How to cope with a broken water heater
in a house with eight sweaty people:
one—swim in the backyard blowup pool
two—wash laundry in cold water
three—debate about the causes
four—boil water on the stove
five—ride your bike in 90/90
(degrees/humidity) for fifteen miles
and enjoy the sluice of ice cold water
that will wash away all your frustration
with the sweat that swirls down the drain.
Six—call the landlord and pray
(we are in Kentucky after all).
He is a lonely old man with frayed jeans and two old dogs who look like a combination between Dalmatians and setters. They come up to the girls as they get out of the van and each of them reaches out for them, petting their ever-shedding white and black fur onto the green grass of southern Illinois.
When we arrive at the door, the hours for the adjacent restaurant are posted, and having seen not a soul in the parking lot, and not being within those hours, we are a bit frustrated that we’ve woken the baby for nothing. As we turn to leave, he rushes to the door and in a thick southern accent begs us to come inside.
His black cat moans and meows behind the counter as we look at the half open taster bottles. Before we can begin talking, he asks the girls to come behind the counter and check out his cat named Whine. He spells the name out for them. They look up at him expectantly, not understanding.
“Where y’all from?”
“Colorado!” Isabella pipes up.
His bushy white eyebrows rise up in surprise. “Y’all drove a long way then!” He puts his hand under his chin, only half believing us. “Where in Colorado?” he inquires, somewhat suspiciously.
“Denver.” Isabella shoots me an accusatory look, whispering, “We’re from Aurora.” I explain in a similar accusatory whisper, “No one has ever heard of Aurora.”
“I’ve been to Colorado. Boulder. I liked Boulder, all the nice bike trails.” He has already examined the bike rack, trailer, and Bruce tells him of our ride today. “Yep, Boulder is a beautiful place.”
We stand for a moment like old friends who are recently reacquainted, the years and comfort level lost somewhere between then and now.
“Are y’all just looking, or would you like to try some wine?”
Bruce jumps in with a quick yes and I stare out onto the beauty of the vineyard. A small wooden bridge over a stream leads to its presence on the hill, where the grapevines grow as thick as a leafy forest of taste on this early summer day.
We taste three wines and pick two to take home, but before we can even hand him our credit card he says, “You’re in education, aren’t you?”
We hear the story of his math-teaching career, his superintendent position. Even after we have closed the sale, he identifies with perfect accuracy the ages of all three girls, and proudly shows us an aerial view of his wine bottle shaped pond, pointing to its location on the other side of the deck.
I am walking down the steps toward the car, baby in arms as Bruce clutches the bag of wine, but he beckons us to tour the restaurant.
It is a perfect wedding reception. White linen tablecloths, a wraparound deck, a fireplace in the center of the room, vineyards on all sides and the pond in the forefront. He offers us a somewhat grease-stained menu that is filled with random fonts and what I’m sure is a pathetic web site.
“How long are y’all visiting your sister?” because of course by now we’ve explained the whole situation of the four girls instead of three.
“The whole summer.” His eyes light up, eyebrows rising again, this time in hope.
“Let me show you girls a barn swallow nest.” It is built on top of a security camera, the babies’ yellow beaks opening and closing expectantly amidst the typically fluffy black fur. They are mesmerized. He knows them well, my girls, children.
“Maybe we’ll come back sometime for dinner,” Bruce says aloud, partially to me, partially to him.
But I am thinking of the hour and a half drive, of the trip to Tennessee, of camping and swimming and all of Kentucky that we haven’t seen, of the Frost poem, “knowing how way leads on to way…” and even with the imperfectly edited menu that seems to boast some delectable treats at somewhat reasonable prices, I know that we will likely never return.
We finally part ways from the man who perhaps hasn’t spoken to anyone in hours, days. The gravel road leads us back to the miniature highway, absent of cars, and as I look back, I say, “What a perfect, private place for a wedding.”
“I’m going to have my wedding there,” Isabella replies. “He was such a nice man.”
We come to a small chapel, and I smile back, “Sounds good.”
The two bottles of wine dance together in the back seat, waiting for the right moment to be opened and cherished on the tongue, tasting all over again this day on the road not taken, the road that led us here to brighten someone’s day, to brighten our day.
she chirps and coos like
a little bird and laughs
with the touch of an angel,
but when she screams and
won’t go to sleep, and fills
her diaper with a proud giggle,
i am reminded of why, while i
love her, am still happy at the
end of the day to hand her off
to mom, to tell my girls to go
to the bathroom, brush their
teeth and hair, listen to a story,
and go (without crying once in
the night) to bed.
after the backyard pool
and sprinkler,
the iPod, iPad, and DVD,
all I ask is that you sit
and listen to a story
for six minutes.
but my competition is too
fierce for us,
and the dropping sun,
the humid air,
and my readiness for your
bed time
lead to exhausted screams
from all of us.
tomorrow we will try again
when all the electronics
and water contraptions
are tucked out of your mind,
when we have a quiet moment
to pretend that they don’t exist,
that books could draw us
together with their magical
world of words,
when we can be
mother and daughters,
not slaves to the technology
that brings these lines to you,
that simultaneously
tears us apart.
All it takes is one pic
Twenty minutes on their blog
And I’m sold
For ten grand we could
Buy that bike
Load up our trailer
And pedal into the
Vacation of my dreams.
You (and everyone else)
Would say we’re as crazy
As Icarus flying his chariot
Too close to the sun.
But I will always know
(we will always know)
That before the wax melted,
He burned a trail of glory
(we’ll burn a trail of glory)
That all of us can see behind us
For the remainder of our lives.
Life just the way I want to live it
even if it means
shooting out words
that no one else would say
because I’m me
and
I am wild
like the lions on the savannah
searching for food
that truly the cheetahs
have killed
but I’ll take it
if it means surviving
Life just the way I want to live it
even if it means
shooting out words
that everyone else wants to say
but won’t
I will because
I am wild
and no one can tame
the fire in my soul,
no one can bury this burden
of yearning that I hold,
so I must dig it out myself,
I must be myself.
my eyes burn with such distaste
that i cannot even see the good in you
your inadequacies pile up
like a hot load of shit
after eating too many chiles
and i want to pick up giant chunks
of it and splatter them
all over your face
just because you think you’re God
of the computer world
does not mean that you have
to fuck over the good deed
that i attempted today.
you know who you are.
and if you expect to see
any more hundreds of dollars
coming out of my measly paycheck
to feed your ignorance,
you better find a way
to make it up to me.
This season I will grow time
pull it out of my sleeves
like magical Mr. Mistofelees
so when my youngest looks at me
with her shy and longing smile
and inquires, “Is today a school day for you?”
I will answer, “No,” and make it
all about her, even if I must wake
before dawn and stow the bike
and put away the computer
and forget for once what
I’m having for lunch the next day,
all so we can sit together on the couch
and cuddle with a book,
sing the songs she loves to hear
from my tone-deaf larynx,
and have all the time in the world.
what you and i lack is so obvious to me,
but paperwork blinds you from the truth.
i ache from illness, from distaste,
the acrid absence of your concern
resting on my tongue as if
i’ve been bitten by a venomous snake.
after one year of this nothing
has changed, and they will walk away
with little more than a few disconnected
terms rattling around in their brains,
burning me to my depths so that I am
unable to see the kindness in your eyes.
I will forgive you. After months apart
and casual hand waves in the hallway,
my ever-blossoming but always-behind
protégés tucked safely in another classroom,
I will look you in the eye, smile, nod,
and be forever content with my decision.
Sometimes I wonder what has become of parents and their kids. I feel constantly surrounded by families who seem to think that their children, and their needs, come before everyone else around them. It’s not just the parents of the students I teach—in fact, this is rarely the case. I see it in the parents of kids who are the same age as my daughters. And the more exposure I have to it, the more it burns me up.
It begins with the questioning of authority. Teachers in particular. These parents seem to think that they should be running the classroom, and in effect letting their kids have no consequences for their actions. And if the teacher thinks for one moment he’s going to punish his students for their behavior, he’s got another thing coming. Those parents will go straight to the principal rather than taking the time to set up a meeting with the teacher.
What I would like to see is this: a teacher going into an office of one of these parents. Maybe he wants to read one of the reports they wrote. And when the report doesn’t satisfy him, he won’t make suggestions for editing and revising. He’ll mark it up in red and go straight to the parent’s boss, complaining about what a shoddy employee he hired.
It’s a perfect analogy, really. Is that the way to deal with a problem? To take your angst behind the “perpetrator’s” back and try to get that person disciplined? And what message does this send to our kids? That’s the part that’s beyond fucked up.
Scenario:
“Mama, Mr. Jones won’t let us have our holiday party because he said we misbehaved.”
“Did you?”
“Well, it was half my fault, but the other kids were being naughtier.”
“I don’t agree with that at all. You’re in first grade, and I don’t think it’s fair to cancel the holiday party because of a few rotten kids. I’m going to speak to the principal in the morning. Mr. Jones shouldn’t do that.”
Thoughts in the child’s mind: I don’t have to listen to Mr. Jones. He’s going to get in trouble. We didn’t do anything wrong. He’s the one who’s wrong.
So the next time Mr. Jones asks this child to behave, will he? To do homework, will he? To show respect for authority, will he? Why? What is his motivation? The parents have stripped all authority and respect from the teacher, and their message to their children is loud and clear: your desires, no matter how petty, are more important than the teacher’s rules.
It doesn’t stop there. The parents lavish these children with every possible gift imaginable and birthday parties that cost upwards of $500. They invite every student in the class, expecting gifts (some invitations even specify which type of gifts!!) from all of them of course, and then don’t send out thank-you cards. (There are always exceptions, but they’re rare). And they do this for their kids every year so that the kids come to expect it. It’s no wonder these kids misbehave in the classroom setting (and other settings): they are the center of the world, the selfish, gluttonous world they’ve been raised in.
What is a parent to do? How can I raise my daughters to understand that they won’t have a giant birthday party every year, that when their teacher sends them home with a note that the class was naughty, they’re damn well going to write a letter of apology, that the world does not revolve around them even though their classmates seem to have this impression?
In this consumer-driven, corporate-sponsored society we’ve created for ourselves, we seem to have overlooked some important details about humanity: mainly, that our lives shouldn’t revolve around silly parties filled with cheap pieces of plastic, nonstop gifts, and a total disregard for what is most important—human relationships. The same parents who go over the teachers’ heads to complain to the principal are those who are spoiling their kids in every way imaginable. And while they complain, while they shop, they are missing out on what I value most about being a parent: spending quality time with my children as a family, showing them that giving to those in need is better than receiving, that respect is a part of going to school, and it begins at the classroom door, with the teacher.
In the end, how will they turn out? What kind of adults will they become? Only time will allow this revelation. But at least I can go to bed every night without the guilty conscious of a parent of an over-indulged, disrespectful child. And no matter how hard I have to fight this battle as my children witness this disrespect and indulgence among their peers, I know that in the end they will be better for it, that in the end, we will win the war. Because once they enter the real world, they will already know that it doesn’t revolve around them.
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