I Should Say Something Significant

I should say something significant at this juncture in my semester, with the hefty research papers all graded, the giddiness of the students yesterday as they attended the last class, their interchanges as they worked in their groups, and their class evaluations neatly stacked up on my desk, but mostly I'm just tired.  I carried some of their euphoria through the evening, but as Dave and I visited, the euphoria escaped from me like air out of a balloon, and after loading up their essay grades on the class website I took myself to bed.

I should say something significant, but mostly I just feel relief that it's over, done and all the things I have worried about happening this summer can rightfully take their places front and center, not obscured by deadlines and lesson prep and grading and the disruption of teaching an evening class, although after talking to Heather, I pretty much had a cakewalk compared to what she does in her 6 to 9:30 p.m. Biology class at her college.  My hat is off to her and to all the other community college professors, who metaphorically water two-acre fields with only a pitcher of water.  Truth be told, I think all educators (our name for ourselves) feel pretty much the same way, of having to do too much with ever-shrinking resources, both in time, money and personal reserves.

I should say something. . . but I'm pretty much out of words.

This Is Water

From the well-known commencement speech by David Foster Wallace, who committed suicide two years later, a victim of depression. But while this makes the clip above more poignant, he was a brilliant novelist, a superb teacher (I've used portions of his syllabus as inspiration for mine) and a family man who contributed much to the world.

Happy Mother's Day!

Just for the record, we are a definite beater-licking family, as was the family in which I grew up.  Sometimes we were bowl-lickers, too, getting out the rubber spatula to scrape the sweet sticky batter off the bowl, a prelude to the cake rising in the hot oven.

On the strength of that memory, but not limited to that remembrance alone, I can say I was lucky to have a Good Mom.  Wangling seven children along the path of life can't have been easy, but she, with along with my father, got us all through kindergarten, then grade school, then Primary, Mutual, married (and sometimes re-married), and we all know how to write decent thank-you notes, although probably not all of us do. Yet, she still loves us all.

Thanks, Mom, for everything!

Follow-Up to Paper Post

A recent Vimeo, found on this *link* says it all.

Paper Freak

I am a paper freak. 

I love stationary stores.  My best friend in 4th grade, Lynn Mabey, let me go choose a sheet of every piece of paper from the discard stack that her father had given her.  I notice the color of my students' white papers--yes, they are all different and distinct. (And on a side note, I also drive them crazy when I notice that the font they use in their running header is different than what's in the body text "because the e is more closed up, and the L has a bigger serif" but that's another post.) My dream cupboard would have markers of every kind to color-coordinate with papers of every kind.  I love thick, weightier papers, and the idea of letterpress cards and stationary sends me to the moon. 

I line up birthday cards on the fireplace mantel and leave them there the whole month of my birthday.  So far, only two of my children are still in the will for sending me birthday cards. 

Dave knows better than to forget the card on Valentine's Day.  It's not just the thought (which often is prompted by endless reminders) but it's the ability to slide open the envelope, read the handwriting, and yes, then prop it up on the mantel.

So you can imagine how fun it was to discover that someone has built an entire ad series around needing paper.  Here's a couple of the videos:

Happy Valentine's Day

 Ignore the advertisements and pleas. Just enjoy the music, the song, the day, no matter what's going on in your life.

On a Day Like This

What do you serve for dinner on a day like this?  It's a day where the food needs to be hearty and warm and go down easily in between the tears.  Soup?  Spaghetti made with that good sauce from Trader Joe's?  Chocolate needs to be in the picture, better schedule some brownies for dessert.  A whole pan, so more can be cut up and carried in the car on the way to the funeral.

What do you do on a day like this?  The news came early this morning, my husband weeping as he tells me of his brother-in-law passing away in the morning.  I am strong.  I don't cry.  I get more information later, that my husband's sister was sitting at Bruce's bedside, having been awoken at 4 a.m. by her daughter, each taking two-hour shifts through the last few nights.  They sat there, his breathing diminishing, faltering, until at 6:30 it ceased.  A quiet, in-sleep, in-home death.  One we all would choose if we could.

On a day like this, I finish up the quilt and the angelic quilter lady agrees to a rush job and later, much later, after I sit numbly at the computer, and I become not strong, do I realize how Bruce's death diminishes our family.  This is not a new idea.  I felt it when my other brother-in-law died, when my husband's parents died, when my grandmothers died and it has been expressed by writers since time began.  It just feels new, each death bringing with it memories and associations and words that can not ever now be spoken.

On a day like this, I clean out a cupboard and jar breaks.  I look at it, get the dustpan and broom, wander to the mailbox, ask the neighbors to throw the papers on the porch while we're gone and then the quilter drives up, bringing me my quilt, making me cry again.  Because.  Because on a day like this we need hands to hold us, hearts to share our sorrow.  And something easy to eat for dinner.