Johnny is a red head. Wait, that's not what this is about.
Johnny is five, a new kindergarten guy. But he can read.
Last night he read two books to his mom, and when his dad put him to bed, Johnny was heard to say, "I can read. I can read."
How come? Why? I know you're aching to find out.
It's because of all the reading his family does in that home. They all read scriptures every morning, and for as long as Johnny has lived, he's heard a book or three at bedtime every night. That's the way it works. You hold the kid on your lap or close to you, and he (or she) follows along as you read out loud. I repeat. That's the way it works.
Besides, you could walk into a room in the house at any given moment, and it's likely someone would be sitting on the couch or the floor or somewhere. Reading. It rubs off. Really.
At those morning readings Johnny has read a verse or two by repeating what his mom or dad read. Now, I'll just bet he's trying it on his own and doing fine with minimal help.
And it's no wonder he's proud and excited. Reading opens the world to him. Don't be doubting me. It's true.
P.S. I'm pretty sure his blond cousin Axel up in Canada is not far behind in this reading thing. Pretty darn sure.
Friday, October 19, 2012
Thursday, October 18, 2012
About my mother
Mama
Short girls
are never beautiful,
my mother said,
only tall girls with long necks.
I thought she meant it
as instruction for me
to grow tall and get somehow
a neck worth notice.
But, no, it was for her,
a lament about her own lack
of height, knowing
of height, knowing
she couldn't change it,
maybe trying to make me
think she wasn't beautiful,
one of those things mothers say
when a glance in the mirror
brings them up short.
If she was no beauty
I never knew it.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
The other story
Sean, 23, bought a new-to-him truck. Exactly the truck he'd always wanted. Of course, he looked it over carefully. So did his friend John, a mechanic, along with Sean's girlfriend. They even crawled underneath. They all said it looked great.
Sean and his girlfriend took a drive on the freeway. The left front end dropped out--wheel, axle, all that goes with that assembly. The truck went toward the median, crossed it, and faced a semi, which hit Sean's truck. Sean was thrown out and was killed. The truck was destroyed, except for the little cocoon-like place where his girlfriend was sitting. She had some bruises. That's all, except for her great loss. Sean.
Sean is the son of my dr's nurse. Her only boy. She told me many things last Friday, including the above account, and cried all through our visit. Says her husband is devastated; he had plans for all that he was going to pass on to his son--not things. "Now what?" he asks.
Sean and his girlfriend took a drive on the freeway. The left front end dropped out--wheel, axle, all that goes with that assembly. The truck went toward the median, crossed it, and faced a semi, which hit Sean's truck. Sean was thrown out and was killed. The truck was destroyed, except for the little cocoon-like place where his girlfriend was sitting. She had some bruises. That's all, except for her great loss. Sean.
Sean is the son of my dr's nurse. Her only boy. She told me many things last Friday, including the above account, and cried all through our visit. Says her husband is devastated; he had plans for all that he was going to pass on to his son--not things. "Now what?" he asks.
Monday, October 15, 2012
I can still learn
It isn't always about you. That is, it isn't always about me. Sometimes I think it is, or I behave as though that's what I think.
Last Friday's dr appointment was all about me, and I didn't want to go, didn't need to go, had been to the cardiac dr on Wednesday. So I called and said, "I want to know what this appointment is about."
"The nurse says this is a follow up to your heart attack."
"But I have just been to the cardiac clinic. Just today."
"I will have the nurse call you."
No call. Next day I call again with the same questions.
"I'll check with the nurse." I'm on hold. Kind of impatiently on hold. You know.
"The nurse says you need to come."
I could have said, "Tough, I'm not coming." But I didn't. Friday morning I went. I was right, though. I didn't need to be there, but since they said I needed to come--you know, like they made me come--I decided to tell the truth about something that has irked me there. So I told the dr I have a problem with drs who come in, hand extended (the glad hand approach, I call it), to show the patient, me, they really care. "I figure it's something they're told to do. But I only like handshakes that are genuine." He said it wasn't that way with him. No one told him to do it (I didn't believe it. Dr Burr, Dr Funke, PA Carmichael--they all do it, like somebody told them to.) Then he said, "And it is genuine."
"Hmph," I thought. And I was sure I didn't need to be there.
Then the dr asked me if I'd been writing much lately.
"I have."
"What have you been writing?" he asked.
"Well, I have written four poems in the last several months. All pretty much the same theme. Death." So then we talked about death. I told him a few lines from the latest poem. The conversation was all about me, really, because I know so much about the subject, you know.
Then I asked him if he had experienced the death of anyone close or anyone in his family.
"My father died three weeks ago," he said. And suddenly, it wasn't about me.
I gasped, couldn't help it, and said with heartfelt sympathy that I was sorry. I asked why he had died--"aneurism in his abdomen; it burst, and you don't live through that."
I asked his dad's age. "Sixty-one." I gasped again, couldn't help it. "Oh, I am so sorry." I said it again. "Then you're just a kid," I said. "You're not 40, are you."
"I just turned 40," he said. And he was starting to cry, doing his best not to, but his eyes welled with tears. I asked if he cries every day. "Not any more," he said.
He told me he knows all the technical stuff about aneurisms and about people dying. "But it isn't the same when it's your dad. Those things don't help."
I said again I was sorry and hoped he would always shake my hand, which he did before he left the room.
That was why I needed to go, so he could talk about his dad, cry a little bit. It wasn't really about me at all.
There's more, but I have to write it tomorrow or another time. It's about his nurse, whose only son was killed in June.
Last Friday's dr appointment was all about me, and I didn't want to go, didn't need to go, had been to the cardiac dr on Wednesday. So I called and said, "I want to know what this appointment is about."
"The nurse says this is a follow up to your heart attack."
"But I have just been to the cardiac clinic. Just today."
"I will have the nurse call you."
No call. Next day I call again with the same questions.
"I'll check with the nurse." I'm on hold. Kind of impatiently on hold. You know.
"The nurse says you need to come."
I could have said, "Tough, I'm not coming." But I didn't. Friday morning I went. I was right, though. I didn't need to be there, but since they said I needed to come--you know, like they made me come--I decided to tell the truth about something that has irked me there. So I told the dr I have a problem with drs who come in, hand extended (the glad hand approach, I call it), to show the patient, me, they really care. "I figure it's something they're told to do. But I only like handshakes that are genuine." He said it wasn't that way with him. No one told him to do it (I didn't believe it. Dr Burr, Dr Funke, PA Carmichael--they all do it, like somebody told them to.) Then he said, "And it is genuine."
"Hmph," I thought. And I was sure I didn't need to be there.
Then the dr asked me if I'd been writing much lately.
"I have."
"What have you been writing?" he asked.
"Well, I have written four poems in the last several months. All pretty much the same theme. Death." So then we talked about death. I told him a few lines from the latest poem. The conversation was all about me, really, because I know so much about the subject, you know.
Then I asked him if he had experienced the death of anyone close or anyone in his family.
"My father died three weeks ago," he said. And suddenly, it wasn't about me.
I gasped, couldn't help it, and said with heartfelt sympathy that I was sorry. I asked why he had died--"aneurism in his abdomen; it burst, and you don't live through that."
I asked his dad's age. "Sixty-one." I gasped again, couldn't help it. "Oh, I am so sorry." I said it again. "Then you're just a kid," I said. "You're not 40, are you."
"I just turned 40," he said. And he was starting to cry, doing his best not to, but his eyes welled with tears. I asked if he cries every day. "Not any more," he said.
He told me he knows all the technical stuff about aneurisms and about people dying. "But it isn't the same when it's your dad. Those things don't help."
I said again I was sorry and hoped he would always shake my hand, which he did before he left the room.
That was why I needed to go, so he could talk about his dad, cry a little bit. It wasn't really about me at all.
There's more, but I have to write it tomorrow or another time. It's about his nurse, whose only son was killed in June.
Thursday, October 4, 2012
It's about writing
Last night a young man--would-be lawyer--came over for help with his two-page essay, required as part of the application process.
What he had written showed he was trying to do too much in those two pages. But there was a lot to work with. He said he had rewritten two or three times. I say, good for him, but it was very much like a dumping out draft. Just getting ideas down on paper.
I told him he had work to do. We talked about many things. I asked many questions.
Thank goodness he is willing to keep working on it. Not all people are willing to do that with their writing. But he's 26 and very serious about getting into law school. Shows some maturity.
I told him he had to write this one--the not so good one--before he could write a better one. Duh.
But some folks don't accept that. They think either a) I'm done or b) this stinks. The ones who think a are just that. Done. For better or worse, usually worse. The ones who think b get discouraged and think they should throw it away.
This guy is neither a nor b. He's c) willing to work on it. He'll be back in a few days with a new draft. I'm encouraged.
What he had written showed he was trying to do too much in those two pages. But there was a lot to work with. He said he had rewritten two or three times. I say, good for him, but it was very much like a dumping out draft. Just getting ideas down on paper.
I told him he had work to do. We talked about many things. I asked many questions.
Thank goodness he is willing to keep working on it. Not all people are willing to do that with their writing. But he's 26 and very serious about getting into law school. Shows some maturity.
I told him he had to write this one--the not so good one--before he could write a better one. Duh.
But some folks don't accept that. They think either a) I'm done or b) this stinks. The ones who think a are just that. Done. For better or worse, usually worse. The ones who think b get discouraged and think they should throw it away.
This guy is neither a nor b. He's c) willing to work on it. He'll be back in a few days with a new draft. I'm encouraged.
Monday, October 1, 2012
Update
One day last week I could see my owl in the tree. I knew where to look, of course, because of what was on the walkway. He spent the day there, mostly sleeping. Not his first day there, as you know. He is gone now. I don't know where owls go. Is it south?
This is the third time I have had owls hang out here. Did I say that before? Always the small grey screech owls. I quite like it, except for the cleaning up after them.
Speaking of owls. My fake owl had lost his head; I have just now put it back on and I don't know why. That scare-away-the-birds-and-squirrels device never worked. Not on the back deck, not on the front porch. But I guess he is sort of part of my place now. No, I have not named him.
Speaking of frogs, and we weren't, a tiny green frog perched on the window slat of my front door for most of the day today. Now he is sitting on the walkway close to the front porch. I told him he should move because he might get stepped on where he is. He ignored me. I do not want to be the one who steps on him.
Speaking of my skin cancer surgery, and we weren't, I got the stitches out today. The doctor says everything looks good. What did you expect her to say? The black eye/lid/cheek looks horrible, but she didn't mention that. Her assistant said to do the heat and ice packs. Okay. I will.
Good things:
This is the third time I have had owls hang out here. Did I say that before? Always the small grey screech owls. I quite like it, except for the cleaning up after them.
Speaking of owls. My fake owl had lost his head; I have just now put it back on and I don't know why. That scare-away-the-birds-and-squirrels device never worked. Not on the back deck, not on the front porch. But I guess he is sort of part of my place now. No, I have not named him.
Speaking of frogs, and we weren't, a tiny green frog perched on the window slat of my front door for most of the day today. Now he is sitting on the walkway close to the front porch. I told him he should move because he might get stepped on where he is. He ignored me. I do not want to be the one who steps on him.
Speaking of my skin cancer surgery, and we weren't, I got the stitches out today. The doctor says everything looks good. What did you expect her to say? The black eye/lid/cheek looks horrible, but she didn't mention that. Her assistant said to do the heat and ice packs. Okay. I will.
Good things:
- today's phone call from Richard, his story about Axel
- Friday's phone call from Wayne and what he said to Alyce and Ben (we were in my car together)
- the entire weekend, including the Brimley bonding
- Andrew taking me to the rehearsal last night; Andrew singing in my choir
- Lola playing for it
- The music we're singing
- my telephone chat with Ann today
- I can now get my entire face wet
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