Your Voice is Music to My Ears

“Our culture changes at an astounding velocity, so we must change or pay a price for remaining the same. “   (Edmundson, Mark.  Why Read?)

Change is constant and to understand, analyze and evaluate, what is behind the current reality, we have to read.  Recently, a friend mentioned that her son hated to read.  This did not surprise me.  Each semester during my career as teacher/librarian, I would ask students what their favorite school activity was.  More than half ranked reading at the bottom. 

During our discussion, my friend asked if I had any advice for her son. 

 ‘Why don’t you read to him?’ I suggested.
‘Shouldn’t he be responsible for reading alone?  He is a teenager.’

Not necessarily, reading should be fun, an active curiosity about what we enjoy.  Teens have been told what they 'have' to read for so long throughout their schooling that many have shut down.  One way to capture their attention is to read to them.

There are several other benefits to reading aloud.  People enjoy being read to.  This experience is similar to listening to music.  Historically, there is an oral storytelling tradition; we are captivated by narration.  In the past, families gathered around the fire and entertained each other with tales of adventure.  Not a bad idea, throw a log in the fireplace, and create a mood on a dark, cold night.  With the perfect book in hand, read out loud.  We don't have to dig up the habits of our ancestors to make this point though, consider the popularity of audio books, video, and music.  We are internally wired to listen to cool stuff.  Why not be the voice that your teen enjoys hearing?

Reading aloud engages both the reader and the listener in the written word.  Be prepared for potentially amazing conversations.  A meeting together that has meaning unlike the following deep conversation that I am sure you have had:
‘How was school?’ 
‘ Fine.’
Sound familiar?  There is nowhere to go from that closed dialogue.  Reading side by side will give you better options.

Teens are busy; finding time to read and contemplate is not at the top of their activity list.  As my grandchildren move into the teens, I have to admit that it is difficult to experience meaningful, reflective moments with them.  Reading together can break through this barrier. 

The hook is to select a book that is extremely interesting to them.  Find an author that writes in language that will captivate a young mind.  This should not be ‘teaching a lesson’ time. Your teen will learn something but it should evolve within them from the images in their mind's eye; this is subtle.  No matter what topic they are attracted to, I can almost guarantee a magazine or book addresses that material. 

Reading is like any skill.  Here is an example:  I may want to play the piano; I may envision myself seated at the keyboard charming an audience with my artistic performance; but, if I do not practice, playing is not going to happen.  Reading is the same.  Find a book that excites them.  If you begin the reading, and the book is the 'right' one, the teen will be motivated to continue.  Trust me on this, those who hate to read think that there is nothing in a book for them.  Once enticed, they may be grabbing the text from your hands.  Maybe that's taking this too far, the grabbing, but they will be stilled, enchanted and listen.

What if they totally raise their backside in a huff?  No way; we are not reading!  Ask your teen if she thinks that all of her teachers are brilliant?  (Keep your tone smooth, calm, nonjudgmental.)  She’ll look at you with suspicion thinking that certainly you are daft for asking.  Be quiet.  Let her be the first to speak.  Believe me, the answer will be a resounding:  ‘No.’

Of course, not.  You can honestly agree with her assessment from your own educational experience. 

If students do not learn to actively select their own reading they are doomed to know only ‘what has been said to them’.  They have admitted that all teachers are not brilliant.  Suggest that you'll find an expert for them on any topic.  If they like skateboarding, read a book written by Tony Hawk.  If they like carburetors, read together about the design and how to reassemble.   The most talented people in any field write about their subject.  If you have a local bookstore, they will help you.  And, the library is free.  Try asking there and be surprised with how helpful a librarian can be.

Reading is an opportunity to explore what the genius on a particular subject has to say.  Reading lets us get the full account – both sides are published on any current trend or news story.  This search will not take too long on the internet.  Examine the credentials of the writer, the point of view – who they may be working for, and then… explore.

There are a couple of reasons to consider a book selection over a magazine choice.   A book takes longer to write.  The information has been scrutinized and has withstood ‘the test of time’; having said that, if the subject is cutting edge, a magazine may be the best choice.

 Ask your teen to try once with you...make sure you KNOW what they are drawn to. Buy the book (or go to your library) and schedule time to read together at home.  If you are at a loss, get the book that the last movie your teen raved about was based on. You will be pleasantly surprised at how receptive they are when the topic is their choice.

I am a reading advocate.  Most of my mentors have been people that I have not met personally; our intimate relationship, the author with me, has developed over time through language.  Reading has changed me for the better.
At this holiday time, give the gift of your time.  Read-aloud-time.  So, light the fire, supply their favorite snack, and give a memory that will not be forgotten.

Gandy Dancer

During a luncheon date, I shared that I sew a couple times a week.  Often every evening, on wintry nights when the sun has been shrouded with a dark, sable wrap by six o’clock.

“Every night?  What are you sewing?  My friend’s surprised tone slid up at the question mark.

I shrugged, “Lots of things.  I’m not great,” I took a sip of wine.  “Simple projects.  I like straight lines and uncomplicated patterns.  Most often I make quilted throws, curtains, pajamas for my grandkids.”

We were eating at a restored 1886 Rail Depot in Ann Arbor.  Outside the dining room an engine noisily clattered over the tracks pulling a string of heavy railway cars … clickety clack, clickety clack.  The glass seemed to visibly bow as sound waves bounced against the oversized windows; even the table moved. I instinctively closed my fingers around the delicate stem of the wineglass.  Choo choo!    

In the wake of the caboose, a sacred quiet settled over the dining area.  Our waiter returned setting a scrumptious Michigan cherry, walnut, blue cheese salad in front of me and a steaming bowl of creamy lobster bisque for my friend.  Simultaneously, eyes met across the white linen table top, and spontaneously with a clink of crystal, we toasted.   Cheers!

After savoring a bite oozing with sweetness of cherries spiked with the edgy smack of aged cheese, our conversation vibrated from fabric to art, and as always, we talked of the books we were reading. 

On the way home, her initial question about sewing pulsated.  Why do I sew? 

A while back, I lived for a year without my sewing machine and had been caught unaware by the feeling of inner loss.  I missed the studio I had designed … a place of my own where I could work.  Being away from the workplace where I safely exposed my artistic vulnerability was painful.  I became aware that participating in the creative process is integral to my well-being.  For me, sewing is a harmonious, spiritual expression and the intensity of the effort allows me to thrive. 

Stitching and working with a multiplicity of color and texture is a tactile experience that offers endless design possibilities.  Each stack of fabric is an invitation to journey to an unidentified end.  The array of abstract pigment, viewed in my mind’s eye, are replicated by arranging rough, smooth, and coarse textures and then, sewing them together.  At the moment when I picture where I am headed, where the fabric wants to go, at that wakefulness, I am aware of an adrenaline rush.  This unique titillation of every nerve ending permeates my senses motivating me to complete the work.  

Once a year, I take inventory of the leftover materials, discarding some, re-evaluating unfinished projects, prioritizing and consolidating.   This act of taking stock is useful reflection and promotes upcoming creativity.  During the sorting process, I organize cuts of fabric in groups of like color and textures.  As a result of last year’s inventory, that included ripping a variety of cotton into rectangular strips, I completed my first hand-sewn quilt.  Hand sewing had unexpected gratification similar to how I feel when I write an essay in long-hand.  The process kept me close to the work.  Using a machine is more like the rhythmic clickety clack of a train.  Hand sewing is gliding without noise.

I have stitched together pieces from other projects to celebrate what has been while looking forward to what can be.   A variety of choices can be re- arranged producing something beautiful and useful.  Like a recent rag quilt made of leftover fleece from every pair of pajamas made throughout the past ten years.  This quilt was backed and edged, hand bound, with flannel offering a cozy, warm fabric to snuggle in.  Upon completion the comments filled me like a delicious soup on a dreary day.  Look, that’s the material you made my pajamas from Grandma!  There’s a piece of my baby blanket!

A few months ago, I was given some gorgeous fabric that had been custom drapes.  I re-made into curtains.  This endeavor was satisfying and, although not the same since Scarlet made curtains into a dress, reminded me of that scene in “Gone With the Wind” when she looked at the drapes and knew the material could be something else.   Five windows in my home are now accented with what another person was sick of.  And, no one said:  ‘Frankly, Susan, I don’t give a damn’.    With each task; the design, the cutting, the pinning, the sewing, the final detail touches, I am keenly aware of balance… a peace infused into the chaotic, hectic business of living. 

Clickety clack, clickety clack, I am pulling a thread through time.  In the future, I can hear voices acclaim:  Mom made this or Grandma made that as a comfortable quilt is thrown over cold feet or wrapped around a new life. 

Gandy dancer is a slang term for a railway worker who laid and maintained the track.  When I die, and my spirit leaves this noisy life, chug, chug, chugging, aside memories, my sewing and writing will be left behind with intent, to help those I love steady their wine glasses in the wake of what was ‘me’.  It may be winter outside, but inside different houses my loved ones will be snuggled under soft, functional pieces of art.  If they are mindful, they will be alert to a vibration, a vibrato … the energy of me in each stitch … clickety clack, clickety clack, clickety clack.  Cheers!

You Can’t Teach an Old Dog New Tricks

 

Losing a library item aggravates me.  Not only for the simple fact that the item must be paid for, but because I know “it”, the illusive cause of frustration, has to be, must be, somewhere.  Inanimate objects do not metamorphose into animated rebellious minions.   I know this even though that subject, minions – loyal servants to a powerful being, who are recruited in a plot to take over the world, is the theme of the lost DVD. 

Several defensive thoughts came to mind when I read the library email notice informing me that there was no disc in the returned plastic case. No DVD?  I had watched from my car as my grandson opened the metal door and dropped it into the return bin.  I had put the DVD inside the container myself … hadn’t I? Yes, of course I had.

Outside the neighbor’s dog barked pulling me away from the computer.   At the front door, his entire body quivering in anticipation, was George on his daily round for a doggie treat.  I am not proud that at that moment, I considered the black French bulldog and the vindication “the dog ate my homework” came to mind.  Going to the library and blaming the dog – this was not my dog – even if I had a dog, the fact that the idea popped into consciousness was unsettling.   Really Susan?  I offered the treat to the sweet little furry visitor and followed this action with the admonition, “Now, go home George.”  As I shut the door, I recalled that once my grandson’s dog literally ate his homework.  And, telling his teacher did not save him.  What was up with these childish thoughts?  There are no library police. 

Even though from time to time I revert to illogical reasoning, there are certain truths that living has made clear.  The Velveteen Rabbit did not become real.  If I kiss a frog, it will not croak into a prince.   There are not vampires that bite.  (Yes, there are people who would like to suck the blood out of me, but that is another story.)  And, a DVD does not walk away.

There is a magic mirror in grandma”dom” (dom as in kingdom not as in dumber and dumber).  And this sage reflection told me that I would find the movie if I slowed down and retraced the trail of the DVD.

 Okay, forget the slowdown part, my search was frantic.  A where the hell did it go kind of search ensued.   First, I pummeled through the car, the trunk, under the seats… yes, I mean thrashed, a definitive neurotic kind of searching.  In my mind’s eye, I could see the disc being put into the plastic holder.  The case must’ve opened when dropped into the bin.  That was it; the movie was loose in the bottom of the outdoor return receptacle. 

Back at the library, I am proud to report that wisdom of age did keep my behavior in check.  By my age, the basket of miscalculations and personal screw-ups is overflowing.  (My culprit cup runneth over is clearly an understatement.)  So, at the checkout/return counter, I politely asked if perhaps the DVD was discovered loose in the outdoor receptacle.  Why no, if it was, we would have seen it.  I refrained from asking to check the bin myself.  (Yes, I wanted to.)  I did scrutinize the movie section, this effort produced two DVD’s.  Perhaps the Shelver put my DVD in the wrong case?  Why I thought that a duplicate case with the same title could miraculously store the lost disc is beyond explanation. 

“We would not have put two discs in the same container,” the desk assistant politely clarified.

Still she unlocked the cases and showed me (with a little more flourish than I deemed necessary) that I was wrong.  As she clicked the plastic shut, she kindly suggested that perhaps my grandson had slipped it under the couch because he wanted to watch it again?  That had happened to her … or so she said.  Or, could it have been put away with my personal DVD’s?  I was getting annoyed with this happiness and kindness.   Surely, she was not suggesting that my grandchild would hide the DVD?  I shared that I had looked everywhere.  She continued explaining very sweetly that if I could not find the DVD the cost was $22. 

“If I find it cheaper on Amazon, could I purchase and donate to the library?” 

For a variety of reasons, the answer to this was: No. 

Okay, I’m admitting that $22 was enough to make me pause. What is the cut-off mark?  If she had said $9.99 or $12.55?   If those amounts had been uttered, would I have pulled out my change purse?  At any rate, $22 was enough to inspire me to renew the lost item.  I handed her the empty case.  “Oh, no.  We can’t take a case with nothing in it.  You have to keep that.”  She slid it back toward me.  “The movie needs to be returned in it.”

Back at home, I was like a dog on a bone (or homework), I would not let the loss go.  $22.00 was twenty rentals from the RedBox, an eyebrow wax, lunch out with friends, a fairly decent bottle of wine.  For me, there was a lot at stake including my integrity as a former librarian – which I did not admit to the counter clerk.  And, I should be applauded for biting my tongue when she declared the impossibility of cataloguing a cheaper item found on Amazon.  Yes, of course an item can be processed by hand entry … whatever, I was well behaved and kept the information to myself.

Oh, please! I scolded myself … it is only a movie, but an obsessive compulsive nature had over taken grandma wisdom like a past lover or a straightjacket … hmmm, interesting comparison.    I re-searched the car, the DVD collection at home, and the couch sporadically throughout that day until the setting sun enhanced the horizon with a copper glow. 

Finally, I resolved to pay the money.  I did deliberate if I could make installments … a couple of bucks a week would lessen the mistake.  Or would it draw it out?  Enough foolishness; just add this to the blunder pile and move on.   Losing a DVD does not even nudge the measurement needle in comparison to other personal slip-ups.  Get over yourself and pay. 

On my “To Do List” stop at library was noted.

I slept well.

This morning, I was folding a blanket that I had swaddled around me while watching Lady Hawk – a movie in which the characters did metamorph - when a glint of silver shimmered beneath edge of the couch.  This gleaming curve contrasted against the carpet bringing me to my knees to retrieve.  Are you kidding me?  I was sure that I had looked in that same place at least five times. 

Okay, I give.  Bite me Baby!  Let me kiss a frog.  Yes, a stuffed rabbit lives in my hometown. 
And, that she, is going to the library this morning for her $22.00 refund.

Surely, a certain sweet, little minion would not have slipped the DVD under the couch?  Hmmm.  

As I adjusted the driver’s side mirror, the image of George lifting his back leg on my rear tire stopped me from starting the car.  This is how I am repaid for your daily treat?

I opened the car door.  “Go home George!”  He vigorously shook his muscular rump and scurried away.

As I watched him leap to the safety of his own yard, and truly he hops like a jack rabbit, I had to consider my $22.  Is it too early to buy a bottle of wine? 

Here is a final grandma truth:  It is definitely five o’clock somewhere!

The Perks of being a Grandmother

Monday is Scrabble day.  My grandson and I hole up for a couple of hours at a local coffee shop for serious word competition.  Well, perhaps I’m overstating … friendly, word building is a more accurate description. 

After setting up the board, we went to the counter.  The owner smiled, “Hi, ready for your game?  You two want the usual?  Hot Chocolate with marshmallows?” (He’s got us down.  We are what you would call:  regulars.) 

Scrabble between us began this past fall and, as I said, I made sure my grandson knew that vocabulary building is the intent.  During the first couple months he played open dictionary – this variant, dictionary use, was my idea and I thought using it would keep him on a level playing field. I recall those first few games me saying: Let’s not worry about who wins.  We’ll go for improving our personal score each week.  Deal? 

I thought he agreed.  Me, I babbled away in a kindly fashion about how fun it would be to play for the joy of making words and improving.  I went as far to discuss with him sportsmanship, like if he drew a challenging combination of letters.  In fact, in the beginning games, we strategized together instead of staring blankly at a rack of lackluster tiles, for example: iiiiooe – boo hiss.

About 30 minutes into this past Monday’s game, an employee stops by our table, chatting us up a bit.  Who’s winning?  Every week, someone asks that question:  Who is winning?  Why does everything have to be about winning?

I humbly adjusted my halo, “Oh we play to improve our vocabulary … the score doesn’t matter.”  I offered a smile.  How could anyone expect a twelve year old to beat an ole Scrabble fan like me? 

Glancing over at Jax, I noticed he was studying his letters not even aware that a question was asked.  And, he was taking a long time with his play. 

“Do you want me to look at your letters?”  I asked sweetly.

“No, I want to figure it out myself.”

“Well, remember, you can use the dictionary if you want.”

“No, I’m okay.” 

He reorganized the tiles several times on his rack.  Stopped, then bit his upper lip suppressing a smile.   He gleefully contained his excitement, then  looked at me, smiled full out and plunked down the word:  perkish.  The “k” covered a double letter, the “h” on a triple word and also joined to the word “ut” at the right angle forming “hut” – yes, another triple word.  And, since he used all seven letters, a 50 point bonus was allowed. 

Arrgh … my back straightened.

“Perkish?  Is that a word … perkish?”  I was  taken back at the play.

“Well, if you are perky then can’t you be sort of perky?” We locked eyeballs, “That would be perkish,” he stated in a matter of fact tone.

I grabbed the dictionary.  Yes, I know we are playing for fun but … what kind of derivative of perky is that? 

Here is the answer to that question:  perkish is not in Webster’s nor Oxford Dictionaries (I know this because later that evening, I looked it up at home – and, yes, I recognize what this act states about me; don’t remind me) BUT, it is in the Scrabble Dictionary.  And, according to Scrabble, a person can be sort of perky.   

I added up his score: 131 points.  I added it again … are you kidding me?  131 points.  I also lost my next turn for questioning the move and being proved wrong.

“Well, Grandma,” he smiled, “at least you improved your vocabulary.”

“You are so not using a dictionary for help ever again,” I mumbled as I earnestly scrutinized my next play.

“I didn’t use the dictionary,” he said quietly as he pulled seven letters from the black felt bag. 

His final score:  414.  Yes, 414!

Vocabulary be damned. (The halo is not remotely near me and likely never has been.)  Yes, the Susan guidelines have officially changed.  Monday’s game will no longer be “sort of” anything to do with me demurely correcting folks who ask about the score. 

Oh, I forgot to mention that the coffee shop also serves beer and wine … could become my new “regular” order.  Hmm, I’ll have to remember that: “regular” is a seven letter word.  I could place the “g” on a triple letter space and the "r" on a triple word square,  and receive the 50 point bonus. A perkish move, wouldn’t you say?

(A final note:  I have had to hit the ignore key six times when spell checking this article.)

Zebra Stripes on a Winter Morning

The birds that feed from my railing are the only color to contrast against this bleak, brittle cold day.  The 5 inch Black-capped Chickadees are first, followed by Blue Jays, Cardinals, Finches, Sparrows and Doves.  One of my favorites is the Red-bellied Woodpecker.  It is the female that I most often spot.  Although, only approximately 9 inches in size, she is a stunner to view in her zebra stripped cape that extends from her neck with a sassy white rump slightly exposed beneath.  From beak to the back of his neck, the male is crowned in scarlet, orange feathers.  She, on the other hand, is distinguished because she has a subtle, gray crown proceeding the red that covers the nape of her neck.  Both have a tan breast with a tinge of red on the underbelly.

I do not often view the male.  Does he say:  “Hey, Susan’s feeding.  Fly down there and get me a seed, will ya?”  Or, does she get the sunflower offering only for herself saying:  “Go get your own seed!”

Doesn’t matter to me why she visits.  Each morning I look for her because, to my tastes, she outshines the other winter birds.  She is smart too; takes her seed off the rail quickly and flies back to her tree.  “Quurrrr …. Quurrr; chimp, chimp”; no lollygagging around.  She does not trust humans and that is as it should be if you are a bird. 

I wonder at the nature of the tiny Chickadee that feed right from the palm.  Not the Red-bellied Woodpecker, nor the Blue Jay nor the Mourning Dove will eat from the human hand.  Well, at least not mine.