In The Aftermath, What Comes Next?

I was and I am devastated by the results of yesterday's election. It appears that a person who to me represents all that we, as humans, should avoid is the selection to lead the United States. In case you missed it, I am including this clip from Jon Stewart. I think there is a lot of truth there: pundits and opinion-writers will analyze what happened, and maybe there is some insight there. Mostly there is not.

For to me, this election came down to the unfairness of some of our votes counting more than others. Also, the embedded racism, misogyny, and fear of "otherness" is apparently insurmountable. A mixed race woman was sadly no match for celebrity and outrage.

For the past 12 hours, I've wondered what will *I* do to make the world a better place?

Clearly my voting opinion was not of the majority. I believe this election will ultimately decide whether we keep the United States as a Republic or not but my opinion does not matter. The votes have been counted, the final tally is being posted, and time moves forward whether or not I agree with the direction things seem to be headed. As we used to tell third graders, "you win or lose by how you choose." I am praying that the choice just made does not cause all of us to lose.

So back to the question: What will I do to make the world a better place?

A career educator, teaching has always been my passion. The tricky part for me has always been how to best use my knowledge and skill after leaving the elementary classroom. I am not egotistical enough to think what I did 20-plus years ago works in public education today. But recently I came across some astounding information: there is a waitlist for literacy volunteer tutors to work with ESOL students. How could I continue to sit this out?

And we have to fight and we have to continue to work day in and day out to create a better society.

Jon Stewart, The Daily Show, 05 November 2024

This is where I will start. I, too, will regroup and find opportunities to support those who need help, stick up for those who are denigrated, show empathy and find ways to become a better human. What will you do?

If you are interested in becoming a literacy volunteer, you do not need to be a teacher. Link here to learn more about Literacy Volunteers of Massachusetts.

Vote Like Your Great Grandmother Was A Suffragette

Spoiler alert: she was.

This is my maternal Great Grandmother, Minnie Palmer Flournoy who died about a decade before I was born. I know of her from the stories told by my maternal grandfather, her son, and my mother, her granddaughter.

Born around 1859 or 1860 to Missouri pioneer parents (Minnie later listed her birth year as 1867), Minnie Palmer married in the 1880s. Her husband, my great-grandfather Richard Flournoy, was tragically killed in a railroad accident when my grandfather was about a year old. As a woman, the railroad was less responsive to the needs of a young widow; Minnie had to get an attorney before the railroad offered any settlement for her loss.

And so, with little means of support, Minnie returned from Albany, New York, where she had been living to Missouri. She worked with her father in the family's hotel in Stansbery, Missouri, and eventually managed a Boarding House in St. Joseph, Missouri, while also working as a seamstress. A strong and resourceful woman in the early years of the 20th Century, Minnie would have been stymied by opportunities available to females.

It was unsurprising to learn Minnie Palmer Flournoy marched with suffragettes in Missouri before the 19th Amendment was ratified.

Whenever I head off to vote, I think of women from Minnie Flournoy's generation who had the courage of their convictions to be vociferous in supporting a woman's right to vote. History tells us this was not an easy battle, and oftentimes supporters were met with derision and violence. So, as a descendant of a woman who felt it important to ensure women's voting rights, it is hard to imagine sitting out this election. Or any election, honestly.

My Mom, Minnie Flournoy's only grandchild, also voted this year. Mom is 101. She needed to arrange for an absentee ballot, called her Town Clerk, and had that ballot mailed to her at her temporary residence. This would be an incredible 80th opportunity to vote, and the 20th time she voted for President.

So yesterday I voted early to ensure that nothing would prevent me from casting my ballot. I honor my great grandmother's courage in advocating for my own voting rights by getting off my butt and voting. No excuses. It has been this way for as long as I've been able to vote. I read, I listen, I make a decision. Rain or shine, easy or hard, I vote.

But I also thought of my granddaughter and what kind of world she might look forward to should the former president be elected to a second term.

For me, the choice this election was an easy one. The former president and his anointed vice president have made clear what they plan for our country should their campaign be successful. The vengeance in their rhetoric, the lies, the hate, the manipulation. This election should be a slam-dunk. Instead, it's a head scratching virtual tie. Have we all gone mad?

I hope the fever dream that has pitted a wannabe celebrity against a highly educated and thoughtful candidate breaks on November 6th with the election of Kamala Harris and Tim Walz. To do that, every Democrat will need to get to the polls. It should not matter if voting is convenient or not. Stand in line, and if it is long, wait. Be sure to get to your polling place in time to vote and know the rules for that. Participate in Early Voting if that's an option, mail in your absentee ballot so that it reaches your local election office by the deadline. If you are confronted with a voter registration issue, demand a provisional ballot. That is your right.

It is my fervent wish and greatest hope that the dreams of my great grandmother, who had the conviction to be part of the suffragettes, reach full circle and that I can at last address the President of the United States as "Madam President".

An Immigrant's Granddaughter: Honoring My Ancestry

On September 17, 1887, my paternal grandfather, Emanuele Concetto Puglisi, was born in Linguaglossa, Sicily. His life story is rather remarkable and serves as a reminder given the context of what is happening currently in this country.

Emanuel was the last born to his parents, Rosario and Antonina who had 13 children. In fact he was the second Emanuele in his family; an older brother also named Emanuele died in infancy. Life in a Sicilian town could not have been ideal in the early 1900s, but my Grandfather was educated to read and to write.

The history of Sicily during that time speaks to a place experiencing poverty. There were few opportunities and much upheaval. Sicily had recently been absorbed by Italy and while this was at the time thought to be a good thing, that turned out not to be the case.

And so, in 1905 Emanuel (name spelling changed at Ellis Island) came to the United States. He arrived at Ellis Island, as many immigrants in the early 1900s did, on a boat called Massilia, landing in New York in May 1905. He was not the first of his family to come to the United States seeking a new life. In his own words, Grandpa Manuel "landed in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania" and was met by his brother Salvatore. He had about $17, approximately $608 in today's money.

Eventually, my Grandfather found work in the Hudson Valley of New York, digging New York City's aqueduct system. He eventually became a storekeeper and then a chauffeur for the managers on the project. It was his interest in automobiles that eventually translated to a lifelong career in mechanics and cars. He owned a garage on Rhode Island Street in Buffalo and sold automobiles; when he was old enough, my Dad taught customers how to drive those cars.

The story of how Grandpa Manuel met my Grandmother, a second generation daughter from a Dutch-German family living in High Falls, New York, is lost; my Grandmother died in 1927 after a long illness and my Grandfather died in his 90s, nearly 40 years ago. The story of the courtship and eventual marriage between these two with pretty significant cultural differences must be a good one, but there is no one to ask anymore.

My Grandfather's immigrant story takes some twists and tragic turns, but what I keep in mind is how he persevered. He left his country of birth to come to a place as a dark-skinned foreigner speaking a language other than English. His cultural norms were different and yet, he made a life for himself economically, culturally, and socially. The prejudices he encountered can be found in the language used to identify one such as my Grandfather: "wops" (without papers), diegos, garlic-eaters. Even my Dad, native born and English speaking, recalled to us that he had been told his hiring at one company was "only temporary".

Which brings me back to present times. There is nothing new, unfortunately, in the ways in which the collective we treats those who are different, particularly immigrants. Still, those who knowingly spread lies and rumors about immigrant groups bring vilification and danger on real humans who must be fearing for their lives. They've come to the United States from places in our world having experienced dire economics or political horrors. Their belief is that the United States is a land of opportunity, a place where they can survive without fearing for safety for themselves or their family.

My Grandfather came to the United States seeking such opportunities in 1905, nearly 120 years ago, and because of his persistence, despite the setbacks, challenges, and prejudices he faced, I live a life of privilege.

I honor my Grandfather on what would have been his 137th birthday, and I try to remember that for me, the way to honor my own ancestry is to be open to those who seek a better life in current times.

A Wish for Our Rising First Grader

Pictured from Left to Right: Me, Z with her Pépère, and me again

Our granddaughter turns six in the next week and a half. It often seems as if we were meeting her for the first time just a few months ago, not getting ready to celebrate her 6th birthday. The awareness of the passage of time is a strange thing; it does warp my sense of how much of an interval has passed and often puts me in a state of denial. Z cannot possibly be turning 6, can she?

Even more mind-blowing is that shortly following Z’s birthday, she will begin a new school year. Our granddaughter will be a first grader. That I can recall my own time in First Grade doesn’t really provide much comfort!

We love watching Z grow into her own personality and make sense of her world. Thanks to her own parents’ love of reading and to their encouragement, she is already a reader and a writer. We are frequently amazed by her sense of experimentation; using cardboard and tape, she built and tested her own water filtering system last week. And just as a scientist might do, Z recorded her experiment in a notebook. I know I may have a slight prejudice here, but I always loved having curiosity-driven learners like Z in my own classrooms.

I was thinking about Z’s next step as a rising first grader this week and recalling my own introduction to “real” school learning. Back in the day when I first went to school, Kindergarten, which I did attend, was not academic at all. Kindergarten was where we learned to sit, and work or play with others, maybe write our name and tie shoes - early childhood learning was a very different experience from the expectations placed on Kindergarten and beyond today.

My first grade classroom started in the older of two elementary schools in Huron, Ohio, a small typically mid-western town in northwestern Ohio and on the shore of Lake Erie. I had attended the “new” elementary (now demolished) as a kindergarten student and so my assignment to the Ohio Street School was an unfamiliar experience. I didn’t know many - if any - of my classmates. The two first grade classrooms were in one of the wings of the abutting Junior High, which had been the High School in an earlier time. I suppose due to baby boomer overcrowding, the First Grade had to be housed in the Junior High building.

On the first day of school, we first graders were lined up in the hallway where the two Grade One teachers called the names of each of us for our class assignment. I remember the scuttlebutt being that the other teacher, the one I was not assigned to, was the popular pick of first grade most likely based on an "older" more experienced outlook from say a second grader. That was the person everyone wanted for a teacher. I remember when my name was called for Mrs. Keefe's class, I was very apprehensive and maybe even a bit disappointed. This wasn't going to go well.

That turned out to be untrue of course. Mrs. Keefe, a kind lady who as an astute 6-year-old I guessed was "ancient", was the teacher who turned me on to world of reading. Our literacy world revolved around Dick, Jane, and Sally (and Spot) and I loved it. And as most first grade children do, I loved my teacher. I wish I had a way to go back and tell Mrs. Keefe what a positive influence she was and continues to be long after I’ve left Ohio Street.

So as our granddaughter gets ready to go back to school,  my wish for Z is that she learns to love learning, however that looks for her in this upcoming year. I may have been disappointed in my class assignment on the first day of First Grade, but my teacher, Mrs. Keefe? After that first day of jitters, I loved her and the warmth of her classroom, something I can still pull up from memory today. That’s exactly the kind of connection and experience I hope Z will have, too.

Losing it in Montréal: Aging Travel

I heard a new term yesterday and I really wanted to write about that, but Adrien spoke to me and in that split-second, the word was wiped from my brain. As I get older, the act of immediately forgetting something I'd like to remember annoys me. It also terrifies me for obvious reasons. Trying to conjure up this word will probably haunt me until I finally come up with it. Or forget what I was trying to recall in the first place.

This aging brain is so full of "stuff". Sometimes that comes in handy if challenged to a game of Trivial Pursuit. Mainly, though, for me my brain is filled with stuff I don't, can't, or won't let go of... a past grievance, an important conversation that I flubbed, a social faux pas, some other awkward moment that I just seem to need to relive. Yes, everyone has these things happen, but my question is why does a brain - my brain - hold onto such things like a treasure? These are not the things I need to recall, especially when traveling!

My memory apparently cannot be counted upon to help out when it is needed for something practical, like navigating a City. While we've visited Montréal close to 20 times - and walked most of that - I'm amazed at every visit how much I've forgotten. Oh the big touristy placed are easily traversed, but the neighborhoods we've walked and wandered in seem totally new.

Sometimes the street names seem vaguely familiar (Prince Arthur, Avenue du Parc, Jean Talon), and sometimes the landmarks are too (St. Viateur Bagels!). The distances between places are totally skewed. What seemed like a 10 minute walk on a past visit, becomes an hour-plus endless walk in the sun this time. I know I'm slower moving, but not that slow.

On foot, in a car, on public transportation, it does not seem to matter. We end up lost and frantic to figure out how to get to our destination. When I was younger, those detours on foot were easier to manage, and even a little bit of adventuresome fun. Being an older visitor to a travel destination makes me long for a good pair of footwear and a transit pass.

And so it was for us this trip. We were lost even in the parts of the City we should have remembered. The stuff that fills my brain was of no help. A map on our phones would have helped if only our eyes were about 20 years younger.

For us, it wouldn't be travel without an opportunity to get hopelessly lost, and to walk blocks - maybe miles (kilometers?) out of our way. Always in the sun of course.

An Old Educator's Thoughts on Reading Instruction

After teaching nearly 30 years, I must admit I am totally confused by the debate over reading instruction. Maybe I am missing something? Balanced Literacy vs. Scientific Methods?

Over the last 10 years of my long career, I observed that whenever the a specific reading program was dictated, success, often defined by scores on standardized tests, was fleeting. When I worked in a school where the school leaders had worked in classrooms, and as admins continued to spend extended times actually doing the work of teaching, I thought I had achieved nirvana. The training and discussions were rich and deep. I felt supported to try new approaches when they made sense for my students.

We taught reading under the umbrella of using a balanced literacy approach.

BALANCED literacy includes effective instruction in five essential components: phonemic awareness, phonics, fluency, vocabulary, and comprehension. If reading instruction is effective, an essential descriptor for successful reading instruction, all of these five elements must be included in instruction. Those same elements are part of a scientifically based reading program, but the difference, I believe is that the scientifically based programs include ongoing research and are spelled out more sequentially. An example would be Orton Gillingham.

For those outside of education, to insinuate that phonics is not a part of a balanced reading program is a misconception. And the implication that schools should offer explicit phonics instruction as the only decoding strategy is likewise unrealistically narrow.

I’ve recently read disparaging comments that students are taught “decoding strategies” in place of phonics - which is in my experience, untrue - and uninformed. As an elementary teacher I found explicitly teaching students to use decoding strategies, including, but not limited to phonics, was a pedagogical decision that I continue to feel made sense. Teaching a variety of strategies to decode texts is essential to becoming a fluent reader with good comprehension skills. When I reflect on my own practice as an adult reader, considering what my brain does when I encounter an “unknown”, I use one or more of these skills regularly. For example, when reading a text and encountering a word or term from another language, I often skip and return or use context clues.

Why wouldn’t I teach students that these strategies are what accomplished readers use, too?

When a program is determined to be Scientifically based, there is on-going research that provides an analysis of effective pedagogy. The same five components of reading are included with the emphasis on continued research and evaluation how effective these strategies are. Scientifically based reading is NOT a specific program, although I’m sure there are textbook publishers that would like one to believe otherwise. As educators and educational researchers learn more about how to effectively teach reading, it will continue to change. Educators adapt reading instruction to reflect new understandings, and most importantly to address the needs of the students they work with.

And this is why, for me, teaching reading has always been somewhat of an art as well as a science. No matter what it is called, reading instruction needs to be effective and to include the essential aspects of learning to be literate

Lessons in Nature

There is a particular beauty in writing when it resonates.

I connected with this piece in today’s New York Times by Margaret Renkl, and through Ms. Renkl’s writing, I’m reminded of the power of observation of the natural world, of quietly reflecting on the order of the universe.

I’m reminded that the natural world has an uncanny ability to connect with humanity and our reactions to the surrounding chaos that oftentimes is part of the human condition.

Margaret Renkl suggests that within this moment of uncertainty, there might be an opportunity to observe and connect with our natural world, and I cannot disagree. The next months leading up to the presidential election will no doubt present many, many moments filled with anxiety. I am anxious about that and about the end result; much of my anxiety stems from the nonstop barrage from pollsters, opiners and interpreters of current events, and the press in general; those who seem to have the bully (and I mean that literally) pulpit.

I live on the banks of the Merrimack River here in northern Massachusetts. The river can, at times, churn powerfully, overspilling the banks and flooding, as it did a few short weeks ago. It is during those times that I am reminded to respect the river’s power to overwhelm. In those days, the Merrimack’s power to take and to destroy whatever is in its path dominates.

But when the danger passes and the waters subside, there is calmness, a near peaceful co-existence. There may be damages or cleaning up to do, and certainly repairs need to be made.

It feels to me as we are in the midst of churn now; it is an anxious period when, speaking for myself, I am unsure how much damage will be done and what we will need to recover. But as in nature, we will endure this storm and do what we must.

This is the way of the natural world.

Through my subscription to the New York Times, I've gifted this article in its original form. Taking a cue from the Squirrels in my Birdhouse (Margaret Renkl, New York Times)

When It's Your Turn

We are vaccinated and boosted. We wear our masks nearly every place we go.

And yet, this week I tested positive for COVID. Because of vulnerabilities of people in our circle, I mask except when outdoors or in the little-used stairwell of our building. We don’t eat indoors at restaurants and we haven’t even had an in-person Christmas celebration due to family members having one or another illness. So in my anecdotal and amateur opinion, it sure seems this latest variant of COVID is highly contagious. And not quite done wreaking havoc with some of us. 

I may have had plans for the week, but it turns out the week had it’s own plans for me.

Thanks to Paxlovid and the miracle of vaccinations, I have stayed out of serious medical jeopardy. The progression of this COVID variant is not a picnic and the Paxlovid side-effects are a bit of a ride. I'm pretty sure I'm experiencing almost all of them. However, it appears that I’m going to manage not being a hospitalization statistic or worse (knocks on wood, throws salt over the shoulder).

My appreciation for those making public health decisions in Massachusetts is deep - the Telehealth consult and resulting prescription for Paxlovid were all provided at no cost. A miracle antiviral at a miraculous price.

If those who study and analyze these things are correct, I expect there won’t be a straight line to recovery over the next week or so. There may be a rebound in my future that will throw things off-kilter.

But, I remain thankful that medical science and access to healthcare have intersected here in my home state and have made it possible to breathe and hope for better times ahead.

Our 2022 Holiday Greeting

It is not easy to allow oneself to be vulnerable, but this year for our holiday card, that is what I did.

Oftentimes, I find a photograph that was taken during the year, and we use that as the image on our holiday card. That isn’t that unusual. We enjoy seeing friends and family share some of the images of highlights from the year that is nearly past.

This year, however, I’ve been secretly revisiting watercolor painting. The technique fascinates me - and often alludes me - but I enjoy using the creative part of my brain. It’s been a very long time.

So it is with humbling vulnerability, I share our holiday greeting for 2022 - a handpainted watercolor that I think expresses the one hope both of us have for all - peace. Not just peace which is in short supply especially during the flurry of holiday preparation, but also peace in our lives and in the world in the coming year.

A Remembrance for Christmas

Our holiday decor in our down-sized condo is, well…. downsized. At first when we moved from our Westford house, we did not even attempt to put up a Christmas tree. I’d attribute that to inability to locate the misplaced box of holiday ornaments and lights. And also, because we had given away our (fake) tree as we moved and downsized.

The second year of our more minimalist life, we did buy a (real) table-sized tree. That reminds me of our first Christmas together, now 45 years ago. That first Christmas, a week after our wedding and at the start of Adrien’s semester break from Berklee, we bought a remarkably short tree at Quincy Market, a short and cold walk to our apartment on Myrtle Street in Boston. Being both newlyweds and short on cash, we plunked the tree down in a mop bucket filled with kitty litter. Good times.

When COVID isolated us in 2020, we - meaning I - decided to once again put up a Christmas tree. This is sometimes a challenge for someone like me who is admittedly compulsively neat about home and hearth. Although I am routinely mocked for wanting to take the tree down on New Year’s Day instead of Little Christmas, putting up our tree on the third Sunday of Advent, no earlier and definitely not later, floods me with memories of Christmas seasons in the past.

Many of the ornaments on the tree are from former students and can be traced back to my years as a preschool aid. A number of ornaments are gifts from friends and colleagues. Some of the most cherished are ones made by our son when he was young, and now a few created by our granddaughter have been added to our collection of keepsakes.

I also have kept an irregular collection of ornaments from year to year as souvenirs of travel. How heartwarming that is to unwrap each ornament as the tree is trimmed and be reminded of the blessings of friendships and the cherished students I have had to pleasure of teaching!

And so during this week of Christmas and preparations, I offer to you all a season filled with the memories of friendships and the people who filled your life - and heart - with joy.

Happy Christmas!

Thoughts on Election Eve

There is no denying that the stakes are high in the mid-term election. We’ve voted (thank you Massachusetts for Early and Mail-in options). Now we await the results of our country’s elections and anticipate with a great deal of anxiety and angst how the results will impact us all in the coming days and months.

Despite attempts by pundits and publications, I don’t believe there is a reliable predictability to the outcome of the midterm elections. Polling? I’m a Boomer and don’t answer phone calls from people I don’t have in my contact list. How are pollsters getting the samples on which they base their conclusions?

The bias in news reporting found on the web is well documented. I’ve stopped reading the click-bait style “reports” and have started to ignore even national news sources. It’s been increasingly difficult to locate reliable sources for topics for which I, a voter, need to find information.

The political atmosphere and deteriorating discourse currently rampant in the United States feels overwhelming. It used to be one could politely disagree with another. So we wonder: are things worse than ever in the United States? Is this country on such a divisive path that there can be no discussion, no compromise?

As a une femme d’un certaine âge, I wonder, is this just a perception that comes with, well, reaching a certain age. I wonder if I’ve turned into a grumpy old (wo)man incapable of change, or is this period of our history really among the most dispiriting? Having been a young adult during the 1960s and 1970s , I recognize what appear as seismic shifts in society. This feels different. And not in a good way.

So often in my life I’ve wished I could ask my parents and grandparents about some point in history that they experienced. We are fortunate that my Mother - born in 1923 and age 99 - is still with us. So this morning we asked her for a little historical perspective

Is life in the current times really deteriorated (politics, discourse, etc.) or is it we who have changed (senior citizens perspective)? You’ve lived through a lot of history - wondering about your take on these times?

Her reply came in two parts; this was the first

The short answer is yes. But certainly social media has become a way to express our thoughts and insult those with opposing beliefs with no consequences. Talk radio and talk TV also are culpable. Lying does not seem to matter any longer--It is probably true that politicians always lied, but it has become so blatant that there is no attempt to tell the truth. I am disheartened. I will vote and hope there are enough others like me who will put aside personal issues like inflation and save our democracy. Not optimistic though. And that makes me sad for Zoe and my grandchildren.

Later this morning she offered these

Remembering the McCarthy hearings in 1954 Many people especially in the arts were accused of being traitors to our country. It was a lawyer from Boston, Joseph Welch who called Joe Mccarthy out on his lies and misinformation. (Is it karma that we now have Kevin McCarthy who can lie without shame?) Remembering Watergate and when Sen. Howard Baker said about Nixon "What did he know and when did he know it?" He was a member of Nixon's own party. That is what we need--people of integrity to face those with power. I think of only two today--Liz Cheney and Adam Kisinger--who are willing to do that. And willing to sacrifice their careers.

I will cast my vote tomorrow and hope things do not go too bad and integrity wins.

And that is what I hope will be the outcome of this midterm election. That by casting ballots, despite what could be some ugly challenges to voters, integrity will win.

Thoughts from an immigrant's granddaughter

I’m thinking about and remembering my paternal grandfather today, not only because his birthday is coming soon, but also in light of the news last night.

The gentleman on the right is my Grandfather, Emanuel Puglisi, in 1907. When my Grandpa Manuel gave me this image he wrote the date, 1907 at the top and penciled in an X over the unknown gentleman on the left so I wouldn’t mistake who I was related to. That itself makes me smile; as if I would miss the family resemblance.

In 1903, my Grandfather arrived in the United States, having traveled from Sicily. He was, as one can imagine, part of the wave of immigrants from Europe and beyond arriving in the United States and processed at Ellis Island. He had $17 when he arrived. I’ve often wondered what prompted him to leave his family and home in Linguaglossa, Sicily; as younger generations oftentimes do, I didn’t get around to asking him to tell me about that. However, a quick reading of the history of Italy and Sicily during that timeframe show a country in economic and political upheaval. Like many who come to this country, he came for better opportunities, advantages that we, his progeny, have had plenty of.

I imagine that arriving in the United States was challenging. To my knowledge, my Grandpa Manuel was not yet literate in the English language. His outward appearance would be more ruddy, and he had different customs. He needed a job of course. I do know that around the time of this photograph, my Grandfather had relocated to Rosendale, NY to work on the New York City aquaducts, and that eventually, his adeptness with things mechanical, allowed him to become a chauffeur. He later turned his talent with automobiles into his own businesses in Buffalo, New York.

Students of history during the great waves of immigration know that not everyone was accepted or welcomed. Italians and Sicilians might be referred to derogatorially as WOPS (without papers) or garlic-eaters. Even my father, a first generation citizen of the US, was told his position at a mill in Buffalo could only be considered temporary as he was Italian. French Canadian, German, Irish; many other ethnicities were on the receiving end of similar treatment.

And this brings me to the news from Martha’s Vineyard. (The link is to a gifted article in the September 15, 2022 New York Times.)

My hometown of Lowell has been accepting of refugees and immigrants since it’s beginnings. Human nature being what it is, every influx renews the struggle to overcome prejudices, and those who have lived in this city much longer than I can speak to how that has gone historically. Studying history brings the realization that there are and have always been resentments and unfair treatment of those newly arrived. That doesn’t make it right, but does recognize the existence of resistance to changes and differences brought by new ethnicities. The year-round residents of Martha’s Vineyard are trying to make right a horrible joke and a publicity stunt embraced by the governor of another state. I cannot comprehend the kind of person who uses traumatized human beings as a prop in a “joke”?

Emma Lazarus’ inscription on the Statue of Liberty states

““Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!””

— Emma Lazarus in The New Collossus

Had my Grandfather been attempting to escape political and economic turmoil in 2022 instead of 1903, would he have been able to do so? Or are these sentiments no longer part of our country’s moral fiber?

Transitions

Transitions. I think for most of humanity those changes, whether they are subtle or unmistakeable, are difficult. We humans like predictability, we like the comfort of knowing.

As a parent, many of the transitional memories seared into my mind were times when our son was in school. There were others, of course, but those changes that came with sending my child to school - new beginnings, new grades, new schools, new independence - challenged me emotionally. They meant letting go. It meant trusting that whatever influences we had over our child’s development were enough to overcome life’s trials.

Enough what? Self-confidence. Self-assurance. Perseverance. Emotional control. Empathy. Humor. That list could be endless. As parents, and as teachers, we all want the best for our children and students. And we all worry that we haven’t done enough to ensure that the best is attainable; at least I did (and do). My memory of my son’s first drop off at his pre-K is of driving away in tears. That played out again and again throughout each year of letting go, even when we dropped him off at university.

I feel like this is the universality of parenthood. Nearly every parent I encountered in 30 years of teaching wanted their student to be and do better in school and to have a learning experience that was positive and inspiring. Those wishes crossed socio-economic boundaries, language and cultural divides, and were not exclusive to those who have the time and financial means. It is the undisputed emotion of parenthood: have I prepared my child enough.

Of course, the most prevalent transition in the Fall is about schooling. Whether a child is beginning in a new school setting, a new building, or a new experience as a college student, the Fall, and especially September is filled with the discomfort of transitions.

That uncomfortable dissonance can also apply to educators. I speak from experience and with some authority on that topic.

Parents (and grandparents) cannot help but remember some of the tougher challenges that can happen in school: falling out with a friend, teasing, feeling left out, difficulty learning. While we wish we could protect our child, the best we can hope for is that we’ve prepared them to respond positively. It’s that letting go and trusting transition that is the toughest, isn’t it?

Today, though, I’m thinking of the transitions our granddaughter - and her parents - are making. It is the first day of K1 (preschool) in Boston and our precious little one will be setting off on her own education journey. The educator in me recognizes that there will be challenges ahead, but her parents have prepared her well - she’s funny, she’s independent, and curious. My deepest wish for her is that those qualities always stay with her. And that she does not find too many twists and bends in the road to learning.

Transitions are hard and messy and unavoidable. It is the human condition of growing; especially in September.

Lessons in Baking

I am a baker. Bread making has been an activity I have done throughout most of my adult life; maybe it is in my blood as two of my great grandfathers were professional bakers.

I started making sweet doughs when I was still in high school. Back then, yeast came in small envelopes and the sweet dough that I would mix was one requiring overnight refrigeration. Now I buy yeast in bulk and, depending on the type of bread I’m working on, the finished product is out of the oven and on a cooling rack in about three hours, sometimes longer.

As a young married woman, my mother-in-law gifted me a bread mixing bucket, a tool she would use each week to bake her own bread for the family. Each Saturday, I would clamp the bucket onto a kitchen chair, add the flour, sugar, salt, yeast and water, and turn out 4 loves of bread. My go-to recipe came from Edward Espe Brown’s Tassajara Bread Book and consumed an entire day. But oh, when the loaves were finally out of the oven - usually around dinner time - the aroma was intoxicating. Usually we found some excuse to eat a significant portion of one of the warm loaves.

Our lives, however, got busy. Being an educator meant I had less time to spend pursuing baking; however, I did occasionally bake from scratch, and at one point used an electric bread maker. Once in a while I’d get myself together enough to start Jim Lahey’s No Knead Bread Recipe. Mainly our lives were hectic, and we bought bread.

Flash forward to 2020 when COVID made in-person food shopping difficult and supplies of items chaotic. Isolation forced me to rethink how and what we were buying for groceries. Sometimes we could buy store bread; sometimes, we could not. I thought that if I could find flour and other basic elements, I could bake bread. I wasn’t alone in that idea, however. So many people were perfecting sourdough bread recipes that even flour was in short supply.

But a return to bread-baking is what I was able to do, and I continue to bake bread several times each week even now. The bread style, the type of bread may change slightly, but the basic ingredients - yeast, sugar, salt, butter and flour - are always constant. As is the time and patience needed.

Feeling dough beneath my palms is gratifying, and I have realized, often through experience, that there are no shortcuts when it comes to bread-making. The dough must be kneaded until it tells you it is the right elasticity. The dough needs to rise, twice, allowing yeast to do its magic. Shortchanging the time required for a decent rise only makes for a less-than-stellar loaf. The dough has to bake fully, reaching a good internal temperature, something I gauge by thumping the bottom of the loaf.

All the steps take the time they need; they cannot be hurried.

The lessons of breadmaking are also reflected in our precautions in avoiding COVID. We’ve had to exercise patience and caution while we waited, first for our own vaccinations, and then for vaccine protection to be offered to our young granddaughter. To me, there is an undeniable connection between the patience I’ve been practicing with bread-making and the slow and deliberate release of COVID precautions.

Likely there are those around me who may find this slow, cautious, approach strange and even off-putting. But the lesson of bread making has, over time, taught me that nothing is gained by rushing.

In Remembrance of Fathers' Day: Dad Lessons

Yesterday, being Fathers’ Day, there were lots of social media posts about Dads. Those of us who are and were fortunate in having great Dads in our lives show a little extra appreciation when Fathers’ Day comes around. I’m no different in this sentiment; just a day late.

My Dad has been gone from us for 18 years now, and there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t remember some influence or impact that he had on my life. I remember how easily he could repair just about anything. I’m sure that oftentimes I exasperated him. I know that my propensity toward fender-benders was not always looked upon fondly.

Remembering my Dad is bittersweet, especially on a day like Fathers’ Day. I arrived in the world when he was already 33 years old which had to have disordered his orderly world. At the time, he owned a boat and had a shiny car. He also owned a television set which was unusual for those times. My arrival meant giving up on the boat and owning a practical family car. For years the rope ladder from his boat hung in our garage, a reminder of what his pre-kid days must have been like. As far as shiny new cars, my sisters and I were prone to motion sickness, so he quickly became disabused of any fanciful thoughts of a spiffy (or immaculate) automobile.

With four of us, the need for careful budgeting and money management was strong. I can still picture my Dad at the dining room table every Sunday night writing checks for household expenses. His checkbook, unlike mine, was precisely added to - and subtracted from - so that when the bank statement arrived it could be quickly balanced. Sadly, I never had the patience for checkbook precision and that lesson never was passed on to me.

Two of the most repeated lessons, or admonishments, my Dad issued were directed toward the four of us. Obviously. I imagine other kids may have had experience with the first lesson which was always addressed in question form:

“Do you think I own the electric company?”

Like lots of kids, the rhetorical nature of this question went unappreciated. Frankly I had no interest in how electricity got into the house as long as the television worked. As a corollary, some members of our family (i.e. me), somehow conflated flipping a light switch ON or OFF with a penny surcharge from said Electric Company. As a kid, this transaction never made sense to me. Did the electric company only charge a penny to turn the switch ON? Or was there a penny charged for ON and another penny for OFF? Because in that case, leaving the switch ON meant money was being saved. You see my logic here, right?

As kid consumers, we were regularly cautioned that

“money doesn’t grow on trees.”

Now I can say that throughout my adult life, I developed a strong work ethic. Perhaps the unavailability of money trees was the reason for that. However, one recent afternoon as I was browsing in our local garden center for some greenery, I discovered that money does indeed grown on trees, or at least on the achira aquatica or Money Tree plant. Price notwithstanding, I knew I needed to have that plant. Sorry Dad. Couldn’t resist that one.

It is funny what we remember of our Dads’ life lessons. I really admired and respected my Dad and wish he were still with us to share life’s little and big adventures. He would have enjoyed watching his grandchildren become adults and some of them become great dads too.

So Happy Fathers’ Day Dad. Thanks for putting up with me.

Sunday, May 15, 2022

The news from Buffalo was a gut punch. I have a special connection to Buffalo. I was born there as were both of my parents.

The head aches from trying to comprehend such mass shootings. So much of our culture seems hell-bent on fomenting hatred that violence and hate is allowed to permeate every single aspect of daily life. It’s not just the outrageous and hateful spew. There just seems to be no limit, no bottom to hate-speech, intolerance, or making an excuse for violent and racially motivated hateful behavior.

But while the deep sadness and grief that follows an abhorrent shooting such as the one that has occurred in Buffalo, that is not the only thought on my mind on this Sunday evening. I was reminded by the beautiful Nelba Márquez-Greene today that educators in Buffalo New York need and deserve our prayers.

Sunday evenings, as every educator knows, are spent preparing for the week ahead. What can educators in Buffalo, New York, be preparing for after Saturday’s murderous act? How will they be able to put aside their own feelings and grief to help those students who need answers and comfort?

In education, there are times that challenge a teacher’s personal strength or ability to help children make sense of their world. I was fortunate that the times I needed to explain the inexplicable for my students were few: Newtown, Challenger, 911, the death of a schoolmate due to illness, two who tragically died accidentally. Those moments, however, are burned in my mind. Oftentimes I still replay in my head what I could have done or said differently, how I might have been more supportive.

I can only begin to image how teachers across Buffalo must feel tonight. Tomorrow, they will be called upon to respond to their students’ needs and questions about a senseless act that defies explanation. May they find the strength and courage they need to support their students.

May 3, 2022

Even though not a giant surprise, yesterday’s leak from SCOTUS was depressing…. really depressing for this boomer. Now, nearly 50 years after the Roe v. Wade, a decision purported to be “settled law” by at least one Supreme Court justice-to-be during confirmation hearings, it seems that the right of an individual to make reproductive choices might not be so settled after all.

As an undergraduate in 1973 when Roe v. Wade was decided, I do remember what the “before times” were like. Even at my small state college in New Hampshire there were whispers of young women, who for very personal reasons, sought an abortion. Frequently, such a decision could have horrific ramifications. With the news of SCOTUS’s potential reversal of Roe v. Wade, women from my generation chillingly have been sharing their stories. As painful and difficult as those stories are, reliving them is unfortunately necessary so that those who did not live through those nightmarish times can get a sense of what may be lost here.

I believe every woman should have the right to make reproductive health, or any other personal health impacted decision, in private and in consultation with her health-care provider. I don’t believe that intolerant politicians’ or judges’ personal philosophies have any business in such personal decisions. While I may want to believe an abortion would not have been my personal choice, that is only conjecture on my part. I was never tested by becoming pregnant as a result of rape or incest. I’ve never had to make a choice about continuing a pregnancy when there was a life-or-death circumstance like an ectopic or fallopian tube pregnancy. How would I, or you, or anyone really, know how they would respond?

In my opinion, whether or not one agrees with the idea of abortion is really not the point. The substance of this discussion should be focused on a woman’s ability to make a very personal decision about her own reproductive health, about access to safe reproductive health services with a health care provider, and consultation without fear of stigmatization or any government interference.

Whatever SCOTUS ultimately determines, we, as a society, cannot allow the ability to choose to be taken from any woman. It should never matter whether a woman is wealthy or poor, and access to reproductive health should never be determined along racial lines.

The right to decide one’s reproductive health is both a moral and physical determination that belongs with the individual. That was decided upon nearly 50 years ago.

Fired for an "Inappropriate" Book?

I’m retired from teaching now, but that doesn’t mean I’ve checked out entirely. Yes, I know teaching has changed a lot since I left my day job, but there are some things going on in education that this old-timer sees as sheer nonsense.

Case in point is this article from the New York Times: An Educator Read ‘I Need A New Butt. Then He Was Fired’ (March 11, 2022). Read it and tell me you aren’t shaking your head in disbelief.

Apparently Dawn McMillan’s book I Need a New Butt was just too risque for a Zoom read-aloud in a second grade classroom by Assistant Principal Toby Price. Why? Because the story, written for 6- to 10-year-olds, referenced farting, butt sizes, and shapes. These things apparently violate the standards of conduct section of the Mississippi Educator Code of Ethics so the Superintendent of Hinds County Schools in Mississippi first put Mr. Price on administrative leave and then terminated him.

Having been a second grade teacher for half of my 30-year teaching career, I really am struggling to relate to a school superintendent who does not know butts and farting - most bodily functions really - are of prime interest to second graders. And, as a teacher, if reading a silly and nonsensical story that appeals to the humor of 7- or 8-year-old kids hooks them into reading, I would read I Need A New Butt to my students too. Sorry not sorry.

One of my students’ favorite read aloud stories was David Shannon’s No David, a Caldecott Honor Book and ALA Notable Children’s Book. In this relatable story, the main character runs down the street sans pants (Come back here David!) and at one point picks his nose (Stop that this instant!). What happened after we read that story together? After hearing about David’s antics, even my most reluctant readers would jockey for No David or others written by David Shannon. Enticing children to reading and becoming interested in literacy - isn’t that actually the point?

It certainly seems that there has been a disconnect between the District leaders in Hinds County, MS and the children in the school system. Hopefully this kind of insane second-guessing of books “appropriate” for read-alouds isn’t all that wide-spread.

Those silly, hilarious moments are, to me, what helps students connect to learning. Learning is often challenging, but there is no reason it cannot be fun. As Mr. Price, who is a parent as well as an educator says:

“We have a lot of reluctant readers,” he said. “I am a firm believer that reluctant readers need the silly, funny books to hook them in.”

Exactly.

Everything Is As It Should Be

Tomorrow marks the end of another decade for me. That realization has triggered a bit of reflection, maybe more so than in other years. My patience is wearing thin and I am utterly exasperated with delaying plans we made in the “before times”. Sometimes that emotion feels very disconcerting.

It is with knowledge and gratitude that I mark the beginning of an eighth decade. There is recognition and acknowledgement of the gifts and privileges afforded to me throughout my life. I’ve experienced a purposeful existence. There have been so many exceptional times throughout this life for which I am grateful.

But just to keep things real, there have been some painful experiences too. And still, everything is as it should be.

Having failed at careers - bookkeeper, business manager, retail sales - was difficult to accept for this over compensating over achiever. However, I am accepting of my contribution to the world of business: I gave up on that MBA dream to get a teaching degree.

Yet even though each of those failures was a lesson in humility, I did learn and adapt and eventually found my passion again. To me, that is the human condition: to make mistakes, oftentimes colossal ones, and to learn from those missteps, and to find new paths.

I discovered through those early failures, that my original instinct - becoming an elementary teacher had been what I wanted to pursue since second grade - was what I really wanted. After the software start up I worked for failed, I happened onto a position as a preschool assistant. The preschool director then encouraged me to go back to get an education license, which of course, I did.

But, as I reflect on all of this and wonder what the next decade might be like, I feel comfortable in the knowledge that every stop on my life’s pathway, every stumble and misstep, has led me to this place in life. There are so many possibilities and so little time. What gives me comfort is the knowledge:

Everything is as it should be.

Decking the Halls with Memories

This year, dubbed COVID Christmas II, we put up a Christmas tree as an act of hope that in the coming year we will be better able to pick up the pieces of our pre-pandemic life and begin again to find a renewed, but perhaps more cautious, sense of “normal”.

I enjoy the beauty of Christmas lights on greens, and as it does for many, decorating the tree brings on memories of past Christmases. I am among the fortunate for whom those memories are pleasant and plentiful.

I thought this year about my Dad, who seemed to be at the center of tree-decorating when I was a child. My family’s tree, always a real one, was a short-needled beauty, sometimes oddly shaped, but that was of no concern. We could always face the mis-shaped side to the wall where no one would notice.

Dad’s first task was always stringing lights on the tree. As with most state-of-the-art tree lights in the 50s and 60s, this could be a very long process. First, the lights had to be removed from their storage box which was usually the original box the lights came in when purchased. Next the string was unwound which was not a problem in our house as my Dad made an art form of winding and unwinding cords. Finally the string was laid out on the floor and plugged into an outlet. If the string lit successfully, my Dad could start winding it carefully over the tree branches using the metal clips that were part of each light’s socket. However, sometimes the whole string wouldn’t light. Oh series circuitry, I miss your challenge. Thus would begin the hunt for the bulb culprit as it only took one burned out or loose bulb to render the whole string dark.

In our house, the bulbs were always multi-colored. Providing that all the strings would light, after the lights had been installed on the tree, came the artistic portion of holiday tree trimming: moving the bulbs around the string so that no two adjacent bulbs were the same color. This of course required consultation between the two adults in the family, leaving the under-aged and highly excited children to impatiently await permission to finally start hanging ornaments (smaller sizes at the top progressing to larger ornaments at the bottom). Sometimes those same children/I would become bored with this artistic process and give up to seek out another activity.

Eventually the collection of ornaments, mostly glass and a few imperfect, but treasured child-created (did anyone else make a glittery metal (sharp/dangerous) “ornament” from the top of a frozen OJ can?), ornaments made it onto the tree. The finishing touch was to hang tinsel, those silvery non-environmentally friendly strips of metal-coated material. (Read the history of tinsel here).

There were rules for that. Each strand had to be hung just so. No throwing of clumps, mostly hanging down (a 1:3 ratio was best), placed on the edge of the branches. Much to Dad’s dismay, mostly what we did was throw a clump here and there which caused him to have to rehang each strand according to the rules for accepted application. With four of us, there was always at least one non-compliant tinsel applicator.

This year as I trimmed our tree with white, LED mini lights and no tinsel, those childhood memories were close to the surface. For me, this holiday season has always been about the precious memories formed by my past. With gratitude for all gifts of memories - and for parallel circuitry - I’ve been given throughout the years, I am humbled. Though we may celebrate different special days and in different ways, I wish you a most joyous holiday season.