SOLC 2015 Day 13: Where the rubber meets the carpet

The boots felt different as I walked through the house in the morning.  The left one gripped the kitchen linoleum just fine, while the right one felt slippery.  Too busy to investigate the reason, and having no other hiking boots to complete my "Camp Write-a-Lot Presenter" ensemble, I went on to work.

There it was again, that slippery feeling on the sidewalk into the school, down the hallway, into the library.  

And then I saw them.  Black pieces of rubber strewn about on the carpet where I had just walked.  Unable to see the bottoms of my feet, I raised them up for my trusty assistant to take a look.

"You're missing a whole chunk of tread from that boot," she said.  Even got me a mirror to look at it.

The sole was still intact, as was half the tread, so I went about my day...marking my territory every few feet with another piece of black rubber.

By the time I made it to the district Battle of the Bluebonnets at another elementary school, half the bottom of my shoe was missing, and I was leaving black bits throughout the cafeteria as I met my team and helped set up.  One side was completely split from the uppers, but still I carried on with my duties.  I was thankful that it was intact enough for me to walk to my car for the drive home.

I get it--these boots are old (we're talking decades).  I would expect the rubber to desiccate and crumble.  But......why one boot, and not the other?

SOLC 2015 Day 12: Too many favorite things

I really enjoyed Virginia's post about naptime a few days ago, and how she rewrote a line of "My Favorite Things" to include her napping habit.  

The tune must have stuck in my head.  There I was in my car yesterday, hurrying from work to pick up teenboy from high school, when my own rewritten line to the song popped up.

"Lifetime of memories tied to my things, 
In piles of clutter my house is drowning..."
(cue waltz music)

Decades ago, I read an article in Psychology Today about military brats.  The study mentioned that we either turn out very well-adjusted due to learning to conform to many different cultures and societal standards, or very neurotic because of the instability of frequent moves and missing parent(s).  I often wonder about where I land on that spectrum. 

It also mentioned that we may become packrats.  This may happen because our stuff becomes our "home", since there is no one place we can refer to as a hometown.  I can't literally take a walk down memory lane like my born-and-bred Cleveland husband, or native-Texan children can, pointing out their schools and favorite restaurants and nearby friends' and relatives' houses.

Nope, my memory lane stretches around the world, from Paris to San Fernando, Fort Hood to Naples, Bangkok to Stuttgart.  Revisiting my childhood would be one expensive plane ticket.

So stuff becomes our history book.  That ticket stub from the strassenbahn.  The geisha doll in a glass case, parquetry from Italy, Lladros from Spain.  Military brat museum displays, taking up square footage and wall space in my home.

Unfortunately, the habit sticks long after the traveling ends.  It's not exactly hoarding, as I'm able to throw away trash, magazines, empty containers, coat hangers--the stuff you see piled up in intervention episodes.  

Instead, mine are the kids' baby blankets I sewed, and their first Harley t-shirts.  The sweater I got in Germany as a teen, in a size this motherly body can no longer squeeze into.  The handwritten cards from my deceased relatives, doll collection from my travels (in boxes, gathering dust), my mother's wedding dress, my husband's christening outfit.  Report cards spanning two decades.  Grandparents' crystal.  College papers from when I felt "smart".  Family heirlooms are precious to me, ties to a past and connections that eluded me when we were traveling, items from my current life that I'm afraid if lost, the memory will be, too.

Spring cleaning will happen next week, and decluttering is a must.  But how does one discard a memory in its physical form?

SOLC 2015 Day 11: Whirlwind and downhill slide

At our team leaders meeting yesterday, the second round of Project Based Learning units, state standardized testing, professional development, and end of year parties were discussed.

March may come in like a lion, but it certainly does not go out like a lamb in terms of spring semester happenings.  We just wrapped up our book fair last Wednesday.  We have testing training today, Battle of the Bluebonnets tomorrow, Spring Break the following week, PBLs and the last broadcast and newspaper teams beginning the week after that.  I've finally placed the last of my big book orders which had been sitting in a virtual shopping cart for months.

Then there's testing, the state library association's annual conference, and more testing.  Last checkouts for the year occur a couple weeks later, as we finish up the bulk of our inventory process. 

What does this mean for the library?  Very few, if any, "normal" weeks.  A rush to get lessons in, a lot of rescheduling of classes due to disruptions.  A whirlwind of activity trying to get everything done before impending deadlines.  The downhill slide to summer break accelerates at a rapid pace from March to June.  You'd think in my 22nd year in the education biz I'd be used to this by now, but I still find myself hanging on tight, days and months flying by in a blur.

Image courtesy of pixabay.com

SOLC 2015 Day 10: Nocturnal pursuits

Staying up past my bedtime used to mean

watching "grown up television"

catching glimpses of my parents' parties

fried bologna and onions midnight snacks

fireworks after baseball games

seeing the end of the "Sunday Night Movie"

solving algebra and calculus problems

finishing the term paper due in the morning

an all-night-diner after a traveling Broadway production

the last flight home

Then staying up past my bedtime became

dates at late-night movies

planning a wedding, a birthday, trips home

pushing the hospital visiting hours

round-the-clock newborn feedings

soothing nightmares and fevers

a spouse working evening shift

helping with the homework

lights still on across the hallway

attending band concerts

pick-ups from dances

waiting on a child with a driver's license

waiting on calls to say she made it back to college

Last night, staying up past my bedtime meant

retrieving one happy, tired teenager from the airport

We were all up past our bedtimes, together.

Sometimes the best memories are slumberous.

SOLC 2015 Day 9: Breathing in the rain

The rain lulled me to sleep last night, and woke me up this morning.

I love rainy days.  Must be the Piscean-fish-water-sign in me.  The sight, smell, and sound of precipitation can be relaxing and energizing at the same time, perhaps due to the cocooning effects of staying indoors and the cleansing air I breathe as I move from one shelter to another.  Here in the allergy capital of the world, we welcome the washing away of pollen and dust, even as mold counts rise from the moisture.

I started to write a post today about feeling discombobulated before 5am, due to my library being taken over today by kindergarten registration, picking up our son from the airport at midnight tonight, early release and Battle of the Bluebonnets and training a new broadcast team this week-before-spring-break.

But then I decided to breathe.  Standing on the stoop in my red pajamas, I took in five deep breaths of that cool, moist air.  I was centered for a few moments, oxygenated, clear-headed enough to come inside and write from a more peaceful place.  Choosing breath over panic.  

SOLC 2015 Day 8: Onion sandwiches

"What are we going to eat for dinner, babe?"  My question is directed toward my husband.

"We've got leftovers, Mom."  College daughter gestures to her friend, paintbrush in hand, as they sit at the dining table painting gaming figures. "Yeah, we have food left over from lunch at the Italian restaurant," her friend concurs.

"But we don't have leftovers."  My husband makes a few suggestions, most of which are still in a frozen state.  "That's not going to work this late," I say.  He says something about making a salad, shrugs, heads back into the garage to continue working.  He's obviously not hungry at the moment, so I'm left alone to stand in front of the fridge and pantry.  Nothing seems to be appetizing, so I chat with the girls for a few minutes.  

Looking back in the fridge again, it hits me.  "I think I'll have an onion sandwich.  Is that okay with you?" I say to my husband, back from the garage.  "Sure, go for it," he replies.  "Guess a goodnight kiss is off the list for tonight," I joke back.  He smiles, and our daughter comments, "He must really love you!".  

"I've missed painting," she continues, as I gather ingredients at the kitchen counter.  "They don't offer it every semester at college, and I didn't get a chance to sign up."

As I sink my teeth into white bread, copious amounts of mayonnaise, and thinly sliced salted onions, I silently thank my mother for my gastronomic heritage.  Irish artist that she was, she would approve, this eating of an onion sandwich and painting simultaneously happening at the table.    

SOLC 2015 Day 7: Thinking aloud

A subconscious thought keeps spilling out of my mouth.

You know the kind of thought I'm talking about.  The one that's lurking at the back of your mind, ignored and buried by the mundane details of the day.  The one you don't mean to say aloud, because it's out of sync with the conversation.  You regret it as soon as it's out, but you can't help but expound on it, explain it, making the interaction even more awkward.

People have been wishing me a happy birthday, understandably, for the last couple of days.  Most of the time I respond with a simple "Thanks!  It's been great!" and move on.  But on the occasion where more details are called for, I start talking about how great it is to turn 49.  How I'll be celebrating big over the next three years.  How 49, 50, and 51 matter.

How my mom was diagnosed with ALS at 49.

How she died at 51.

What I don't say is how I'm nearing the end of my roadmap, trying to figure out how to fill in uncharted territory.  How I can't imagine how my mother coped, facing a terminal diagnosis at this time in her life, because she kept most of those thoughts from me.  How I've scheduled a complete physical for the first time in a long time, half-afraid of what may turn up.  How I question every muscle cramp, every accidental choke on spit, every time I feel short of breath.  How I look at the clutter in my house and think I really have to clean it up, just in case, so my family doesn't have a mess to deal with when I'm gone.  

How I fight off those fears by planning the details of these years, like writing lots of letters and finally getting that motorcycle license, having drum circles and bring-on-menopause parties, and  getting my third and final tattoo, the one that has to incorporate the number 51. How I bury those three ugly letters, A-L-S, under mundane details like laundry and work and meals and child rearing...and birthdays.