Seven days and counting to our family vacation, time to get to work. The trip and reservations had been set and planned several months ahead, and left to sit quietly until now. Our family, my husband, myself, and our four children are driving to Tennessee to visit with my mother for a week.
The lists begin, lists are as essential to me as breathing when planning a trip with our family. Lists for the trip itself, we are driving fourteen hundred miles with two adults and four children in one vehicle. Lists for the vacation itself, when we arrive in the mountains of Tennessee and our rented cabin. And of course, the list for the trip home. All of the lists are placed in the folder that will reside safely next to my co-pilot seat, along with the reservation confirmation paperwork, the registration and insurance information for the van, and an extensive list of phone numbers on the off chance a cell phone is lost along the way.
Packing begins. Confidently, with extensive list in hand, I begin by tackling each of the kids dressers one at a time. Carefully selecting only the choicest articles of clothing, ones that are comfortable for wearing in the car, are presentable enough to wear if we go to a nice restaurant for dinner, and will be warm enough/cool enough depending on the weather. All goes into the quickly filling laundry basket. Once the preliminary selections are finished, I pull out the kids backpacks and empty them of the residual school papers and broken pencils. Checking off each item on the list as I pack, each backpack fills with the required number of socks, shorts, tshirts, and underwear. Allowing each of the kids to have their clothes packed in their own backpack allows for easy packing and unpacking, but also allows easy access while we are traveling. One bag for all of the extra shoes and sandals to keep any dirt, mud, or residual shoe smell safely away from the clothes. The final backpack for all of the bathroom items that we are bringing, shampoo, contact lens solution, toothpaste, deodorant, etc - all safe in one place should anything leak. The last to be packed, the only suitcase, would hold hubby's and my own clothes. It also held the precautionary mattress cover for my son's occasional nighttime accidents, extra socks (which seem to disappear away from home much faster than they do at home), and any other incidentals that didn't fit in any of the other backpack's categories.
With all of the items on my list checked and accounted for, I pulled out my tried and true LL Bean bag. It's one of the bigger ones, but it was the perfect size to fit between the front seats under the slide-out cup holders. This is what my hubby calls the Doomsday Bag, because if we lose it, we are doomed. These are the basic essentials required to go any length of time with my children in any vehicle. In this bag goes a handful or two of pencils, a couple sharpeners, individual book lights for each of them to read (eternally optimistic), extra rechargeable batteries and the charger, every charger cord for the various electronics we are taking, and individual mini packs of M&M's and mini candy bars (never underestimate the power of chocolate as persuasion). Topping all of this off is a gallon zip lock bag of the various medications that my son takes, the few my husband will need if his gout attacks, cough drops, antacids (my oldest son nearly killed us all after a bad BBQ sandwich last year), Nyquil, melatonin, and 3 large bottles of Advil. Carefully placing the red striped bag near the now-assembled pile of backpacks, There is one last item on my agenda. I grab throw five throw pillows from the couch (I always knew they were good for something) and open the blanket chest for five of the fleece throws I made last year.
I call for all of the troops and explain that nothing, Nothing, was to be added, taken out, or messed with in any way unless I okayed it. They all look at me with acceptance, knowing from past experiences the frantic animal I become if someone alters my perfected form of over-organization. I point to the empty laundry basket next to the pile and tell them that if there is something else that they want or have to take, it should go in there, and we would see if there was space when it came time to pack up. I knew that it would be overflowing by the time we left, and most would find it's way into the space left in my suitcase. I gaze at the pile periodically throughout the time left before we leave, mentally reviewing if we had enough socks, or if I had forgotten anything vitally important; picturing in my mind how it should be stacked and packed in the van so that there would still be enough room for all of the kids. My job for vacation is the provisioning and packing, to make sure we get there with all bits and pieces intact, and then I am on vacation. At least until it's time to pack up again to come home.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Friday, April 29, 2011
Week 10 - Enlisting the Reader
I talk about my children a lot. Well probably even more than a lot according to some people. It just can't be helped, I stay at home full time with my four kids, and they pretty much determine what I do with my time each day. After the kids all go to school, it's generally a small window of time that I get to myself to go through the mail and enjoy an extra cup of coffee. Last week, as I leafed through the mail, glancing through the lastest sales flyers and sweepstakes winner notifications, I saw a rather thick envelope from my son's school. Grimacing, wondering what new batch of useless information it might contain, I ripped open the envelope.
It contained a sheaf of paperwork regarding my son's recent evaluations and school progress for the year so far. Somewhere within also would be the recommendations regarding his program for next year. Steeling myself I begin at the top, trying to read and decipher as I went down the page. As my eyes glazed over and the grocery list began drifting to the front of my mind, I realized I was not absorbing any of the information in front of me. If you have ever had the pleasure of reading such a report you know that about four sentences into it, the "educational-ese" begins. The first few are "I examined/observed such and such child who resides with none/both/one of their biological parents with 1/3/72 siblings, ages 3, 7, 9, and 105..." blah blah blah. Things I know and anyone who knows my kids or family knows, do they really need to put it in the report to tell it to me though? Since no one without a signed and sealed declaration, and perhaps blood sample, can get a copy of the report, really does it require an introduction? Perhaps its just to assure me that the person is actually talking about my son, rather than the 300 other children they are responsible for documenting on. I wonder if it's like a form letter, filling in the blanks with pertinent information. Of course that just leads me to think maybe its more like the old Ad-Libs books, adjective here, adverb here, word that ends in "ing" here... and when they are stumped for a good word they pull out the thesaurus and grab the longest word they can find, sounding sufficiently impressive and knowledgable.
Luckily, or not as the case may be, I am familiar with the layout of this particular fill in the blank report, and there are handy section titles that direct me to the last paragraph or two of the report, "Conclusions." My observations prove to be correct yet again, since this section is made of single syllable words and a couple of mis-spellings, obviously quickly typed or dictated and not properly checked for accuracy or complete sentences (note my son's name is spelled incorrectly, sigh). The total sumation of the "conclusions" is that my son is receiving all of his current services and supports and making progress with said services. In addition the writer, a consulting psychologist for many of the local school districts, determines that the services should continue until the next evaluation. Phew, what a relief, my son is getting his services (which I observe and discuss with his teacher almost daily), making progress (which I see on a daily basis and again hear from his teacher), and should continue with the same regimin for another year (which is a relief since schools rarely manage to leave working programs alone without meddling with them).
I notice the page number at the bottom, #14. Fourteen pages to sum up essentially, it ain't broke so we won't fix it. I wonder if the school has to pay the consultant piecemeal, per page of results per child. I also wonder if perhaps it might be better to eliminate needless meetings and reports and fund some of the sorely lacking areas of the school budget. Maybe an opt out option? Certainly it might fund the notebooks that my daughters third grade class held a bake sale to pay for?
It contained a sheaf of paperwork regarding my son's recent evaluations and school progress for the year so far. Somewhere within also would be the recommendations regarding his program for next year. Steeling myself I begin at the top, trying to read and decipher as I went down the page. As my eyes glazed over and the grocery list began drifting to the front of my mind, I realized I was not absorbing any of the information in front of me. If you have ever had the pleasure of reading such a report you know that about four sentences into it, the "educational-ese" begins. The first few are "I examined/observed such and such child who resides with none/both/one of their biological parents with 1/3/72 siblings, ages 3, 7, 9, and 105..." blah blah blah. Things I know and anyone who knows my kids or family knows, do they really need to put it in the report to tell it to me though? Since no one without a signed and sealed declaration, and perhaps blood sample, can get a copy of the report, really does it require an introduction? Perhaps its just to assure me that the person is actually talking about my son, rather than the 300 other children they are responsible for documenting on. I wonder if it's like a form letter, filling in the blanks with pertinent information. Of course that just leads me to think maybe its more like the old Ad-Libs books, adjective here, adverb here, word that ends in "ing" here... and when they are stumped for a good word they pull out the thesaurus and grab the longest word they can find, sounding sufficiently impressive and knowledgable.
Luckily, or not as the case may be, I am familiar with the layout of this particular fill in the blank report, and there are handy section titles that direct me to the last paragraph or two of the report, "Conclusions." My observations prove to be correct yet again, since this section is made of single syllable words and a couple of mis-spellings, obviously quickly typed or dictated and not properly checked for accuracy or complete sentences (note my son's name is spelled incorrectly, sigh). The total sumation of the "conclusions" is that my son is receiving all of his current services and supports and making progress with said services. In addition the writer, a consulting psychologist for many of the local school districts, determines that the services should continue until the next evaluation. Phew, what a relief, my son is getting his services (which I observe and discuss with his teacher almost daily), making progress (which I see on a daily basis and again hear from his teacher), and should continue with the same regimin for another year (which is a relief since schools rarely manage to leave working programs alone without meddling with them).
I notice the page number at the bottom, #14. Fourteen pages to sum up essentially, it ain't broke so we won't fix it. I wonder if the school has to pay the consultant piecemeal, per page of results per child. I also wonder if perhaps it might be better to eliminate needless meetings and reports and fund some of the sorely lacking areas of the school budget. Maybe an opt out option? Certainly it might fund the notebooks that my daughters third grade class held a bake sale to pay for?
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Week 9 - Speculative
Times when I am doing something particularly boring or mundane I usually allow my mind to wander and think back on my life. Looking back it's like looking up a large tree, the wide solid trunk is the now of my life solid and whole, buried beneath the surface the collective knowledge and nourishment are supplied by tendrils of the past, and the branching limbs above and ahead of me are the various avenues open awaiting to be chosen. I picture my tree of life and wonder if it would be quite so solid and round if I had done this, or not done that? Would it have smoother bark, less gnarls and knots in the wood, or would it have failed to thrive and be pitifully thin, awaiting a windy Maine storm to snap it in half or pull the roots up all together? My husband calls it my What-if game. He sees the glaze in my eyes as I wash the dishes or fold the laundry and ask what I am deleting from my life. He doesn't understand the draw is not to delete from my life, but to wander through the alternate lives I might have lived if I had made different or better -or worse- decisions. Since I am a firm believer in the adage of "Older and Wiser" I feel that the wisdom I have gained allows me to reflect and determine if I was wrong or right, foolish or wise, hasty or thoughtful.
A recurring theme in my idle musing is the changes that my life would reflect had I not re-met my husband several years after we had broken up from our high school romance. Invariably this line of thought leads to the eventual conclusion that I was indeed extremely fortunate that fate peeked down and aligned our lives to reconnect. Being rather cynical or, as I like to say, realistic, I then peek ahead to ponder my future should fate decide to withdraw that blessing from my life. What would I do if my hubby were to leave, or heaven forbid, to die?
I am the mother of four wonderful children, certainly a handful but an amazing group even if I do say so. I am also a full time student at the moment, in the hopes that one day I can get a real grown-up job that will supplement our single family income. Of course I am also a full time student because my children are full time students. My youngest son, the next-to-youngest total, is currently in the fifth grade but was diagnosed with special needs when he was 3 three years old. There are no ready-made after school programs or daycare centers for kids who require the constant one-on-one supervision - thus the stay at home mom/student status I currently enjoy. Enjoy. I do actually enjoy being home for my children, regardless of the snarky comments about third grade math homework and the constant mom taxi duties. And while it is fulfilling and I think important for parents, rather than daycares and babysitters, to raise their children, I also know that someday there will come a time when my children will not need me to be there when they get off the bus. Being a stay-at-home mom is important to me but being a stay-at-home wife is not on my list of things I want to do.
If suddenly I were to become a single mother of four, I would seriously need to re-evaluate my lifestyle. I would obviously have to begin working to support my family. Who would I find that could care for my children and keep them safe and happy? Would I be able to find a job that would allow me to spend as much time at home while my kids were home and awake. With the current scarcity of decent paying jobs, it would more likely be not one but two jobs that would be needed. If I were able to find two jobs to juggle together, I wouldn't even know where to begin looking for childcare for my kids. I know that I would be playing the lotto every week to keep from paying 3/4 of that second check for said care.
Would my older sons begin to drift away from the lack of a male role model? My oldest will be off to college in a year or so, so he perhaps would avoid significant damage from the lack of father at home, but what about my second son? I would be studying sporting updates hard and long (and mostly unsuccessfully, I'm sure) to fill the shoes of my hubby. Long nights of off color jokes and wrestling matches would unfortunately be out. Would he be able to talk to me like one of the guys as he struggles with girls, grades, and life in general through high school? Seriously I doubt it. I guess ultimately my kids would most likely have to accept that while our life had changed, I would still be the same ol' mom that I was before. Certainly I would be trying harder, stressing more, and doing everything possible to make up the difference, but we would still be missing a vital piece of our lives.
As I have told my children so many times, certainly there are times when people change their lives, but more often than not, the things in your life change you. It's those darn roots that feed the trunk of the "life tree". While you think you can pick and choose which branch you will travel into the future, it's the roots that can determine the width and breadth of those branches, and whether they will carry you further onward, or snap suddenly under your feet leaving you to begin again with the present.
A recurring theme in my idle musing is the changes that my life would reflect had I not re-met my husband several years after we had broken up from our high school romance. Invariably this line of thought leads to the eventual conclusion that I was indeed extremely fortunate that fate peeked down and aligned our lives to reconnect. Being rather cynical or, as I like to say, realistic, I then peek ahead to ponder my future should fate decide to withdraw that blessing from my life. What would I do if my hubby were to leave, or heaven forbid, to die?
I am the mother of four wonderful children, certainly a handful but an amazing group even if I do say so. I am also a full time student at the moment, in the hopes that one day I can get a real grown-up job that will supplement our single family income. Of course I am also a full time student because my children are full time students. My youngest son, the next-to-youngest total, is currently in the fifth grade but was diagnosed with special needs when he was 3 three years old. There are no ready-made after school programs or daycare centers for kids who require the constant one-on-one supervision - thus the stay at home mom/student status I currently enjoy. Enjoy. I do actually enjoy being home for my children, regardless of the snarky comments about third grade math homework and the constant mom taxi duties. And while it is fulfilling and I think important for parents, rather than daycares and babysitters, to raise their children, I also know that someday there will come a time when my children will not need me to be there when they get off the bus. Being a stay-at-home mom is important to me but being a stay-at-home wife is not on my list of things I want to do.
If suddenly I were to become a single mother of four, I would seriously need to re-evaluate my lifestyle. I would obviously have to begin working to support my family. Who would I find that could care for my children and keep them safe and happy? Would I be able to find a job that would allow me to spend as much time at home while my kids were home and awake. With the current scarcity of decent paying jobs, it would more likely be not one but two jobs that would be needed. If I were able to find two jobs to juggle together, I wouldn't even know where to begin looking for childcare for my kids. I know that I would be playing the lotto every week to keep from paying 3/4 of that second check for said care.
Would my older sons begin to drift away from the lack of a male role model? My oldest will be off to college in a year or so, so he perhaps would avoid significant damage from the lack of father at home, but what about my second son? I would be studying sporting updates hard and long (and mostly unsuccessfully, I'm sure) to fill the shoes of my hubby. Long nights of off color jokes and wrestling matches would unfortunately be out. Would he be able to talk to me like one of the guys as he struggles with girls, grades, and life in general through high school? Seriously I doubt it. I guess ultimately my kids would most likely have to accept that while our life had changed, I would still be the same ol' mom that I was before. Certainly I would be trying harder, stressing more, and doing everything possible to make up the difference, but we would still be missing a vital piece of our lives.
As I have told my children so many times, certainly there are times when people change their lives, but more often than not, the things in your life change you. It's those darn roots that feed the trunk of the "life tree". While you think you can pick and choose which branch you will travel into the future, it's the roots that can determine the width and breadth of those branches, and whether they will carry you further onward, or snap suddenly under your feet leaving you to begin again with the present.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Week 8 - A Good Friend
As I sit working on the computer, my cell phone trills a familiar little be-bop tune beside me. Looking down I see that my mother is calling again, it's no surprise. Let me explain, I love my mother. She is and has been my very best friend since the day that I moved out of the house at eighteen, before that she was just my mother and it was hard to be friends with the local law enforcement, so to speak. Usually I talk with my mom a few times a week, calls when she is driving to or from work at a private college in Tennessee. We laugh and joke about how she has to drive slower so that her people (cell phone coverage) can catch up with her as she goes around the bend near the T&J store a few miles away from her house. Usually we talk about what she is doing today with her nursing students, how warm it is down there, or which of my kids are sick, grounded, or performing in various plays or concerts.
Lately however we have had a new topic of discussion, and subsequently the increase in calls. My mother had gotten a phone call from a nursing recruiter, telling her of a position particularly suited to her skills that had come available. While that might be exciting in its own right, the catch comes in that the job is in Portland, Maine - some 22 hours driving time from her current location. When she initially called me she told me to sit down because she had some news. Idiotically I immediately ask if she is pregnant, after all news of such importance as to warrent sitting down before hearing it can only be impending marriage or pregnancy, and I figured I would go for the bigger shock of the two just in case. She laughed and I relaxed a bit, and she told me about the job opening. Ultimately the position is wrought with circumstances and considerations that can make your head spin if you think about it for too long - having to move, selling the house, buying a new house, taking a management position again - but also being closer to family and grandchildren, moving back to Maine that has seasons and snow, returning to the coast where her sweetie Tom has worked his whole life, being able to attend grandchildren's concerts and plays, gathering for holiday dinners and celebrations. For every pro there is a con, and then for every con there is a pro, round and round it goes.
While my mother is my best friend, I flatter myself thinking that I perhaps am her best friend also, and in times of trouble, strife, or heavy decision making, you call your best friend for advice - thus the phone calls. But this also puts me in a particularly delicate position. I love my mother and I want her to move back to Maine even more than I want a Sonic to suddenly appear across the street from my house. As a daughter I want to do the happy dance around the living room and sing "Nana's moving to Ma-ine", but as a friend I don't know thats what I should say. If it were me, I would want my friend to give me their objective opinion on what they think would be the best thing for me to do, but it's much harder to be a good friend to your mother who is your best friend. I want to be selfish, I want talk about the Christmas dinners we could have and the weekend trips for shopping, but I don't know if that is the best thing for her to do. I remember many times when I have spoken about the kids or going out to lunch with the girls when she would go silent and I could feel the silent tears gathering in the corner of her eye from so far away. It makes my heart break to think that I have upset her, and try to gloss over the uncomfortable moments with depreciating comments about rotten children or potential food poisoning.
Rembering this, during that first call I was able to keep a detached calm and ask about the pay, moving expenses, and talk about how hard it would be to sell her house in Tennessee in the current housing market. I didn't do the happy dance and sing. I asked about her contract at the college and the student loan forgiveness she receives for teaching there. I wasn't planning those shopping trips and weekend visits. I was gentle and subtle, even and considering of the pros and cons of the situation. When we hung up, I just sat staring blankly at the television. Hubby came into the living room and saw my face, he asked me what was wrong. I was confused, nothing was wrong, right? I was happy that my mom might be potentially moving back to Maine, wasn't I? I was suddenly struck with the problem, talking to my mom I had been the perfect friend, but a terrible daughter. What if she was calling me to see my reaction? If I wasn't all that excited about it, then perhaps she wouldn't put much consideration to taking the position. Now tears were rolling down my face, as I realized my mistake. I called her back.
Lately however we have had a new topic of discussion, and subsequently the increase in calls. My mother had gotten a phone call from a nursing recruiter, telling her of a position particularly suited to her skills that had come available. While that might be exciting in its own right, the catch comes in that the job is in Portland, Maine - some 22 hours driving time from her current location. When she initially called me she told me to sit down because she had some news. Idiotically I immediately ask if she is pregnant, after all news of such importance as to warrent sitting down before hearing it can only be impending marriage or pregnancy, and I figured I would go for the bigger shock of the two just in case. She laughed and I relaxed a bit, and she told me about the job opening. Ultimately the position is wrought with circumstances and considerations that can make your head spin if you think about it for too long - having to move, selling the house, buying a new house, taking a management position again - but also being closer to family and grandchildren, moving back to Maine that has seasons and snow, returning to the coast where her sweetie Tom has worked his whole life, being able to attend grandchildren's concerts and plays, gathering for holiday dinners and celebrations. For every pro there is a con, and then for every con there is a pro, round and round it goes.
While my mother is my best friend, I flatter myself thinking that I perhaps am her best friend also, and in times of trouble, strife, or heavy decision making, you call your best friend for advice - thus the phone calls. But this also puts me in a particularly delicate position. I love my mother and I want her to move back to Maine even more than I want a Sonic to suddenly appear across the street from my house. As a daughter I want to do the happy dance around the living room and sing "Nana's moving to Ma-ine", but as a friend I don't know thats what I should say. If it were me, I would want my friend to give me their objective opinion on what they think would be the best thing for me to do, but it's much harder to be a good friend to your mother who is your best friend. I want to be selfish, I want talk about the Christmas dinners we could have and the weekend trips for shopping, but I don't know if that is the best thing for her to do. I remember many times when I have spoken about the kids or going out to lunch with the girls when she would go silent and I could feel the silent tears gathering in the corner of her eye from so far away. It makes my heart break to think that I have upset her, and try to gloss over the uncomfortable moments with depreciating comments about rotten children or potential food poisoning.
Rembering this, during that first call I was able to keep a detached calm and ask about the pay, moving expenses, and talk about how hard it would be to sell her house in Tennessee in the current housing market. I didn't do the happy dance and sing. I asked about her contract at the college and the student loan forgiveness she receives for teaching there. I wasn't planning those shopping trips and weekend visits. I was gentle and subtle, even and considering of the pros and cons of the situation. When we hung up, I just sat staring blankly at the television. Hubby came into the living room and saw my face, he asked me what was wrong. I was confused, nothing was wrong, right? I was happy that my mom might be potentially moving back to Maine, wasn't I? I was suddenly struck with the problem, talking to my mom I had been the perfect friend, but a terrible daughter. What if she was calling me to see my reaction? If I wasn't all that excited about it, then perhaps she wouldn't put much consideration to taking the position. Now tears were rolling down my face, as I realized my mistake. I called her back.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Week 7 - Take #2
Middle school halls are typically crowded with milling students between classes, with one group or another wandering through the masses. Each group is defined by, and defines its members by status and popularity. One group, the popular boys - all athletic, funny, handsome, and quick witted - commanded the young girls' attention. Tommy Mason was part of that elite group. He had the typical wavy blond hair with shaggy bangs, sky blue eyes, and a wide smile that glinted in the sun (it actually did, braces weren't clear back then). He was the starting pitcher and co-captain for the baseball team. As with most young men his age, he created an air of superiority when among the girls his age, and all but ignored them until he was sure she liked him first - he had the pick of the girls for any dance.
The bruise that appeared around one of Tommy's blue eyes near Christmas0time, drew significant attention in school. All the young girls rallied that he had protected his younger sister from some jerk who was mouthing off. The jocks all supposed that it must have been someone from out of town, an opposing team most likely, it couldn't have been someone from our school. It eventually turned into a story of some poor sop could only have gotten in a lucky punch before getting the stuffing knocked out of him, and justly so. Tommy never said, just smiled at the jokes and pulled menacing faces at anyone who asked him directly.
Tommy didn't play basketball his eighth grade year, as he had in sixth and seventh grades. The starting line would miss his fast breaks up the lane due to the broken wrist he had gotten. He said his bike had lost a wheel while going down the long hill of his driveway, and he had landed on his arm when he fell. You couldn't see the white of his cast for all of the get well wishes and signatures from his classmates. A few daring girls even left lipstick kisses. As the anticipation of spring and the baseball season reached it's peak early in April, Tommy Mason could be found hanging out with other veteran players talking about tryouts and new prospects.
One weekend sirens were heard all through town, piercing the silence of a sunny day. Ambulances and police cars ripped down Main Street, turning to head toward the outskirts of town. Monday morning a special assembly was called and it was announced that Tommy Mason had had an accident and was killed over the weekend.
The real story, as it came out later that week, was that Tommy Mason had committed suicide. The thirteen year old boy, still wearing fresh bruises from another encounter with his drunken father, had taken a shotgun to the closet and shot himself. He was pronounced dead upon arrival by the authorities. The town was rocked with the news of the tragedy.
August 31, 1987 - In one small Maine town, the school year began with 63 eighth grade students, but ended with only 62.
Eight children out of a million commited suicide in the late 1980's. It was, and still is, the third highest cause of death for children under 18 years old.
The bruise that appeared around one of Tommy's blue eyes near Christmas0time, drew significant attention in school. All the young girls rallied that he had protected his younger sister from some jerk who was mouthing off. The jocks all supposed that it must have been someone from out of town, an opposing team most likely, it couldn't have been someone from our school. It eventually turned into a story of some poor sop could only have gotten in a lucky punch before getting the stuffing knocked out of him, and justly so. Tommy never said, just smiled at the jokes and pulled menacing faces at anyone who asked him directly.
Tommy didn't play basketball his eighth grade year, as he had in sixth and seventh grades. The starting line would miss his fast breaks up the lane due to the broken wrist he had gotten. He said his bike had lost a wheel while going down the long hill of his driveway, and he had landed on his arm when he fell. You couldn't see the white of his cast for all of the get well wishes and signatures from his classmates. A few daring girls even left lipstick kisses. As the anticipation of spring and the baseball season reached it's peak early in April, Tommy Mason could be found hanging out with other veteran players talking about tryouts and new prospects.
One weekend sirens were heard all through town, piercing the silence of a sunny day. Ambulances and police cars ripped down Main Street, turning to head toward the outskirts of town. Monday morning a special assembly was called and it was announced that Tommy Mason had had an accident and was killed over the weekend.
The real story, as it came out later that week, was that Tommy Mason had committed suicide. The thirteen year old boy, still wearing fresh bruises from another encounter with his drunken father, had taken a shotgun to the closet and shot himself. He was pronounced dead upon arrival by the authorities. The town was rocked with the news of the tragedy.
August 31, 1987 - In one small Maine town, the school year began with 63 eighth grade students, but ended with only 62.
Eight children out of a million commited suicide in the late 1980's. It was, and still is, the third highest cause of death for children under 18 years old.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Week 7 - Profile
**I was unable to contact the subject of this profile for permission to use their names, so have changed the names for privacy's sake**
The halls of the middle school were crowded with milling students between classes, but parted to either side as the group of boys sauntered through. The popular boys - all athletic, funny, handsome, and quick witted - commanded attention. Tommy Mason was part of that elite group. Wavy blond hair with shaggy bangs, sky blue eyes, and a wide smile that glinted in the sun (it actually did, braces weren't clear back then) were all the qualities that he needed to fit in. He was the pitcher for the baseball team, so was able to clown around with the other jocks after school in the locker room. As with most young men his age, he ignored the girls until he was good and ready - he had the pick of the girls for any dance.
The bruise that appeared around one of Tommy's blue eyes, drew significant attention in school. All the young girls rallied that he had protected his younger sister from some jerk who was mouthing off. The jocks all supposed that it must have been someone from out of town, an opposing team most likely, it couldn't have been someone from our school. It eventually turned into a story of some poor sop could only have gotten in a lucky punch before getting the stuffing knocked out of him, and justly so. Tommy never said, just smiled at the jokes and pulled menacing faces at anyone who asked him directly.
Tommy didn't play basketball his eighth grade year, as he had in sixth and seventh grades. The starting line would miss his fast breaks up the lane due to the broken wrist he had gotten. His bike had lost a wheel while going down the long hill of his driveway, and he had landed on his arm when he fell. You couldn't see the white of his cast with all of the get well wishes and signatures from his classmates. A few daring girls even left lipstick kisses.
The anticipation of spring and the baseball season reached it's peak early in April. Tommy could be found hanging out with the other pervious players talking about tryouts and the new prospects. One weekend sirens were heard all through town, piercing the silence of a sunny day. Ambulances and police cars ripped down Main street, turning to head toward the outskirts of town.
Monday morning a special assembly was called and it was announced that Tommy Mason had had an accident and was killed over the weekend. The real story, as it came out later that week, was that Tommy Mason had committed suicide. The thirteen year old boy, still wearing fresh bruises from another encounter with his drunken father, had taken a shotgun to the closet and shot himself. He was pronounced dead upon arrival by the authorities.
The town was rocked with the news of the tragedy. A nice town like this would never expect such a terrible thing to happen, but it did. Popular and likable boys like Tommy would never feel so hopeless as to take his own life, but he did. Sadness such as this should never live in the hearts of children, but it does, even today.
The halls of the middle school were crowded with milling students between classes, but parted to either side as the group of boys sauntered through. The popular boys - all athletic, funny, handsome, and quick witted - commanded attention. Tommy Mason was part of that elite group. Wavy blond hair with shaggy bangs, sky blue eyes, and a wide smile that glinted in the sun (it actually did, braces weren't clear back then) were all the qualities that he needed to fit in. He was the pitcher for the baseball team, so was able to clown around with the other jocks after school in the locker room. As with most young men his age, he ignored the girls until he was good and ready - he had the pick of the girls for any dance.
The bruise that appeared around one of Tommy's blue eyes, drew significant attention in school. All the young girls rallied that he had protected his younger sister from some jerk who was mouthing off. The jocks all supposed that it must have been someone from out of town, an opposing team most likely, it couldn't have been someone from our school. It eventually turned into a story of some poor sop could only have gotten in a lucky punch before getting the stuffing knocked out of him, and justly so. Tommy never said, just smiled at the jokes and pulled menacing faces at anyone who asked him directly.
Tommy didn't play basketball his eighth grade year, as he had in sixth and seventh grades. The starting line would miss his fast breaks up the lane due to the broken wrist he had gotten. His bike had lost a wheel while going down the long hill of his driveway, and he had landed on his arm when he fell. You couldn't see the white of his cast with all of the get well wishes and signatures from his classmates. A few daring girls even left lipstick kisses.
The anticipation of spring and the baseball season reached it's peak early in April. Tommy could be found hanging out with the other pervious players talking about tryouts and the new prospects. One weekend sirens were heard all through town, piercing the silence of a sunny day. Ambulances and police cars ripped down Main street, turning to head toward the outskirts of town.
Monday morning a special assembly was called and it was announced that Tommy Mason had had an accident and was killed over the weekend. The real story, as it came out later that week, was that Tommy Mason had committed suicide. The thirteen year old boy, still wearing fresh bruises from another encounter with his drunken father, had taken a shotgun to the closet and shot himself. He was pronounced dead upon arrival by the authorities.
The town was rocked with the news of the tragedy. A nice town like this would never expect such a terrible thing to happen, but it did. Popular and likable boys like Tommy would never feel so hopeless as to take his own life, but he did. Sadness such as this should never live in the hearts of children, but it does, even today.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Theme 6 - Autobiographical Slice - Who I am
I was born in Kansas City, quite a distance from the little coastal town of Maine that I call my hometown. My mother loves to tell the story of how she used to make all of her own maternity clothes, and would make little outfits for me at the same time. My mother and father married after having met and dated in high school. I have seen the pictures of them all dressed up for the prom, with the long pastel gown and the frilly tuxedo shirt. There are also photos of them feeding each other cake, surrounded by friends and family at their wedding so long ago. My father had enlisted in the Marines after high school and ended up being shipped out to Vietnam shortly after. My mother discovered she was pregnant with me just about the same time. She was 19 years old, a newly married military wife, and a soon-to-be mother. I always remember the story she told about how I was born at shift change and how all of the nurses crowded around me in the nursery to take a peek before going home.
I don't remember my mother and father splitting up, as I got older there was a lot of he-said, she-said. It's all summed up in the fact that my father came home from Vietnam with a ready-made family that he didn't quite know how to deal with. My mother moved in with my grandfather, her dad, while she went to LPN school. I spent many afternoons toddling around the back yard while he weeded and pruned the strawberry bushes along the fence and his beloved peach tree in the center. Some of my earliest memories are of my grandfather's house, and of spending time with him. As I grew older and went to preschool and later to kindergarten, it was always still within the general area where my grandfather seemed to be the center.
My mother remarried as I turned eight. Her new husband worked in the same hospital but was originally from the northeast. Suddenly my world was changing. My mother was going to have a new baby, a little brother for me. I had a new dad who talked funny and had a big moustache, and we were moving to New England where there was snow and an ocean. I remember that when we moved to Bangor, Maine the kids all teased me because I talked funny. It was so amazing when the snow was too deep for me to walk through it. I wonder what my life would have been like if I had not moved from the Midwest. Would I be using "y'all" and "purdy"? Would I appreciate a lovely spring day the same way if it wasn't following a brutally cold and snowy winter? I wonder if I would have met my husband if we hadn't lived in the same small town here in Maine, or if I would have had my four wonderful children? I wonder how my life would be different, and what would be the same. It makes me wonder sometime, what little things in my life have made me who I am?
I don't remember my mother and father splitting up, as I got older there was a lot of he-said, she-said. It's all summed up in the fact that my father came home from Vietnam with a ready-made family that he didn't quite know how to deal with. My mother moved in with my grandfather, her dad, while she went to LPN school. I spent many afternoons toddling around the back yard while he weeded and pruned the strawberry bushes along the fence and his beloved peach tree in the center. Some of my earliest memories are of my grandfather's house, and of spending time with him. As I grew older and went to preschool and later to kindergarten, it was always still within the general area where my grandfather seemed to be the center.
My mother remarried as I turned eight. Her new husband worked in the same hospital but was originally from the northeast. Suddenly my world was changing. My mother was going to have a new baby, a little brother for me. I had a new dad who talked funny and had a big moustache, and we were moving to New England where there was snow and an ocean. I remember that when we moved to Bangor, Maine the kids all teased me because I talked funny. It was so amazing when the snow was too deep for me to walk through it. I wonder what my life would have been like if I had not moved from the Midwest. Would I be using "y'all" and "purdy"? Would I appreciate a lovely spring day the same way if it wasn't following a brutally cold and snowy winter? I wonder if I would have met my husband if we hadn't lived in the same small town here in Maine, or if I would have had my four wonderful children? I wonder how my life would be different, and what would be the same. It makes me wonder sometime, what little things in my life have made me who I am?
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