Now Booking 2017 Haven Writing Retreats! Do you have a teacher you would like to sponsor, or ARE you a teacher who needs to fill up YOUR cup? Haven has worked with many educators, and I have seen it be the very thing that has them return to their students with renewed spirit, conviction, and useful tools of inspiration.
What is your definition of the “Teaching Spirit,” and how does a person know if she/he has one? You are ready to sacrifice a higher paying career for one that truly may make a difference in the world.
How did you become a teacher? (DNA, default, other?) It must be DNA. I have two uncles and three aunts who are teachers. My father followed a business career, but I’m a throwback! I always wanted to be a teacher- even when I was little.
What got you out of bed on the hard school mornings? (Coffee? Gerunds? That one kid in the back row?) Duty!
Which battles were/are worth fighting for? (Would love to hear some trench stories, esp if you’re retired and won’t get in trouble!) I think that in today’s world it is important to help students stay grounded and focused on values. Faced with ubiquitous social media sway, it is easy for them to fall prey to materialistic and/or cruel outlooks that influence their behavior. Honesty, kindness, and generosity never go out of style, but it takes some targeted work to maintain that perspective.
What was the funniest thing that happened in your classroom? (Feel free to rip on us. It’s the least we can do. Fictional names, please.) One time, I had the students draw monsters that they later had to describe in Spanish for their classmates. One little boy drew something that looked like a monster octopus. In his description, he said that it had tentacles coming out of his head and tentacles coming out of his body and six tentacles for legs….except he had the word for testicles! Heh! The kids had no idea!
If you could give one piece of advice to parents of your students, what would it be? (Go ahead. Offend us. We really need to know.) Let your children make mistakes. Don’t get involved in social problems. Offer your child some advice, but step back. Remind them always to be kind and inclusive, no matter what.
What were some of your “tricks” to connect with students? (My personal favorite was: Weekly ice cream truck– 3rd grade. Thanks, Mrs. Dino. 7th grade Math Hump Day cake was a close second. Thanks, Mr. Virden.) Food. It works. They love games, too. And stories!!
Why do people say that teaching is one of the hardest professions? (Paint us a portrait, if you’d like. Day in the life…) Up at 6:00, at work by 7:15. Teaching, hall duty, study hall, recess duty, lunch duty, coaching after school, clubs, service projects, 400 emails to answer….home around 6:00. Make dinner, eat, grade papers until around 10:00. Watch the news so that you are prepared to be a teacher the next day!
In your opinion, is college all that it’s cracked up to be? Ditto an Ivy League education? Ditto private schooling? Private schools are as varied as public schools- some excellent, some not much better than a good public school. The good ones can provide extra personal attention to the individual needs of each child. That attention and care can usher a student to more fully explore and achieve his/her potential.
College is the right place for academically minded and socially concerned students. I do not think that every student should feel that college is the only route to a successful career- especially if he/she is passionate about a specific field- gaming, coding, arts, trades, etc.
What is a moment in your teaching career that makes you especially proud? (BOAST, PLEASE! You deserve it! Or…full disclosure. ie: The day I nailed Suzy in the face with an eraser for picking on Matilda.) Occasionally a former student sits down and writes a thank you letter. Getting one of those makes every day worthwhile!
What can teachers do to prevent burn out? (ahem go on a Haven Writing Retreat in Montana ahem) Set realistic goals. Don’t overreach and try to be super-teacher. Take one challenge at a time and strive for patience and good humor.
Any advice to law makers and administrators that you feel might change our public school systems for the better? (Here’s the soap box…) All of society’s challenges and solutions begin with families and schools. Plain and simple. Start there.
What is/was your dream take-away for your students? As a teacher of world languages, I hope to open a door through which my students can more authentically explore the history and cultures of other peoples, global issues, and our responsibilities as Americans. We become not only better guests in other countries, but better citizens of our own. The path of this knowledge can lead to professional and personal opportunities that are not as readily available to monolinguistic people- opportunities that may begin with friendships, jobs and travel, but ones that also have the potential to telescope toward international relations, human rights and peace.
Will books ever die? I hope not!!! Please don’t let them!
***There’ll be a pop quiz directly following this, FYI. Sharpen your #2 pencil. And spit out your gum.
WE LOVE YOU AND ARE SO GRATEFUL FOR ALL THAT YOU DO/DID FOR US AND OUR CHILDREN!
Questions and Answers for Teachers.
What is your definition of the “Teaching Spirit,” and how does a person know if she or he has one?
My hunch is that answers to this question will be like fingerprints, like the unique patterns on whales’ flukes. I think you have a teaching spirit if you start teaching and find that you like it. Plenty of people start teaching and leave after a year or two, but some of them may have turned into excellent teachers had they stayed in the work. There are many factors that go into loving or liking teaching besides your subject and students. You have colleagues, managers (going by names such as the dean and the principal or headmaster), and the rules and values of the institution where you work. A problem in any of those areas can drown a teaching spirit. I loved my subject, students, and colleagues (your best teachers at that school, Laura, were also my best teachers), but as strict as I might have seemed at times (maybe you all saw through that), I could not stay on board with the conservative ethos that existed in many boarding schools in that era. I did not think it was fair or caring for some students. I fought it and I left.
I wanted to be a teacher when I was in sixth grade because my English teacher assigned a couple of amazing novels and opened up the worlds in poems as if they were flowers with hundreds of petals blooming slowly under a warm sun. I just wanted to be able to do what she did—understand novels, stories, and poems. Of course I discovered that being serious and enthusiastic in a field did not mean I could “make” another person feel the same way. And when we got right down to the purpose of teaching and learning English in high school, what was more important than literature was strong, clear writing. I was 22 years old when I started teaching high school students, and even though I often miss it 30 years after leaving it to work in publishing, I know I wouldn’t have the nerve to try again. I would no longer dare to hope that I could teach someone who doesn’t write with even a tiny bit of ease or who sees no point in acquiring some fundamental skills. Maybe that’s the biggest problem—conveying to a student that there is some long term relevance to them about what you trying to teach.
May I please have an extension? I have some good battle stories: What it felt like when the faculty met to discuss a wonderful boy’s discipline record and whether his most recent infraction merited expulsion, and I was the only one to raise a hand saying no; Why I left . . . .
I need an extension for this question, too. You told me you would send a few questions, but you’ve sent term paper assignments. Did you know that? For now I will only say that the funniest things that happened with you guys in and outside of the classroom do not require any “ripping” on you—just joy and gratitude for the warmth and laughter the memories bring.
Please, please, please try to realistically understand and love your child’s strengths as a wonderful person instead of crushing him or her with totally unrealistic demands about what college you want him or her to get in to.
May I contort and distort this question in order to retort and report, Laura? My tricks were all to avoid connecting with my students. I used pop quizzes, extra laps around the field . . . .
Again I want more time to answer, but here’s my short answer that applies to teaching in a boarding and day school: Responsibility and discipline. Teachers are responsible for the intellectual, physical, and emotional safety of many teenage human beings. It’s a huge responsibility, and there are school rules to help ensure that safety. Violating the rules can have serious consequences such as suspension and expulsion.
In your opinion, is college all that it’s cracked up to be? Ditto an Ivy League education? Ditto private schooling?
I wouldn’t want those things to go away, but I’ve long thought that a person who really wants to learn is going to learn at any institution he or she goes to. It’s the student and not the school that makes the biggest difference although graduating from a school with a widely respected name can be an advantage.
The people who have taught me what I love and how to learn more about those things, who helped me discover the things that give my life meaning are people who did not go to college or end up getting a degree.
Do you believe in the liberal arts education? If so, why? If not, why?
What is/was your dream take-away for your students?
Maybe in a long time, there will be few paper books. In a long time.
What will you/do you miss about teaching?
My replies are in no particular order and are not answers to specific questions. Rather I am writing thoughts encouraged by your questions.
Perhaps most important, I was a weak student and struggled with school. I wanted to make it fun to be in a classroom: A place where hard work was expected but also a place students wanted to come back to. So if there was a “Teaching Spirit” for me it was that I wanted kids to enjoy learning through doing. I remember there being plenty of nights when I’d find myself awake on the edge of my bed pretending to be teaching a class. Part of the “Spirit” was to begin the year by teaching, maybe even telling, and ending the year as a facilitator, as a Watcher of students learning.
To achieve some of this we introduced lots of ways of learning. We often had a “Social Studies Week,” listened to Amahl and the Night Visitors around Christmas, did a lot of group work focused on team play, map making, Word Games if there was extra time, singing, play reading, biography impersonations, and on we went.
Teaching was a joy, but it was hard. I had my students do lots of writing, but that meant hours of corrections and comments. If a student did poorly on a paper or test they could always retake it to improve. And effort really mattered. That meant lots of time to edit and support. There were long days. I remember right after I retired walking thorough the down town area around 11:00 AM. I couldn’t understand what all the adults were doing out and about. As a teacher there was no down time, and I’d feel guilty ducking out to get a haircut.
I attended three summers worth of a great course of using the computer in the classroom put on by Summer Corps. I remember my right hand being so sore as I learned to use a mouse. Am I a supporter of Teacher Professional Development? YES. You should try something like a Writing Retreat. They say the Montana air and beauty will get your writing juices flowing.
I didn’t have any favorite students. I see many of them around town as they have moved back. I see some during the summer. And I see some in faint pictures wearing T-shirts and singing Terrific songs, a 50s a capella group I led with students for years.
I was fortunate to teach in a school that had a tradition of learning and expectations of excellence. We also had a terrific group of parents who supported their children but also the teachers. For parents I encourage you to learn about your child’s strengths and weaknesses, accept and support both, hug them all the time and love them madly.
THANK YOU TO ALL THREE OF YOU for indulging my questions, and for giving them your heart language and wisdom. You inspire me. Please consider reaching out to your teachers and shining a light on them!
For those of you who have been submitting to and following this “Long Ago: Community” writing series/contest…I want to thank you. Your supportive comments and vulnerable stories represent the staples of true community: support, bravery, creativity, generosity, and the willingness to share.
As I enter into the next part of my solo writing retreat to work on my novel, it brings me great joy to know that you all are here, holding These Here Hills in my absence. My Haven Writing Retreat season will soon begin, and I have learned that if we are going to nurture and inspire other people in their self-expression, we have to begin by doing just that for ourselves. If you are interested in joining me for a retreat, email me at Laura@lauramunsonauthor.com. June is fast filling. And August, and September are now booking. Contest winner for Haven scholarship will be announced soon… Submissions are closed… For more info click here.
Please enjoy this nostalgic piece about neighborhood magic by Betsy Nelson!
When I was a girl growing up in the 1970’s living in a Texas town near the Louisiana border, I often visited my friend Molly’s house at the end of Belvedere Road. Most houses on Belvedere were roomy, two-story brick traditional, enveloped by the deep green leaves of sprawling Live Oak trees and angular pine trees. But the very last house on this small-town street was not like the rest.
To begin with, it didn’t look like any of the other houses. The exterior was rough stucco, the color of French Vanilla ice cream. It was topped off with an aged slate roof that looked like small, uniform waves, or like the curly, hard Christmas candy I found in my stocking each year.
The house was U-shaped, built around a central courtyard, shadowed by the iron balconies that lunged overhead, from the second-story bedrooms. In the middle of the pebbled courtyard was a trickling fountain with a quirky bronze statue of an owl perched above it. The image of this mysterious owl at his post, haunted and sometimes comforted me, as I caught glimpses of him on restless nights when I would sleep over.
Upon entering the house through the side door, into the kitchen, I would glance at the simple chalkboard hung on the wall next to the telephone, which was usually ringing or occupied. Scribbled on the board were chalky messages or funny hand-drawn pictures, chronicling the various comings and goings of a lively family of seven children and their Mom and Dad. If I was lucky and it was close to dinner when I visited, the kitchen would be filled with the pungent aroma of garlic and onions sautéing in preparation for some fabulous, exotic Southern dish.
Walking through the house on my way to the backyard, I would feel the warm sunlight streaming in through a wall of tall windows, as I passed the pine dining table, where twelve whitewashed, ladder back chairs stood neatly aligned, until the family would arrive and disrupt all order bringing vibrant life to the abandoned scene.
Sliding open the heavy glass doors that led to the expanse of sweet-smelling, green grass and billowy clover with bees hovering above their fragile stalks, I was met by a familiar chorus of gleeful, Southern voices and raucous laughter. There, a throng of athletic-looking, tow-headed children of various sizes, ages and abilities, encircled a mammoth, jet-black canvas trampoline. Calling, “Hi!” and “Come On!”, the family and a mélange of neighborhood children, jostled to make room for me there beside them.
Spindly, suntanned arms stretched out to rest on the cushioned rim careful not to get fingers caught in the coiled springs. All heads looked up at the glorified kid of the moment, the one taking his turn jumping on the trampoline. Some could bounce high and touch their outstretched toes while suspended for a moment in the air. Some could do flips, bounce up, land cross-legged on the canvas and bounce up again. Others could do little more than jump shyly and roll onto the ground, holding their sides, aching from too much laughter. Oblivious to all this, were Queenie and Greta, two silky, steel-gray and snow white, German Shepherd dogs, stretched out grandly on the cool ground in the sphere of shade beneath the mighty trampoline.
When we finished, a few of us might sneak off and clamber up the bare wooden stairs to the steaming, windowless attic of the house, to dig through the Magic Box, a deep, Chinese-red trunk, filled to overflowing with velvety and satin costumes, smelling of old perfume. Or perhaps, with the late-evening sun beating down, we would climb onto our bikes and take off for the dusty “hills”, a bank of hard-packed dirt, nothing more than the result of a bayou that had been dug alongside the house. Wheels whirring, our bikes glided up one side and coasted down the other until sunset streaked the sky coral pink and mustard yellow. Then, reluctantly, we would all say bye to each other, as we would leave to return to our own homes, and anticipate the next time we would be lucky enough to visit this enchanted place on Belvedere Road.
Step by step. Word by word. Page by page.
I am further stepping into the wilderness of Montana and the wilderness of writing this week. I feel so held in this haven of the blank page and snow. If you’d like to create haven for your creativity…come to a Haven Writing Retreat here in Montana. June, August, and September retreats are now booking and filling fast.
Please enjoy this lovely entry to my “Long Ago: Community” series/contest. It brought me right back to the feeling of a Sunday morning in church– my first haven.
I learned about a long ago community from a very old woman, my great grandmother, although it would be decades before I understood anything she said about it.
Molly, or “Mom” as we all called her, was a tiny person who never stopped moving. She lived every day to do things for other people, and is the only person I’ve ever met who was truly happy serving others. You meet people who say they are, but you can still see some resentment at the corners of their mouth or the angle of their neck. Mom was filled with joy and light. When I showed up at her apartment, she would turn from her sewing machine with an expression of happiness on her face that told me there was no one else in the world she would rather see, at that moment, than me. Yet everyone in my family describes the same experience when they would go see her.
Mom was a seamstress and made all my clothes until I was in high school; everything from my nightgowns to my winter coats and hats. While she sewed, and I helped, she told me stories I didn’t understand about church and community. She was born in 1888 and raised Roman Catholic in the Bronx, when it was still “the country” and had dirt roads and horse drawn carriages. She described the church as an amazing place. She met her best friend Anna there when she was a child. She and Anna did lots of things together, including working at the church office and washing their families’ laundry in the East River. They were poor but they didn’t seem to know it. When they were 15, Anna made Molly an incredibly beautiful scarf, crocheted out of raw silk, which was rare material back then.
Her stories seemed so alien to me. We went to church, three of them, in fact, in our area, but we never talked to anyone and there were never events going on in any of them. This was Westchester County, NY; stuffy, and for me, very fake. The closest we got to “community” was at the sign of peace, where you turn to the person nearest you and shake their hand, muttering “Peace be with you.” Then we’d go home and never speak to them again.
Mom’s stories stayed with me, though I didn’t understand them. When my son was seven and announced one day, as I picked him up, that he was Christian and wanted to wear a cross and go to a church, I nearly drove my car off the road. I hadn’t been to church in so many years, though I still felt Christian. I was terrified.
After talking with a friend and explaining my aversion to Roman Catholicism, he suggested St. Luke’s Church, right in town, in Montclair. I asked why that place. He said, “They’re Episcopal, and they’re a very happy group of people.” I said, “You mean ‘Jesus Freaks.’” “No,” he laughed. “It’s hard to explain. They’re just really happy to see you.” Hmm.
So I went. And an amazing thing happened. People talked to me. Not in a pushy, nosy sort of way, but in a welcoming, interested way. I went back. I realized that every Sunday after services, there was a coffee hour, where people talked to each other about their everyday lives. I saw that gay people sat with each other in pews, held hands, and even kissed at the sign of peace. Homeless people sat next to wealthy people. The church had a soup kitchen; a pretty famous one. And a “Second Time Around Shop,” a thrift shop run by the old ladies in the church, who organized it. People had parties for their anniversaries and christenings in the Assembly Hall.
Over time I saw what a real community this is, where wonderful, sad, magical, real things happen — like after two of my friends had a fire gut their apartment, and everyone came together and gave them furniture, dishes, clothes, money, and food. Or when my friend Tim’s son Maurice died suddenly at age 20, and even his horse was welcome inside the church, at his funeral. Or this year, when my best friend Monique renewed her vows with her husband Louis. I sang the service and we all went to a wonderful party in the Assembly Hall, singing opera karaoke, and left after midnight. It is my understanding that not all Episcopal churches are like this one. So I feel lucky.
These are not people who shake your hand and then forget your face by the time they get to the door. I found a Long Ago Community that’s alive right now. And I’m in it. I even wore Mom’s raw silk scarf, now 110 years old now, to the ceremony where I was ‘received’ by the Bishop.
The only buttons I’m pushing are on the keyboard. Ahhhh…haven.
As you may know, I am spending the month of January in the dormancy of winter, working on a book. And, like last year at this time, I am offering my blog to you. Last year we looked into our Breaking Points and found community and grace in grief and vulnerability. This year we are looking into our past, and finding the weaving of community that stitches us to our present. I will be posting these pieces at These Here Hills. Their authors will be happy to receive and respond to your comments.
When I was seven years old my mother dragged me along on an errand to the bank downtown. In the lobby there was a display of what seemed like hundreds of dolls, each dressed in a different, lovely (to my seven-year-old eyes) outfit. A lacy ball gown. A hula skirt. Flowery nightshirt and bathrobe. It took a long inspection for me to realize it was the same doll wearing different clothes. I stared at the display longingly while my mother went about her banking business and when we left I pestered her for one of the dolls.
I’m not sure I understood what that meant except that I couldn’t have a doll. And I didn’t understand it later when that Christmas, I DID get one of the dolls, the one dressed like Little Red Riding Hood. That was the year my father died and my mother was instantly a young single mother with three kids under the age of seven.
I really liked my Red Riding Hood doll. It was clear to me when I opened it that Christmas that it was the best doll from the bank lobby display. I don’t know who donated it, who sewed the darling jumper and cape and hood. It was a small thing but it meant something to me, a needy kid who didn’t know she was needy.
I’ve been thinking about that anonymous sewer lately, now that I am a million miles away from the little girl I was. Today I’m not wealthy, but certainly comfortable, living a privileged and blessed life by most people’s standards, in a small, privileged, blessed community in Ohio. I’ve got a wonderful husband and two beautiful and brilliant children. I take this life for granted, going about my day to day activities, rarely coming into contact with “needy” people and, truthfully, rarely thinking about them, unless you count writing a few donation checks to worthy charities and my yearly volunteer gig at a Christmas party for under-privileged children.
Last spring my husband and I drove our son up to the college of his dreams for a pre-orientation. We attended a few of the parent activities, mentally patted ourselves on the back for our son’s accomplishments, then left him to do his thing and took a train into New York City for a couple of days to do OUR thing. We had a blast, walking around, seeing the sites, and reconnecting with each other–parents of a soon-to-be-off-to-college boy.
One of the sites on our list was the new Ground Zero Memorial. We walked there on the last day of our trip, taking our time, hitting the neighborhoods along the way, eating a nice lunch, stopping at Starbucks, and finally arriving at the church at the edge of the site, the church that somehow was left standing after the towers fell. My husband went off to find tickets, but I lingered around the church. There was a person on the curb, leaned up against the iron gate, obviously a vagrant. He held a sign and something made me step closer.
“Please help me get home to Ohio,” said the sign.
The person holding it was a teenaged boy. He was half-asleep. Or maybe he was on drugs or drunk. That was what the cynical part of me was thinking. The mother part of me, who had just dropped off a Golden Boy son at college, teared up. Oh my God. What had happened to this boy? How had he come to be on a street corner in New York City with swarms of tourists literally stepping over him? Who was waiting for him back in Ohio? Could I help him? Should I?
Here’s the thing about my husband and me. We NEVER have any cash on us. It’s almost a joke. We are the people who have to write a check at a toll booth. That moment in front of the clearly in need boy, I had eleven dollars in my pocket. My husband had nothing. We knew we needed ten dollars for the train ride back. I looked over my shoulder at the Starbucks. Could I buy the kid a cup of coffee and a Cranberry Bliss Bar? But it was hot outside and we had just walked like, fifty blocks to get there. We were tired. We had our tickets to go into the memorial site. We needed to move on. No one else was even paying attention to this kid, this vagrant.
On the long drive home to Ohio my son chattered about all the cool things going on at the college, the awesome people he met, the interesting classes he would take. My husband and I were thrilled for him. Our son’s dreams were coming true! But I couldn’t stop thinking about somebody else’s son back at the church. I should’ve given him the eleven dollars at least. My husband and I could’ve hit an ATM on the way to the train station. I should’ve gone over to Starbucks. The Cranberry Bliss Bar would’ve been better than nothing. Forget that. I should’ve gone to an ATM and taken out enough money to buy him a plane ticket back to Ohio. We could’ve freaking DRIVEN him back to Ohio.
Why didn’t we help him when we had the chance? What was wrong with us?
I asked my husband this question. We lamented our actions but then started to rationalize. Maybe the boy wasn’t a needy Ohio kid. He was probably a scammer, a thief, plunked out on the sidewalk purposely manipulating out-of-town tourists.
But we can’t know that. And does it even matter?
I know we live in a country that likes to divide people into groups, label others as takers. It’s true there are takers. But I think that labeling helps us, the blessed ones, the lucky ones, feel better about ignoring those who are genuinely in need. Not only that, we mock them, show disdain for them, assume the worst. Or maybe it’s just that there is so much need that we don’t even know where to start, whom to help. We’re paralyzed. Easier to look away, to step over the kid on the street corner. There are so many of those needy people, and he’s not even the worst off.
A few hours from Ohio, some guy stopped us at a rest area and said he needed just a few dollars for gas to make it to his destination. Obvious scam, my husband and I thought, but we dug around for change and gave it to him. A few weeks later we found out that someone we went to school with died, leaving a daughter in college and in need of money for books. We wrote a check immediately and sent it to her. This Christmas we spent more time buying presents for kids we picked for our volunteer gig than we did buying for our own kids. When I heard that an acquaintance’s home was damaged by the recent hurricane, I mailed her a Home Depot gift card.
It’s not enough. It will never be enough. But once upon a time I was a needy girl who received a donated doll for Christmas, a little thing that meant a lot, and I will never step over someone else’s Golden Boy again.
The wildnerness of writing. The wilderness of January in rural Montana. Haven.
My dad died a few months before I started first grade, leaving my mom with four young kids under the age of 10. The first couple of years I didn’t realize how poor we were because I was young, we lived in a decent house and we had food to eat but as the years went by I realized there wasn’t much cash around our house.
When I was in the fifth grade I joined 4-H because it was something I could walk to and it didn’t cost much money. I always learned new things and it was a fun way to spend time with my friends. The one thing that did cost money was the summer camp in Jamestown, Virginia. We all talked about it but I knew it was something I couldn’t ask for. It seemed like the best adventure ever, getting on a bus with friends and being away from home for a whole week. As summer drew close my friends kept asking if I could go and I kept telling them I wasn’t sure, I was embarrassed to tell them I didn’t have the money. While they were making plans to go I became more and more envious.
And then it happened. Someone sponsored my week at camp and the day before everyone was to leave, our housekeeper told me I was going. I couldn’t believe it, I had been crying and moping around the house for days and maybe she just couldn’t stand it any longer and called someone at the 4-H office but however this particular miracle happened – I was stunned and grateful and I believe Mrs. Poe was happy to have me out of her hair for a week. I quickly packed a bag and pulled myself together, I don’t remember how I got to the bus but I do remember how fun it was to be on a bus for 6 hours with a group of laughing, joking, silly girls. I had one dollar to last me for the whole week of camp and I was a little nervous about that, but I figured I would just be very careful.
4-H camp was the best thing that had ever happened to me. We did crafts, went hiking, sat at camp fires and even sang Kumbaya. At night, in the bunk house we were in no hurry to go to sleep. I kept the girls in stitches with funny stories until the camp counselor would threaten to duct tape my mouth if I didn’t go to sleep. One night we had a candlelight service where we put small candles on paper plates, waded out into the James river, lit our candles and sent our floating points of light out into the water – it was beautiful and magic. We went to Jamestown on a day trip and saw the replicas of the three ships that first sailed into the new world. Everyone was excited about going to a play called the Common Glory. I started to worry about the cost and if I would I be the only one left in camp if I didn’t have enough money, and I wondered what I would do. I decided to take my one dollar and put it in the little bank at the camp store so it wouldn’t get lost and see how much it would cost to go to the play. Now this might not seem like a big deal to anyone else but I was a worrier and even though it was a miracle that I even got to go to camp I was worried about that play.
The next day, when all the girls were going to the store to buy candy and treats I went to the little bank window and told the lady I wanted to put my dollar bill in the bank where it would be safe, to my surprise when she pulled up my name she said I already had five dollars in the account. Again, I was stunned, relieved and excited that whoever paid for my trip to camp had gone the extra mile and provided spending money, something they knew would be in short supply. I almost burst into tears with relief as I said a silent prayer of thanks. I knew that someone was looking out for me upstairs and thus began a lifelong practice of recognizing the hand of the Lord in my life. I know that God answers prayers and he usually uses his angels or saints here on earth to help us along our journey. That one special week at a little camp on the James River in southern Virginia helped build a foundation of faith that would see me though the many tough times ahead and it helped motivate me to look for opportunities to perform random acts of kindness for others – little miracles where the giver was never known.
That summer adventure that some stranger or neighbor paid for was one of the best memories of my brief childhood.
As a child, our family spent a great deal of time on the Outer Banks. The house was in Buxton, near the Cape Hatteras lighthouse, and we spent glorious summer days exploring the beach. At that time, the area had only a small number of vacationers, and we would often go days without seeing others on the beach. We had each other and the sea for companionship, and it was splendid.
For excitement, my siblings and I would walk up to the local tackle shop and admire the fishing lures. Every so often, the man at the register would say the magic words, “Tell your daddy there’s action at the pier.” We would run back to the cottage, give Dad the news, and then beg to come along.
Some days, we could see schools of fish, thick and dark in the water, and we’d pull the fish in one after another. Other days, a school of particularly large fish hung out by the pier to tempt us. Often, one lucky fisherman or woman had caught something particularly large or unique.
Yes, sir, if there was action forty years ago on the Outer Banks, it was most likely on a pier. Even if the fish weren’t biting, the pier acted as a gathering spot, a news center, and a social hub.
I don’t know if elderly people liked this particular pier or the population drifted toward the older and wiser set, but I remember my dad was always the young whippersnapper. All the fishermen knew him by name, and he knew theirs. But more importantly, they knew each other by their catches. “Big Fred here caught the biggest shark anybody’s ever landed,” “One time Walter caught a marlin with a Rolex watch in his belly” and “Your daddy can clean a bluefish quicker and cleaner than a man twice his age.” I knew which old woman had been hungry enough to stew an octopus, which men fished from their boats when the wind changed, who fed his cat fresh fish every night, and where all their children had moved off to.
I learned a lot about life from these folks. When I asked to pet a particularly charming fish swimming around in a cooler, I was told, “Back off my supper, kid, this ain’t no damn aquarium.” For the first time, I saw people who fished to eat, not for the sport of it. And they all seemed pretty happy and content with that life. I learned about sun damage long before anyone else talked about it. These folks looked way older than their actual ages due to the lines and patterns of wrinkles that covered their faces and the backs of their hands,but I liked how it showed the world all they had seen and done.
These salty old men taught me how to read the sky for storms, how the wind direction affected the tide and the odds of catching certain kinds of fish. They recalled in vivid detail the damages of every major hurricane of their lives, and described the year they got the ‘light lines’. I learned that on a pier on the Outer Banks, a girl was treated no differently than a boy.
Back in my traditional southern hometown, I would have been told to stand back at a safe distance. But here amongst these men and women, I baited slippery hooks and grabbed wriggly fish off a line because I didn’t want to admit that I didn’t know how.
But that community also valued safety. They scolded my dad when they heard he had gone flounder gigging alone. “Son, respect the water.” They reminded him to “Straighten up those kids while you can” and “Make sure your kids know how to work. If a man knows how to work, he can do anything.” Old Fred used to say to me, “Do your sums and master that primer.” I always agreed, but I had no idea he spoke of math and reading.
Once, after a hurricane, the piergoers stood around quietly until the regular crowd had gathered. No one so much as opened a tackle box until they saw that everyone was okay. Then they finally relaxed and resumed the usual joking and chatter. They all agreed they had much to clean up and repair after the storm, but they had to eat, didn’t they? But I knew they just needed to lay their eyes on their friends. Even as a youngster, I saw how much they meant to each other.
Even though I only saw them in the summertime, that community set the standard for me. As an adult, when my husband and I searched for a place to raise our children, we looked for a community like that pier on the Outer Banks, and we found it. When my fourth baby was born, neighbors and friends brought us dinner for forty-four nights in a row. And you know, I have brought them all dinner, too. Never have I caught that dinner on a hook, but I learned from those people on the pier the importance of sharing with my community.
Recently, I visited the pier closest to our home on the Outer Banks. It is our favorite summer hang-out. The ten cent boiled shrimp, the cold beer specials, and the nightly beach band make it the perfect evening destination. We sit at tables and eat together, catching up on the local politics and news that another house is coming up “bigger than any fool needs”. Most of us don’t fish for our supper, we nod at the waitress to bring us the special. Some of us know each other by name, and some of us know each other by the beer we drink, the food we favor, or the band that brings us out. But it’s still a community. We scans the crowd after a big storm to make sure all the familiar faces are there. We still teach each other’s children things as they scamper around the deck. “Don’t eat the tail of the shrimp. Pinch it off, like that.” And “Respect the water, son.” We talk about Hurricane Isabel and more recently, Hurricanes Irene and Sandy.
Because that’s what a good community does, and I am extraordinarily blessed to be a part of it.
My mother grew up in a town by the sea. Her mother did as well. The women who came before them were mostly born and buried in Ireland, surrounded by the sea—except for a few who managed to escape the poor and inhospitable place in the 1880s. Born in Ballyvourney, or Baile Bhuirne in Gaelic, meaning “Town of the Beloved,” my great grandmother Nora crossed the Atlantic to the port of Boston on the SS Pavonia when she was 17 years old. Just a few years prior, my other great grandmother, Katherine, had arrived via the SS Samaria at the tender age of 15 from the County Limerick town of Abbeyfeale. Years later whenaher children began to pool their funds so they could send her back for a visit, Katherine told them not to bother, that she certainly had no intention of returning, however briefly. Her aversion to Ireland surely was fed by bitter recollections of famine, hardship and death in a land that later would be romanticized, idealized even, by my mother’s generation and my own.
soothing sound of his part scorn/part idolatry of it all.
And when we were back on the road, I memorized the lyrics and Big Band tunes on his a.m. radio station, “The Music of Your Life.” This was safety to me. The thought of women in white gloves, hats and heels, and smart cocktail dresses, and men in suits with slicked hair and doffed fedoras and overcoats…dancing in sync on a parquet dance floor with an orchestra and a cocktail waiting for them back at the small round table in a lowball glass. I agreed: what was wrong with the youth these days….sitting in ponchos and bell bottoms, smoking pot, talking about free love and war mongering? I wanted his youth. And I found it at the filling station.
I used to go there just to smell the gasoline, to see the rainbows of fuel in the wet pavement after a good old fashioned Midwestern thunderstorm, to see if the guy behind the counter might chat me up if I bought a Hershey’s bar or a bottle of Coke. Over the years, I became friends with that guy. His name was Bud. He used to give me little plastic animals. One time he gave me a whole tube full of Noah’s Arc plastic animals, who gladly joined my china figurines collection that I played with religiously (and now more religiously), in wooden structures I made in shop class. I’m not sure what happened to Bud, but I do remember the look he gave me when I tried to buy beer in sixth grade. Part scorn/part iconic. The youth these days.
jokes, we’ve shaken our heads over national tragedies playing out on the corner television. He’s bought me a box of wine here and there. He even gave me a glass horse figurine that he picked up at a consignment shop. It’s clear with cobalt blue inside. It sits next to another glass horse figurine that is almost identical, only I bought it for a lot of money at a glass-blowing factory in Venice. The one I bought is on its knees, struggling to get up, neck craning and stretching. The one Murray gave me…is just a little bit more on its feet. I repeat: I love this man.
Well the other day, amidst all the holiday scrambling—sitting on the living room rug in a fit of wrapping paper, scissors, ribbons, and tape, my son entered the room and requested a ride to the ski resort in the town where we live. Maybe you’ve noticed something about the kids these days: they don’t make plans. They text. They walk in and demand things last minute, like your whole world revolves around their social life and their techno needs, even if it’s good clean fun like skiing. I’ve got pretty amazing kids. Kids who listen to NPR and write in journals and ring the Salvation Army bell. Still…it’s different than it used to be and I’ve learned that being a mother requires some level of going with their flow, lest we be in constant conflict. So I ditched the wrapping paper, and stuffed my night-shirt tails into my yoga pants, donned my Sorels, and with neither underwear nor bra, I grabbed my big parka and hit the road with my son.
In the car on our way up the mountain, my son realized he had no money for his standard grilled cheese lunch at the Summit House. I looked around for my purse, and there was no purse. Which meant there was no money. I always leave my purse in the car. I was perplexed. I said something to the tune of “Blame it on the holidaze.” But then I realized that I had no license, and that just the other day I realized my registration had expired. Blame it on the holidaze? And my insurance card was expired. And…then I looked at my gas gauge…and it was low. Really low. I always keep at least a half a tank of gas, just like my father. And no cell phone to boot. This was so entirely not like me. Holidaze?
I scanned the car for an errant twenty, or at least a five. And there under the teacher gifts yet to be delivered on the dash, were two fives. “Here, I’ll take one and you take the other,” my son said.
“I don’t know if I have enough gas to drive the ten miles home. And my purse must be at home, so I have to go home in order to get money in order to get gas.” I didn’t tell him about the part where I was driving totally illegally. Not in unclean underwear, mind you…but in NO underwear. Etc. “Can’t you borrow some cash?” I said.
But there I was, teaching my child to be a mooch. I humbly took the remaining five. “Don’t worry, Mom. That’s a gallon of gas. And a gallon of gas goes fifteen miles. We live ten miles from here and you probably have at least enough to get home and back to the gas station.” He smiled, all faith.
For some reason, I bid him fondly adieu, feeling like a combo of Debbie Reynolds the later years, and Carrie Fisher, ditto. What happened to me? I thought. Two seconds ago I was in a twin set and khakis, fresh from the gym, with exfoliated skin and lunch plans. Now I am one beat-up Suburban away from bag lady with no buttons to push, and only an accelerator from which to hope for power. And then I remembered what my friend said about saints being everywhere. And I thought of Murray.
So I pulled into my gas station on fumes, rehearsing what I could possibly say that wouldn’t be a total breach in customer privileges. After all…what have I ever given him, except for a kiss on the cheek once when he told me that I was one of his favorite customers. This after I’d spilled my guts about a particular glich in a particular relationship with a particular persona non-grata—also a customer of this said gas station.
Needless to say…I felt like the worst mooch ever. Because I was about to ask him to spot me some cash.
I threw my shoulders back like my father used to do in facing an awkward situation. Walked in.
It’s a great experience going from the false power of button-pushing and bitching about little things like the holiday rush and the price of gas…to actually knowing that you are one step away from standing on a street corner holding a cardboard sign, just to get home. Where is our power, really? Not in buttons. I can tell you that. It’s in making those connections with real live people over the course of time. It’s about looking in their eyes and past their tattoos and into their hearts. And sometimes, it’s about asking for help.
Of course Murray spotted me that cash. Saints are like that.
Look around. Pay attention. Chat with the people at your local filling station. And be filled.