffered.  She worked to establish programs that would provide decent education for people with special needs.  She helped countless families  learn to accept and even love their fate, to embrace and celebrate their special needs children.

The Summer of 1969, an American walked on the moon and I had just finished my first year of college. I needed a job in order to pay for books the next Fall.  I saw an ad to work with kids, right up my alley. But not just any kids.  This job was at The Hospital for Exceptional Children in Long Beach, CA, a “home” for mentally retarded children.  I was so excited that I could serve.  Like Eunice, I would make these children’s lives richer.  

I got hired! I’d be a daytime aide for 20 children.  One other worker and I fed, bathed, diapered and watched 40 children.  From sun up until sundown, I ran around trying to keep these children safe, happy and clean.  But there were no toys, no books.  There was no program or curriculum.  No one had ever even encouraged these kids to speak, to find their words.  Instead, they were warehoused, thrown away, out of sight from “normal people.”  Forty children slept in one big dormitory room, beds crammed in row after row. I have faint recollection of any professional staffer coming to check on them.  When someone did come, it was to administer meds…sedatives.  “Keep them quiet and calm,” that was our edict.

None of their families ever came to visit.  Oh, there was one girl.  
She was the only one who had any words.  She was 13 and had severe autism.  She’d go to her family home every other weekend.  When she returned she would mimic T.V. ads…that’s all. Over and over and over, singing jingles, echoing the ads’ messages.  When I’d feed her, she’d sing and chant:  “Plop, plop. Fizz, fizz. Oh, what a relief it is,”  Or “Mystery Date,”  Or “You’ll wonder where the yellow went when you brush your teeth with Pepsodent.”

For exercise, we would take them to the “play area”– a small concrete courtyard wedged in the middle of the building.  There were no swings, no slides, no sandbox.  And one tricycle.  Even the plants were all dead.  Most of the children could not really walk, but not because they weren’t capable.  They weren’t allowed to run or walk.  “Keep them still”–another edict.  

But all they wanted was to be touched, held, rocked.  In those few free moments, I’d sing songs, recite nursery rhymes and do fingerplays.  One two-year old boy with Down’s Syndrome looked like a 10-month old baby.  He loved to cuddle and be held, nuzzling against me. It was easy to nurture him.  He was adorable, filled with smiles and coos.  I wanted to take him home.  

It was much harder to give love and nurturing to the 14 year-old boy.  He needed to shave, and when I changed his diapers…Well, you can imagine.  He was a teenage boy, and how he loved me to clean him up (and I mean, UP).  I can remember telling him, “Take it easy, Mikey.  Don’t get so excited.  Let’s get this diaper on and be done!”  

But 8 year-old Jason, another Down’s Syndrome child, broke my heart.  This boy was a mischief-maker!  He had a funny little “evil” laugh that would echo through the cavernous room when he escaped the clutches of the well-meaning aides.  He’d throw food, bounce on his bed, and grab anything in his reach.  A wild child!  No one liked Jason…except me.  His will, his burning desire to be a regular little boy held my heart.  

I begged the supervisors to let me take him for walks, to read to him, to play with him.  “There’s no time for that.  You have to take care of the others, too,” I was told. Ah, yes, keep the Warehouse clean.  That was my job, after all.  

At night, we’d get all forty  kids ready for bed.  No sweet night-lights, no lullabies.  As the door closed, the night-shift on detail, sad, lonely whimpers and sighs slipped into my ears.  And of course, Jason never wanted to go to bed.  He wanted to play!  Like a wild monkey, he would escape from us, scurrying across the floor on all fours. Night after night the orderlies came in to put a net over Jason’s bed…to keep him tied up.

Then one night, they told ME to tie up Jason.  That moment blazes in my memory as I draped the big heavy net over his crib.  As I tied down the corners, he wailed and looked deep into my eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Jason. I have to do this, to keep you safe.  Forgive me.  I don’t want to do this either.”  Tears streamed down my face as my heaving sobs rocked in chorus with Jason’s sobs. Eight years old, powerless.

The next day I quit. At 19 I could not take the pain, the sorrow and injustice.  Like Jason, I was powerless, too.  I only lasted six weeks on that job, but I’ve never forgotten one moment.

So, today I thank Eunice Shriver for she changed their lives.  And like all true heroes, she did this almost single-handedly while building a devoted army to join her worthy cause.   When The Hospital for Exceptional Children closed, I rejoiced, knowing that those 40 kids had been given a chance, a new beginning.  Eunice had unlocked those doors and given their families hope and direction. 

In her later life Eunice Kennedy-Shriver, the daughter and sister of kings, stood by her husband when he sunk into Alzheimer’s. Sargent Shriver was his name.  A giant was he–The founder of America’s most influential international relations program: The U.S. Peace Corps.  

The Shrivers lived a graceful, generous life.  They knew the importance of authentic public service, and they understood that putting a price-tag on humanity is evil, is immoral.  The Shrivers worked to help the disenfranchised find dignity and compassion, education and empowerment.  Two great American heroes.  Tonight I will look for their stars in Heaven.

I’m B.Z. Smith.  This is one story from my life.  What’s yours?

Poodle Skirt…

(Here is a post that I wrote on July 30th, 2009…Originally I posted it at “Gold of the Mother Lode” SN site.)

 

From Getty Images

 

 

Today I sewed a Poodle Skirt, something I never thought I’d do.

I never had a Poodle Skirt. I was just a bit too young for that fad. Truth is…Poodle Skirts were a short-lived fad, but somehow they sunk into our American psyche and popped out as an Icon of 1950’s Teen Fashion.

I wanted a Poodle Skirt…briefly. At age 9 I was into crinoline! The more petticoats, the bigger the whirl and twirl. At recess all the little 3rd grade girls would cram into the bathroom to count layers. One day I wore more petticoats than Kathy Fabian, the Petticoat Queen of 3rd grade! Fortunately Kathy was not miffed, so I didn’t suffer for out-slipping her. (Fact is, K.F. was nice, really. She knew how to be kind, and she loved books! Were it not for Kathy F, I might not have turned into the bookish gal that I am today. She got ALL the little girls into the library.)

On that fateful day, my over-powering layer was my Inflatable Petticoat. It was based on the idea of a bicycle inner tube. The clear plastic tube was sewn into a casing near the hemline.

 

You just blew that puppy up and POOF! I’ve always thought that mechanics, welders and carpenters should pay more attention to the Art of Sewing. It’s just a soft version of hard construction: Basic geometry, good tensile strength, the right tools, a powerful engine and a little skill. So, at 6AM I was up sewing a Poodle Skirt for my granddaughter. Well, really it’s for the costume department of her upcoming play: Seussical, Junior. They’ll be prancing on Summerville High’s stage this week: Thursday, Friday & Saturday 8PM. There’s a great bit of Family Entertainment, brought to you by Meyer Hideout Children’s Theatre and their unsinkable director Kyla Meyer.

I’ll be in the audience, looking for my Poodle Skirt.

More Stuff…Historical Clothing

So, why have I kept my prom dress from 1968?  The worn out T-Shirt from the first Strawberry Music Festival? My husband Rick’s Little League baseball shirt?

And what about that cute little skirt that barely covers my right thigh? Certainly it no longer would cover anything that it was supposed to cover. But when I opened Box #14 and held it up, a flood of memories washed over me.

I was 18, just starting my freshman year of college. The wild excitement of being on my own was heady, like some delicious intoxication. I strutted under the canopy of giant sycamore trees, passed Hallowed Halls of Learning.  On that Fall morning I sported a wool plaid pleated skirt. The pleats swung with the rhythm of my step. The hemline, daring those college boys to look, stopped a few inches above my knee.  My stride, strong and filled with drunken confidence. It was all in that skirt.

How can I pass it on?  How can I just toss out such a powerful image of stepping into the prime of my life?  I need a system. There are some things that I’m just not ready to give away or throw away. And I think that skirt is one of them.

Don’t worry:  I’m not planning to starve myself into wearing it again.  I have the letters P.D. behind my name–Practical Dreamer. So, while I long to be that size 6 and wear that skirt again, I’m practical. The dream is not about being that young thing with those really cute, sexy legs (Oh, they were cute!).  It’s about conjuring that feeling of complete Wild Independent Woman Power, for me first truly expressed in those early days of college.

There we were, free of our parents’ eyes, free from high school’s pressures.  But more importantly, free to let our flaming creative intellect ignite incredible sparks of passion, of discovery, of life’s immeasurable possibilities.  For me going to college was the most exciting new beginning of all! (A decade later that moment was dwarfed by motherhood.)

That glorious moment!  I found it again, tucked into the folds of a navy blue, sanguine red and golden yellow pleated wool skirt.

The stuff in boxes triggers these bright illuminations of a life.  Like yours, my life is sweetly, beautifully ordinary.  No Academy Awards, no New York Times Bestsellers’ List, No spot on Oprah–Just waking up each day putting one foot in front of the other.

Well, I guess I’ll go take a peak into Box #15.  I wonder what mystery lies within?

And to my dear Lizzy Restivo and Sofie Segerstrom…Good adventures, dear girls, as you take off for college this month. xoxoxo.

Stuff!

Yep, I have too much stuff! For 12 years I’ve rented a little garage in town to hold my “over-flow.” Even though I spent a lot of green on that garage, I tell myself that it’s all GOOD stuff, or IMPORTANT stuff, or THE KIDS’ stuff. But this week I called my sweet landlady, and told her, “I’m getting rid of my stuff. I won’t need the garage anymore (GULP!).” I’ve got two weeks–a deadline.

And that means I have to finally, at long last, after too many years of procrastination and avoidance, go through my STUFF. I have begun. Each day this week I have managed to ford my way through 4 boxes. By Sunday I should hit Box #28. At one point I counted up to 70 boxes of…books, old cassette tapes, photos, old letters & postcards, kids’ school papers, art supplies, greeting cards, teacher materials, scrapbooks, baby clothes, kids’ dolls, stuffed animals, historic articles of clothing (no inflatable petticoats, however), even an LP album or two.

After almost 60 years of walking on the planet, I learned that a little bit of knowledge can be a ___________ thing. (You know the word.) Did you know that there is a National Postcard Collector’s Association? Surely, THEY want my old postcards. And what is the value of these little Madame Alexander dolls? They MUST be collectible…even if the shoes are missing? And there is a certain (embarassing) down-side to having had my picture in the paper more times than “you can shake a stick at.” I have clippings, and copies of clippings. Shouldn’t I save them all? For my kids and grandkids? For a display at my funeral?

Yesterday I read through the calendars I kept when my daughter Wren was a baby. I had noted each little achievement, each tiny sneeze. As I read, I felt the years peel back. I could see her, smell her, feel her tugging on my clothes, cooing in my ear. I won’t keep the calendars. I will keep the memories, tucked in my heart (And now carefully recorded in a Word Doc).

Three days ago I finally tossed the “Sympathy” cards that were sent when my husband, Radio Rick Thorpe, died in 1991. I re-read everyone, smiling, crying and quietly noting how many of the good people who had sent cards back then had now passed on, just like Rick.

The odd part of this is that I feel like I keep bumping into myself on some strange road. It’s as if the part of me that is going forward brushes against the part of me that’s already been, and knocks things out of my own hands. So, I’m picking up little pieces of my life with each box, looking at them, turning them over and over in my hand, my head and my heart.

And maybe that’s why we all avoid this task, this taking care of business, this beginning with the end in mind. It’s tough to decide what to do with all of it! But this I’ve learned: #1–We can’t take it with us. #2–When we’re gone, someone else will have to figure out why we kept it. #3–It hurts to relive this life, even the sweetest parts.

Last night, after finishing my daily box quota, I turned to my sweet guy with tears. I told him that this task was harder than I had thought. I told him that I didn’t know that I could relive so much of my life in just one day. Tenderness. Laughter. Sorrow. Disappointments. Triumphs. Even anger. Yet I see what a lucky, beautiful life it has been.

It’s just stuff. So, if you’re like me with a mountain of clutter…begin it. There’s a great quote by the German philosopher Goethe: “Whatever you dare to do, begin it. There is magic in boldness.”

AND since I want to help stimulate our local economy, I recommend that you track down a Home Organizer to help you. There are several in our community. I’ll bet you may even have one of their business cards….somewhere in your STUFF.

My name is B.Z. Smith. I tell stories. This is one of them.