On the Way Home

Sunday began in the easy way it does with people close knit. Through the always-open front door marched family and friends, neighbors, kids and dogs, all with boisterous greetings that filled the house. Food was everywhere: on the table, the counter and sideboard, the stove. Spring dresses and hair bows (shoes, even) and guitars, coolers with icy beverages, a kiddie pool and bags of water balloons. It must be spring in a life of a young family!

Before jumping into the day, I took a little walk around the neighborhood, watching it bloom with families laughing and double parked, waving to neighbors in their small town way. Every single yard was ablaze with flowers of yellows and reds and blues and violets. Would life be like this every day if families weren't separated by freeways? I remember when life had this pace and the washing machine constantly ran.


Family clusters, we see it less and less. Life pulls us every which-way, and have come to think that only by striking out on our own can we truly become self reliant.

Multi-generational life would, I'm sure, focus our commitment more on the virtues and standards of the family unit. Knowing people that way, my sons and his daughters engaged in their lives - not just when the house is dusted and the fridge is full - would require a more developed interpersonal skillset. There'd be none of this no-talking feud business tolerated. I expect squabbles would be unilaterly handled in the same way children's squabbles are: toss them into a room together until they fight their way to peace.

How great that recitals and honor roll ceremonies would be attended on Wednesday afternoons and that the Vice Principal wouldn't strike terror in the hearts of our teens as much as fessing up to it at the dinner table.

Grandpa would be there to tuck a $20 into the palm of a kid heading off on a date, or pin a corsage on his granddaughter's Confirmation robe. Our natural treasures would know by heart the way to Grandpa's house because it would always be on the way home. Now that would be Heaven.

Percolating

The first day of spring always makes me think of birth. No, not as a metaphor: a real birth! I was in a labor room on this very day a short twenty three years ago, in the middle of the night, dancing the Charleston with Colette and awaiting David's leisurely arrival.

My doctor wasn't on call. The doctor hadn't been on call with my first son, either, so this time I met everyone in the practice. I mean, if they're reaching into my nether regions, I ought to have met them on a prior occasion right side up.

Well one must have been on errands, because about 3:30 am, this hippie guy breezed in wearing a sleeveless UC Berkeley sweatshirt, sweatpants, big hair and a dazzling smile. Let's get this show on the road! Was this an intern?

After hippie Doc explained his holistic approach to childbirth, he took my hand and gently talked me through it: slow and easy, and before I knew it a beautiful little boy was happily peeking at me through half closed eyelids in the crook of my arm. The only thing missing for Doc was a catcher's glove.

With a start like that, I should have figured my son would be amazing. He was the most naturally joyous and loving child I ever saw. His tender, inquisitive nature took life by storm. A natural athlete, statesman, banker, and friend, he thrived everywhere. Sensitive natures have ample challenges, and he was no different, but he kept at it, forcing himself forward, surrounded by the smartest and most dedicated friends, finding a way.

Personalities percolate over the years and become stronger, more robust. The wishes I always wished for him were to have a dream to pursue, a happy life to live, and be a good man in word and deed. Since he's already doing that, I'd better just wish him a happy birthday and remind him how much he is loved.

Keeping Score

I watched a boys basketball team recently compete for the state title. In a sea of purple movements, we bore witness to life choreographed in wild cheers and discordant sighs. On a sunny afternoon on a gleaming court, the tangible results of extended fingertips and thundering shoes boiled down to eighteen years and now-or-never seconds.

Our hearts beat just as hard in our chests as those young men striding the court. We, too, leaned into the action and leapt anxiously to our feet with flawless layups by the enemy team. We rallied with each swish of the basket and felt the prick of discouragement with each bad call.

How clear these moments are, when we are catapulted toward - or away from - the grit to press on. One way or another, life draws us to our knees in prayers of thanksgiving or humility.

Home.

An essential spot, here in this place where I know all its faults. Latte colored walls and unopened mail gives rest and contemplative time for things otherwise. The homecoming is all the more sweet because I pull away.

There are secrets. Daffodil bulbs jump the gun with a few warm days in February and get pummeled by spring downpours each year. They were planted just left of center so from my favorite chair I could watch them find the strength to survive. Under bed covers on chilly November days, the tree flames crimson before it scatters across the lawn. Westminster chimes echo through the house and it awakens me at two, but wondrously not at three or four.

Kitchen chair legs are just the right diameter to grip with my toes as I lean into a game of cribbage or wrestle with a passage of text. In the background, the rhythmic whirr of the dog's breathing inventories the comfort of being somewhere that knows me best.

Sparklers

A lost spirit fills the house with joylessness. Where is his sparkle, I wonder, the crackle missing as I watch him in repose. Seeing Kaitlan and he tucked into a movie on the sofa wraps itself around the quiet lonely struggle to yield to what is.

Fallout. Reconciliation.

I hear and know that love means adapting -- changing -- metamorphizing. Forward and back, it draws me between the me-ism world and balance. Sustainable, endurable, transcendable love is the culprit. is it also the cure?

March 3rd

She would have been eighty today, I mull over as I get ready and head off to work. I put out the dog and notice daffodils from bulbs she bought me two years ago are in full bloom, obviously confused by a few wintery warm days.

I'd have called her first thing, wrestled with a gift idea, marshaled the forces for a strong show for a get-together. She'd have repeated the mantra -- 'I don't need anything, just all of you here' -- as if that wasn't a feat in itself with grown sons immersed in their lives.

It's strange to have March 3rd come and go without her. I thought this day was only for her. Happy Birthday, Mom.

The Pencil Can

Tonight I noticed a button-covered pencil can that my son made in cub scouts. I remember that art project with 9 second graders on the portable table in the garage. They had just run themselves silly with a game of freeze tag and had settled into the task of making a Christmas gift for their moms. They were hunched over a thousand buttons as they glued them to their cans and a reward of warm cookies when they were through.

When my wonderful mother-in-law died, I acquired her button collection. She used to say, you never know when you'll need a button, so she saved them all of her life. While everyone was diving for the sterling and jewelry, I was happy to dump the box on the bed and spread it out in a wide arc.

It was glorious. They were every color of the rainbow, thousands of them, all shapes and textures and sizes. I set to work sorting by color, then size, then shape, then fabric. That didn't work! There were glass, metal and plastic ones, too, and matchless ones. I'll bet she was the only person to keep those little plastic extra buttons bags that come with garments bought at Macy's ...

I rolled the barrel shaped wooden buttons around in my hands, imagining them on 1950s car coats or Irish cardigans. I visualized her in red lipstick, a total knockout on New Years Eve in a red cocktail dress with those red satiny teardrop shaped buttons up the back. The gold fleur-de-lis designs were from scout uniforms and I carefully examined the uneven holes bored into abalone shell buttons.

This is Rina's vapor trail. And here, on the desk in my bedroom, signed in wiggly penmanship by my 7 year old son, it pulls a smile to my lips.

Own It; Fix It; Learn from It

I had a conversation this morning with a friend who said he didn't like the elitist idea of a charter school and that we essentially toss students into a failing public school system that is powerless to help itself. You know, I've worked in public schools a really long time - for 14 years - and now in a charter, and I don't see that at all.

Admittedly, public schools are struggling under the weight of trying to become more effective. The current system is successful with a lot of students, but not all. To adapt to the growing diversity of our culture, honors programs, and Title I programs, ELD, and academies have been added to the curricula.

Within the walls of every school, whether private or public, are thousands of talented, creative, committed staff who knock themselves out every day to provide opportunities for students. All the training in the world will not help a child who consciously chooses to fail, and there are many of those.

I get that our country feels the enormous impact of an undereducated workforce, but the hard truth is schools are only a part of the overall problem. The nuclear family has eroded. The family that used to cluster and collaboratively raise a child is less common now. Financial concerns pull adults out of the home and family time is in shorter supply. Religious influences are less evident, and kids are making choices for themselves that are hard to undo.

What this is about is taking responsibility for our choices, whatever they are. If a student chooses to fail, in an environment where tutoring help and caring, devoted teachers are present, that's on them. And if a student wants to learn, but can't in the environment they're in, that's where a charter school comes in. Charters are public schools that offer a free, alternative academic environment. They are all unique. Where I work, there are no boundaries keeping students away. Neighborhood kids and those from across town are welcome as long as they have a desire to work hard and honor the school culture. There are other places to go if they do not.

Schools were never designed to tackle the social ills of our society and yet can't help but be influenced by them. I see absolutely no reason why we can't ask our children to learn the lesson we were taught, namely You Reap What You Sow. They'll make mistakes along the way -- join the club! But they have to own their choices and behavior before they can fix it and learn from it. That's just as important as math as they prepare themselves for life.