Potpourri

I have been absent from my blog for some time. Life has been hectic, with the school year rapidly coming to an end and Dylan playing T-ball games two or three times a week. I spent all day yesterday in Mesquite watching him play. T-ball has been a mixed blessing. I think Dylan likes to play, but I am sometimes appalled at the adult behavior I see exhibited at games. What ever happened to good sportsmanship and trying your best. It seems that these days coaches are only interested in winning at any cost, including berating the kids, yelling at them, yelling at the umps, starting arguments with the opposing team coaches.

I can't believe that Dylan's first year of school will be over in four days. He will be a big first grader next year.The end of the school year is always hectic in the library, tracking down lost and overdue books, collecting payments for damaged ones. I am down to four students which is a good place to be as we start the last week of classes. Now I just have to finish packing up my stuff to keep it safe and relatively dust-free over the summer.Our first year at La Villita Elementary was a memorable one, making new friends, breaking in a brand new building, building memories for ourselves and the children we serve.

Summer is almost here. For the first time in almost ten years I will not be working summer school. I am looking forward to spending time at home, cleaning my house, reading up a storm, playing with Dylan, going on some short "field trips," and generally just having fun. And perhaps, maybe I won't be so neglectful of my blog!!!

My Mother

Yesterday would have been my mother's 83rd birthday. I was just a little melancholy thinking about all the time I've been without her. I had just turned 24 when she died. She never had the opportunity to meet my two children. I never had the opportunity to ask so many of the questions that I've wondered about through my parenting. I've been without her longer than I had her with me, 35 years.

It got me thinking how much I miss having a big family. Maybe miss isn't the right word, since you can't really miss what you've never had, but I know that I am just a bit envious of close knit, large families. For example, on a day like yesterday, it would have been nice to have a sister--or even a brother to call and converse about the good ol' days, tell a "mom" story or two and feel better because you share the same memories of days gone by. Of course, these wished for siblings would also be there to share the good times too. You know, you call them when you've gotten a promotion, when your child or grandchild hits a home run, or maybe just when you've had a wonderful day that you want to share with someone you love.

My own two children really missed the opportunity of growing up close to their cousins. By the time they were 10 and 5, we lived in Ohio and Bob's three brothers and parents lived in Pennsylvania and Maryland. Even though there were 11 cousins, spanning about 18 years, they are not close. Then we moved to Texas in 1991 and we rarely saw other members of the Phillips clan. When Bob and I divorced in 1994, the distance seemed to grow even larger. That was a difficult time for me and I was lucky that I had cousins who are very close and who helped me to get through it, thank you Bob and Kathy for that. I think we should be siblings not cousins. ;-)

My daughter occasionally gets back east to visit but Evan hasn't been back east in at least ten years. He is definitely the black sheep of the family but certainly not entirely of his own choice.

Houston, Houston, I've been to Houston

Finally the load is lifted and I can proudly say that I have been to the fourth largest city in the US, and the largest city in Texas. It only took me 18 years. I arrived in Texas in 1991 but just haven't had a reason to go to Houston until now. I must say, I was impressed. Thankful that it wasn't the middle of summer with simmering humidity, I was able to walk downtown to shopping, the convention center, and several outstanding restaurants. I don't think Dallas has done as good a job in providing visiting conventioneers with activities, hotels and restaurants in close enough proximity to the convention center. It's sad to hear the current opposition to the convention hotel being proposed. Bringing tourists and conventioneers to Dallas is good for everybody.

The past week I attended the Texas Library Association annual conference. It is exceeded in size only by the American Library Association Conference and the excitement is invigorating. I arrived on Monday evening and had just a small case of butterflies as I was presenting at the preconference on Tuesday. Once that was over--and which thankfully went very well, I relaxed and enjoyed thoroughly the rest of the conference.

I had the opportunity to hear Paula Poundstone and Gloria Steinem speak and both were excellent. One kept us laughing for almost an hour, the other reminded us of the progress we've made as women and the journey we have yet to travel. I have to say that while I enjoyed Paula, I was in awe of Gloria.

As a young adult, my life was changed by her words and actions and those of other members of the women's movement. I began to believe that I truly could be an independent person and do anything I chose to do. Her message encouraged me to put off having a family until I secured my education, getting a masters degree before my daughter was born. Those of us who chose families and careers rallied against the stereo-typical cries of men who would have us uneducated and home and baby bound. I can remember socially being questioned by men who asked why I worked and told me I couldn't be a good mother and a working women. My response was always that it was a difficult path, but that my spouse was also a parent and with his help, it was very possible to be both good parents and wonderful role models for our children. They saw that both of their parents had value outside the home, both could make daily decisions and affect the lives of others, both could come home to make dinner, read stories, give baths, and tuck in children. While my husband at the time still fought doing a lot of domestic chores, he certainly did contribute to the raising of our children, particularly our daughter.

To give you a little perspective on how far we have come, in 1966 when I was considering my college options, I could not apply to Harvard, Yale, Princeton, Brown, Dartmouth or Amherst. Closer to my home in northeastern Pennsylvania, I could not attend Lehigh or Lafayette or even the University of Scranton in my hometown. These are just a few of the many universities who had not yet seen the wisdom of admitting women to their undergraduate program. Ms. Steinhem attended Smith College, one of the seven sisters, because none of the Ivy League schools were admitting women at that time. Gloria was quick to point out that we still have a long way to go. Jobs are still pigeon-holed, not by the nature of the work but by the people who do the job. For example, parking lot attendents still make more than child care workers, not because we value our cars more than our children but because one job is done by men, the other largely by women.

As happy as I was to visit Houston and enjoy its hospitality, I am even happier to be home. I am looking forward to the last seven weeks of school.

Maggie--A story from my past

Maggie

In my memory, I open the door and enter hesitantly. Daddy has already gone through the gate into the garden, so I am on my own to enter and greet Maggie. Despite her appearance, weather-worn and weary, her voice is surprisingly lilting and light. She welcomes me into the one room that occupies the ground level of her three story home. The heavy smell envelops me and I am suddenly not sorry I skipped breakfast this morning. I can see the large cast iron pot on the stove—the pot that Maggie always uses to render the goose skin into the fat she believes to have medicinal powers. Waiting to receive the remedy are six jars of various sizes, cleansed of their former contents and waiting to spring to life as the apothecary fills them with a new purpose.

Maggie fascinates me. Born seven decades before me, living in two centuries, she knows much about her world and shares it willingly. All I have to do is ask.

“Why do you do this, grandma?” In my child’s mind I was thinking of a recent bad cold when I’d had to endure a chest poultice of goose grease and camphor, despite protests from my mother who was thoroughly modern when it came to medicine.

“Because there’s a need,” Maggie replies. “Lots of people can’t afford a doctor. I do what I can to help.” That statement launches a conversation that includes tending to people with colds, pneumonia, and even those giving birth. Her answer is simple and profound at the same time and I won't deeply understand until much later in life when I began my family research.

I fast forward to 2008 and what I know about Maggie now.

Maggie was born into and lived most of her life in abject poverty. With little education, there was not a whole lot she could do to improve her situation. In the early days of her life she was, like so many women of her day, little more than property, first of her parents and then her husbands. While the Women’s Movement continued to make progress, the rank and file waited for some evidence of it. Women gained admittance into the working world as servants, teachers or mill workers. Large-scale decision making by women was still decades away. And as in any generation, women without education often did not hear of the progress and even if they did, the day-to-day grind that was their life prevented them from acting upon it. Miners made $1.00 a day for 12-hour shifts, so children were put to work. Boys were likely to follow their fathers into the mines. Girls had two choices—become a domestic or work at the silk mill for much less than what the miners made. Histories written about my hometown are quick to point out that mine owners went out of their way to keep other industry out of Scranton to insure a large workforce for the mines. The only industry welcomed was the lesser paying silk and lace mills where the workforce was predominantly women.

I re-enter the memory. I hear the flip, flip, flip of the push mower that Daddy uses to mow the backyard. The sound meant the geese were hidden away in their pen while he mowed and it was safe to venture outside. My Dad and his brothers took care of Maggie since her only son, my beloved gampa died. A few years earlier, I’d wandered out into the yard before the geese were penned. Those geese, loud and boisterous, chased me and knocked me down. The event still strikes a tiny bit of fear in my heart. As I watch daddy push the mower I feel a hand on my shoulder. It’s Maggie, beckoning me inside for a cup of tea. As I sit down at the table she speaks, “Your father is a good man.”

The statement triggers thoughts of my beloved grandfather, the man who my father now emulates. It makes me wonder how gampa grew into such a nearly perfect man, at least to me, without benefit of a male role model, so I ask about my great grandfather, Gampas father. Maggie hesitates, before answering, then quietly recounts that he was gone a long time and killed in the mines. Even at my young age, I can see the pained look, the water that wells up, but does not spill from her eyes. But again my age makes me incapable of understanding the significance of her statement. I understood it to mean that his death occurred years ago by some mining accident that was all too common in Scranton.

I fast forward to what genealogy research has revealed about my great grandmother. Maggie married James Thorpe in August of 1901 at the age of 17 and gave birth to her first and only child with James a little over six months later on February 23, 1902. James was a miner, as were all the men in his family. On May 2, 1902, the Anthracite Coal strike began in Pennsylvania. The time leading up to the strike had been turbulent and work sporadic. It lasted 163 days and in the end, the miners were granted a 9-hour day and a 10 % pay raise—they had asked for an 8 hour day and 20% raise. All of this meant little to the Thorpe family. Months before the strike owners were routinely shutting down mines in hopes of keeping profits up and scaring the miners into compliance. Without regular work, miners could not support their families. James and his two brothers Joseph and William joined over 30,000 miners to leave the state of Pennsylvania. About 10, 000 returned to their native European countries. Others left for the bituminous coal fields of the Midwest. Coal Creek Mine in British Columbia was well aware of the looming US strike and had been advertising in local papers for miners. The pay was better than the current rate in Pennsylvania, so the Thorpe boys went to Canada. The three left in early March, and on May 22, 1902, James and his brother William died in an explosion that killed 127 men at Coal Creek # 2 Mine in Fernie, British Columbia. It was James’ 22^nd birthday.

I return to my memory of Maggie. I nibble on a stale cookie and sip the tea from the cup, ancient and cracked, that Maggie has placed before me. She asks about my mother, and I understand that the conversation about James is over. We chat some more about school and friends and church before Daddy comes through the door, hot and sweaty, and Maggie presents him with a glass of water.

It is time to depart, but the seed has been planted; the one that will grow into a flowering vine that intertwines my present and past so completely that I can not rest until I find the answers to the questions of my childhood, so fragrant and bittersweet.

Astros Baseball

As the team took the field, prepared for some drills and direction from the coach, the few fans on the sidelines watched with unwavering interest. After all, the players were sons and grandsons of the fans. Let's face it; anything performed by a six year old, particularly when you are related to him, is interesting.

All kidding aside, watching youngsters learn to play baseball is intriguing. In two practices I've seen 9 players go from not being able to throw accurately, nor catch consistently, to getting 2-3 catches or throws in a row. Quite an accomplishment, Coach Jon! What fun to watch the boys interact too. A week ago, they didn't know each other at all, and now you can see them put their heads together and giggle over something that just happened or high five a teammate for a great play.

Participating in sports was never really my thing--do remember I grew up in the pre-Title IX era. I was a healthy kid, who loved being outside, but team sports just weren't an option for a girl in the 1950's. Just imagine me on Beaver Cleaver's little league team--you get the picture. I do enjoy watching though--particularly when one of the players just happens to be my grandson.

I am not sure the team will be ready for their first game on March 28, but they seem to be having fun trying and isn't that what it is all about?

The Book

I just read Judy Blume's latest blog. After a literary conference in Key West, which provided the motivation and ideas, she's started a new book. It was amazing to read her blog about how the process works for her. She mentions in her blog that she carries her characters in her head sometimes for years before she is ready to put the story into book form. That was a real inspiration for me--since the two main characters of my book have been with me for several years now.

Her book takes place in the 1950's--I love that decade. After all, those were the years of my childhood. Being a half century baby, I was the embodiment of Joanie from Happy Days. The only thing missing was the older brother. From poodle skirt, bobby socks, saddle shoes, to hoola hoops and skorts (check those out in wikipedia), those were truly happy days for me. As I look back, I believe the reason I enjoyed this decade so much was my own innocence and the happy feeling that the world was a safe place.

Back to my book--which is languishing in my thumb drive as we speak. There are days I wish I had nothing to do but write, but life seems to get in the way. I think I should take another tip from Judy Blume and keep a notebook where I can write down ideas about my characters, which will help to move the story along. To a certain extent they live in my head too. I know they want the story told and I ask myself daily if I really can tell this amazing story. I wish Judy Blume could come live at my house for a week or two. Imagine how much I would learn about writing from a master writer like her.

I think one of the major stumbling blocks for me is for whom am I writing this story? Let me rephrase that--I am writing the story for me, but what audience will read it? Being a school librarian, I so want this to be a book that kids will pick up, but the story--to be told properly, isn't really a children's story. It is a story based in real life and I want to be as true to the details as I can. I must tell the love story, in detail, which puts it out of the realm of a children's book. Or does it? After all, Stephanie Meyers has made quite a lot of money telling a love story in which a vampire is symbolic of the sexual act. No real sex to speak of--but the young people who clamor to read her books don't seem too upset by that.

Another roadblock for me is the decade in which my story takes place--actually the time frame is a little more than two years, from late 1900 until June of 1902. I've already done quite a bit of research so that details are accurate. The story takes place in two countries--more research--and it involves an industry--coal mining-- that I knew very little about until I started researching for the book about three years ago.

Why am I writing in my blog about writing my book instead of actually doing it?

Understanding Road Rage--okay--Road Anger

I've been driving for a long time. In Pennsylvania, drivers licenses were obtained at age 16 after driver education which was part of the high school program. I had Coach DeCantis as my driving teacher. Let's just say riding around with the football coach and the young man who would eventually be my husband for 23 years was an interesting experience. I did learn a lot though--because Coach wouldn't have it any other way. He believed in driving safely and also driving kindly.

I have noticed that today there seems to be no courtesy on the road. Everyone is so self absorbed, as though there is no one else but them on the road. Tonight I was amazed not once, not twice but three times by drivers who have probably cut in line since kindergarten. One was a woman who wanted a close parking space at Target. She made a left hand turn to go down a lane but stopped leaving the rear half of her car positioned so that oncoming traffic must stop for fear of hitting her. She does not move, but waits for the person to load his car, get in his car, start his car and back out of his spot, all the while blocking traffic in both directions in the main lane right in front of Target. The second was a man, driving in front of me as I was leaving the Target parking lot and getting on the access road for 635. I am in the center lane as is he. In this lane you can go straight or turn left. I assume he's going straight because he does not use his turn signal. WRONG. He slowly approaches the light--not going the speed limit--and then at the last moment he speeds up and turns left, leaving me stuck at the light. Geesh! The third driver is sexless because the SUV had tinted windows and I could not see the driver when I finally got to pass the car. The Ford Explorer was in the far left lane on Loop 12 going 60 miles an hour. I am in the far left lane going 65--five miles over the limit. I come up on the car, thinking they would move--Wrong. They continue at 60 in the far left lane. I flash my lights, just once--but still no movement to the middle lane. I finally put on my blinker move to the middle lane and pass the car. All the laws of driving I have ever been taught say that the left lane is for passing. You get in this lane, pass the cars you need to and then return to a middle or right hand lane. This was not rush hour with three lanes packed with cars. It was almost 8 in the evening and traffic was light. Apparently the driver was comfortable in the left lane and wasn't going to move.

What's the point of this traffic tale? I guess it is the realization that people with any kind of anger management problems could be in serious trouble on Texas roads. How many drivers does it take before one reaches the anger limit and blows? I do my share of complaining about bad drivers, but usually not loud enough for the other drivers to hear me. But I am beginning to see how it could happen.