Urbs in Horto

That's Chicago's motto.

They live up to it.... big time.

I had an hour between dropping Little Cuter at work and meeting old friends for lunch, so I walked.

(Feel free to bask in that sentence.)

I didn't hurt, the weather was warm, the sun was out, and Michigan Avenue beckoned.

Not the stores.... the avenue itself.

The trees are planted in planter boxes.

affording comfy resting places 

for weary travelers. 

Newspaper boxes are interspersed with floral decor.

Staring across the street, debating whether to go into Cartier and drool

I couldn't get past the tulips.

There were lots of tulips.

Lots and lots

of tulips. 

They were planted in stages

so that new ones will bloom as the older ones fade.

There were random decorative items in planters,

and Wet Paint signs on the railings. 

They may not be able to fix the pot holes in the streets, but the wrought iron is beautifully maintained.

Gardeners were planting 

small gardens 

which drew me in closer 

and closer. 

It was a lovely day for a walk....

especially when you and your mom are color coordinated to the flora.

Urbs in Horto.... City in a Garden.....

truer words were never spoken.

Sorry I'm Late

That was the theme yesterday.

I tried to leave Chicago.  Really, I did.  The Realtor was to meet me for breakfast and her usual "take me to the airport because then we have an hour to ourselves" run.  I had B55 as a Southwest Boarding Pass and three hours between our meeting and my plane's departure.  Life was good.

Without cash, with a new car, without the desire to see that car driven by a young valet to a remote parking lot, she disappeared from view just after I spied her through the window.  That was fine; she's been blowing in almost-but-not-quite-late for the 31 years of our relationship.  I sipped my odd green tea mixture and waited happily.  There were two under-two-year-olds at the next table I stared and dreamed.

Safely parking her new car, she tried twice before her egg whites were to her satisfaction.  My oatmeal was as odd as the green tea, filled with honey and something creamy with totally tasteless granola on top.  I've never been disappointed in oatmeal before, but, as G'ma used to tell me, there's always a first time.

Our waitress was delightful if sporadically attentive.  The conversation was, as well.  I was trying to find a bite or two that would hold me over until I got to Midway.  I decided that I could wait.

The drive was easy, we hugged good-bye, and I was delightfully surprised to find that, for the fifth flight in a row, I was on the TSA pre-screen list.  I didn't have to wait in the long line.  I was shuffled off to the right, where I breezed down the skinny hallway next to the windows, tossed my suitcase and purse onto the belt, and strolled through the metal detector.  It's a whole different experience when you don't have to take off your shoes.... I almost felt like a human being.... not a potentially dangerous one, either.

Gate B9 was one moving walkway from security.  The oversized lounge chairs with the charging stations in the armrests were unoccupied.  I settled in next to two men with headphones, turned on the Kindle, and read on in Bleak House. That little device comes in handily when the reading material is an 800 page tome and you are trying to travel light. 

I had time.  I waited, happily.  Inclement weather on Monday left many travelers scrambling for escape on Tuesday, but there were no clouds to speak of as I watched the planes take off and land.  I'd be home in time for my therapy at 4:15pm.

That was the plan. 

I fed myself at Potbelly's Sandwich Shop, a favorite when we lived in town and my guilty pleasure while waiting at Midway.  A toasted tuna and a giant Coca-Cola left my belly and my heart happy.  Certain tastes bring back vivid memories and, as I returned to the gate, my mind was back at Oz Park with The Cuters.  I settled in, gently belching the world's tastiest pepperoncini, and waited to board.

That was the plan.

As the runway became less busy and then empty, CNN and the airport announcer told us the same story - there was smoke in the control tower.  Midway and O'Hare were shut down.  Our plane had been diverted to Grand Rapids, Michigan.  There was nothing further to report.

The helicopters overhead were scary to some, but I was still struck by the silence.  Looking at another day in the airport, never reaching Albany, the young mother and her toddler read picture books and colored and were remarkably calm.  The family on their way to UofA graduation, planning to celebrate at one of Tucson's fancy resorts, a vacation they never would have taken were their youngest child not celebrating, they'd checked their belongings through.  Without underwear or toothbrushes, with another daughter already on her way from another city, the mom assured me that her outward calm in no way reflected her inner turmoil. 

We waited.

There wasn't a lot of information to be given; firefighters concentrate on the job at hand rather than public statements.  At one point, there were planes lining up on the runway.... and there they sat.... for two hours.... before this announcement: Attention in the terminal.  Do not get excited if you see planes moving.  They are going back to their gates.

We waited some more. 

Rumors flew. I read.  I crocheted. I chatted with the Ironwood Ridge High School teachers to my left.  We watched the other's bags for bathroom breaks and information seeking forays.  We played with the baby. 

We waited.

Then, the announcement we dreaded.  There was no guarantee that the airport would reopen anytime soon.  We should get in line to rebook, or call the 1-800 number, or go online if we had access... which, being Boingo in Chicago, was unlikely since the free service lasts only 20 minutes and no one wanted to pay for more.  So, I got on line, holding a place for one of the teachers who sat comfortably watching the luggage as the line inched its way to the counter.  The pilots waiting nearby shared their news - all flights scheduled before 7pm were going to be cancelled.

I called The Realtor, made a plan to take the train to her house for a slumber party, and prepared to leave Chicago in the morning..... although as the line moved slowly forward the rumor was that there were plenty of seats on the 7:15pm plane.  So many decisions... to rebook and hope... to rebook later and plan... and we waited and pondered and then the desk attendant picked up her microphone and told us that We have a plane!

The cheers and clapping were spontaneous. 

We boarded as soon as the last person steps off the inbound flight and I've never seen so many people move so quickly.  A1 through 30... GO! and they went.  There was no pausing between groups; B55 was on the plane minutes after A1.  I settled down between a grandpa going to a wedding and a Tucsonan returning home.  We pulled back from the gate as soon as the doors shut on the last man on and we took off just as quickly.

The pilots were as tired of waiting as we were.

My plan was to write to you yesterday afternoon, once I got home and unpacked and took a shower.  By the time I landed and met TBG for a quick dinner and got home and showered and flopped onto the couch my brain had turned to mush.  I forgot that I was late to the party... that I'd not written my post... that you were waiting.

Please, accept my apologies.  I hope that reading this over lunch is just as satisfying as reading it over breakfast.

Clouds Rolling In

A thunderstorm is on its way.  

I'm watching the edge of the weather system creep over the neighbor's house and, as the words appear on the screen the first few drops are hitting the windows.  Little Cuter's plants are either closing up or opening their blooms to the water.  She has dahlias and lantana and geraniums and chrysanthemums and the most astonishing collection of ranunculus MOTG and I have ever seen. Planted to celebrate the season and look gorgeous for her house party on Saturday, they survived a late freeze and are now simply beautiful.

My little girl never evinced an interest in gardening.  The young woman she's become is fixated on growing things.  Is it homeownership which created the change?  She seems to think so.  Personally, I think it's G'ma's influence from above. Today's humidity and cooler temperatures and rain are just what they need and, again, I'm thanking my own mother for her Mothers' Day gift.

Thomas-the-Wonder-Dog is terrified of thunder.  He quivers and quakes and hides in the basement, which is an improvement over his behavior when the kids lived in a City apartment.  With no place to hide, SIR at work, Little Cuter in the shower, he took matters into his own paws and joined her in the bath.  Crashing through the shower curtain, he wrapped himself around her soapy legs, insensible of the havoc he was creating.  She was there and he was comforted so she continued washing her hair, then washed his, and they dried off together.  

Today, finding no comfort at SIR's feet, he's gone back down to the basement to shake in private.

Those few raindrops are all that have fallen as I've typed these paragraphs.  The clouds are darkening, though, and the wind has died down, and now giant pellets are descending.  Though I worry about the padded lawn furniture, SIR is blissfully unconcerned.  

The edge of the weather system is now a straight gray line in the sky, like the shadow of the lighter gray following it westward.  I'm watching the white blossoms on the neighbor's apple tree hold onto the branches, valiantly.  They appeared earlier this week, I'm told, along with the pink cherry and crab apple blossoms.  Perhaps they will remain attached, perhaps they will cover the grass.... time will tell. For now, they are stolidly resisting the forces of nature.

The separation between the rain cloud and the sky has vanished.  Everywhere I look it's gray.  The basketball playing neighbors have gone inside, Thomas refuses to join us upstairs, and the ranunculus are bowing under their own, wet, weight. 

I've forgotten how much I like a midwestern rain storm.

What Goes Around Comes Around

I spent a lot of my childhood in the backyard.  We had the swing set, the sandbox, the big tree for home plate, and no fence between ourselves and our uncle and aunt next door.  It was kid heaven.... proven by the doorbell every evening.... the neighborhood kids asking if we could come out and play.... or just asking if they could play in the yard.

I often thought that my yard was more popular than I was.

I spent Mothers' Day weekend with the kids in Illinois.  SIR's sister was celebrating her birthday on Saturday, and she and her husband brought their three little boys from Indiana to share the joy.  Her parents, Big Bob and MOTG, rounded out the party.

Every bed in the house was occupied, and still there was a need for more.  Little Cuter, channeling her inner child, recreated a fort-bed on the downstairs couch for the kids.  There were so many, many choices, between the long piece and the middle piece and the one that was headed into the middle of the room, and then, there was the air mattress.  It was a conundrum wrapped in a paradox and altogether overwhelming for the littlest one, nearly three (shown on both hands with all the fingers waggling).

SIR is the world's best uncle, a fact that assures he will be an equally fabulous father.  Before the guests arrived, he'd shopped for water pistols and giant jars of bubbles.  The water balloons were a failure, even with the bright orange spout secured in the neck of the rubber hole, the hose was incapable of filling them to anyone's satisfaction.  It didn't matter.  They enjoyed watching their uncle try and fail.

There was so much to do that he never go to the whiffle ball and bat Little Cuter  purchased on our morning run to CVS.

Shorts were exchanged for bathing suits and the fun began. The water pistols were swords and wands and squirters. The big brother, at seven, was acutely aware of the little ones.  There was no hostile "I'm bigger and you're gonna get it!" Instead, he'd rub their heads and check to be sure that their weapons were loaded and ready to fire.  Obviously, he's been brought up well.

The bean bag toss came out (you may know it as Cornhole, but I have a hard time with that moniker) and the grown up boys began a competition that lasted well into the evening, long after the little boys had gone to bed.

The ladies went to Little Cuter's Baby Shower (more on that later this week) and left the menfolk in charge.  Everyone was alive and no one was bleeding when we returned three hours later.

No one but I was surprised.

They'd barbecued while we were gone, and there was more of that as the evening wore on.  Guests filtered in from the party, taking up residence on the padded patio furniture and the steps and the grass and the living room couch. It was a full house.  It was wonderful.

I was reminded of lazy summer afternoons when I was a girl, of bbq smoke and catching fireflies and frolicking with my cousins under the rotating sprinkler.  There was always a snack or a hug where there was a need.  The same was true on my daughter's porch last night.

She's recreated the happiest memories of my childhood in her own backyard, and, as I age and she moves into parenthood, I feel the circle of life going 'round and 'round.  Am I smarmier than usual? Perhaps. It comes from all this love that's floating in the air.

Random Thoughts

Recovering from illness takes its toll.  I've cancelled Pilates and a dinner meeting.  I have less energy than usual, and piles are accumulating where they lie because I am too tired to move them and put them away.  I managed to do laundry, but only because I am traveling this weekend and don't want to go naked.  We've been eating plain turkey on rye bread for dinner; vegetables made my stomach leap.

It's better than lying on the bed and suffering, but nearly as frustrating.
*****

I crocheted a sweater for FlapJilly, my in utero grandchild.  The pattern called for 28 rows of this and 23 rows of that and I bet that the whole thing would have looked better had I matched my gauge to that of the instructions.  

Instead, when the pattern called for sewing the side seams together, I couldn't find them.  Worked from the bottom up, the sleeves were perfect, the neck divine, but the body was short.  Very, very short.  

TBG and I pondered and he suggested adding length and as I worked the item transformed itself from a monstrosity to something vaguely resembling an article of clothing.  After tying bows and turning sleeves into cuffs, it's actually almost adorable.  

I'd take a picture, but I want to surprise Little Cuter and SIR this weekend.

*****

I've been feverishly creating small items but the parents to be are now requesting BIG blankets... big enough for the new mommy and her baby to cuddle beneath.  The problem with that plan is the short attention span of the crocheter.  I like things I can finish in a few days.

Still, the recipients should have some small say in the gifts, I suppose.  Super bulky yarn may be the ticket.

*****

Watching my fingernails cruise the keyboard made me sad.  

TBG saw a news story depicting the dangers of the ultra-violet light used to set the gel nail polish I've been using for my manicures for the last three years.  Apparently, there are enough UV rays in the little machine into which I stash my nails for thirty second intervals to cause all manner of cancers.

I went this morning, resigned to a straight polish job on both fingers and toes.  It would chip,  require time to dry, demand that I be careful.... all of which I dealt with as my vanity struggled with my desire for a long and healthy life.  

Then, I looked at the machine - L E D emblazoned on its front.  No harmful UV rays for these digits, now perfectly adorned with neat and unchippable white, French tips.

*****

The Schnozz went in for a check-up and, nearly six hundred dollars later, I remembered that I needed new windshield wipers, too.

The noise I hear upon starting the car is still there.  The technician says it sounds just like the other GTI's in the shop, even though it's a new noise to me and I've owned the car for 50,000+ miles. 

There's no smoke, no awful smell, and the rumbling disappears after five or ten seconds.  I think I'll ignore it.  As G'ma used to advise, if you don't like a noise in the car, turn up the radio.

I've been blaring oldies all week.

*****

I'm finally able to walk in my sandals.  For three years, they've been hidden away in a plastic space saver bag, crushed together like grains of sand on the beach.  Now, with my ever increasing ability to ambulate well, I'm finding that I don't need the support of tied shoes to get where I'm going.  

I opened the bag, dumped it on the floor, and was transported to the summer of 2010, when WallyWorld put all the plastic flip  flops on sale for fifty cents a slipper, one dollar a pair.  I bought navy and green and pink and white and black and red and yellow and teal and light blue and I was still under $10.

Now, stiff from years of inactivity, they laugh at me from their plastic bin. I'm still working my way through my Keens and Tevas.  These cheapo pals will have to wait for August, when I'm bored with their fancier, more expensive, cousins and the triple digit temperatures draw me to their minimalism.

It's nice to have that problem again.

*****

The clothes I'm taking to Illinois will fit in my purse.  I've left toiletries at the kids' house, and sneakers and socks and sweaters, too.  I'm debating not taking a suitcase at all.

On the other hand, I could fill a giant piece with my winter gear and leave it all there.  They'll have to invite me back, if for no other reason than to wear it.

May 7, 1983

.... I was enormous.  Gigantic.  The size of a house.... or, at least, a double wide trailer.  I'd gained 47 pounds, and though my plan was for a 10 pound baby and a 30 pound placenta, leaving me 7 pounds to lose I was beginning to believe that, perhaps, I was mistaken.

.... it was a balmy, easy Saturday spent waiting for a baby to arrive.  I knew exactly when I became pregnant, but no one could be precise to that same degree of certitude when it came to the number of days it took to grow a fully formed human..... so we waited.....

... and when we got tired of waiting  we drove west on Wrightwood, the bumpiest, most pot-holed street in town.  TBG was determined to shake this baby loose....

... and when that didn't work we tried to scare him out with a hot dog covered in hot peppers.... which did seem to have an effect on him.  I doubled over in the parking lot, and, no, I was not trying to tie my shoes.  I hadn't done that in months.   Real contractions were certainly different from the practice contractions, Braxton-Hicks.

Time stood still.

And then, it started up again....

... the breeze turning into a wind into a force field, sending Lake Michigan across eight lanes of Lake Shore Drive...

... Zanner coming over for dinner and the rain pelting the windows and the baby making himself known more and more frequently... so we sent her home and I took a nice long shower.... sitting on the shower bench when necessary, admiring my painted toenails as I realized that, in fact, I could neither walk, talk, nor make a joke.

31 years ago I was having a baby.

Today, that baby calls to reassure me that everything is all right .... even if he just wonders if I might be feeling blue.

That baby promised to carry me out if I failed on my hike, came home after I was perforated to lift me and move me, hefts packing boxes of paperbacks to the tippy top of the closet, and leaves arrows pointing to that which is hidden behind.... because he knew that it makes me smile.

I'm not going to focus on the next eighteen hours.... though they were filled with uproarious laughter in addition to all that other stuff.... because it all became unimportant at 12:16.

Happy Birthday, Big Cuter.  It's been a pleasure.

The Wind

Eight years ago this week we flew to Phoenix and drove to Tucson.  We were house-hunting, and C&B told us that Tucson was their retirement destination.  Since they lived in Phoenix, we assumed they knew what they were talking about, so we scheduled a realtor trip and hit I-10.

We were nearly blown off the road.

The winds start in the north or the south or the east or the west... there's no accounting for their origins or their paths.  During the summer, entire weather systems originate over Pike's Peak and drop rain on our parched ground.  The fact that the weather is coming from the east was baffling at first, but we soon became comfortable with those shifting winds.

Comfortable with the notion, perhaps, but not with the results.

The winds kick up lots of dust. That makes for fabulous sunsets.  It also makes it nearly impossible to avoid allergens.

Yes, I know that people came to the desert to escape airborne irritants, but those same people missed the foliage they'd left behind.  They imported non-native plants and trees to remind themselves of home, and soon the desert was as toxic as the lands they'd left behind.

The wind picks up tiny fragments of sand and thick dust and deposits them on eyelids and in nostrils.  I know no one who isn't sneezing or hacking a dry, unproductive cough.  No one is sick, everyone is annoyed.  At the theater on Saturday, the director begged the audience to unwrap cough drops before the curtain went up; there was a rush of crinkly cellophane all around me.  Performing in Tucson in May has perils, it seems.

There's a general scratchiness which abounds.  People are rubbing arms and eyes and throats, seeking but rarely finding relief.  Sympathy is on the face of those watching another sneeze uncontrollably.  Everyone has been there, done that... and has been for the past few weeks.

There's a different yoga practice for the windy season.  My car uses more gas to cover the same territory, as the Schnozz pushes herself through the gusts.The bougainvilla on the side of the house make slamming banging noises with their branches, scaring me with their ferocity until I remember that it's only a plant.

The doors shake and the windows rattle and the alarm goes off when the back door to the potting shed takes the brunt of a particularly strong celestial exhalation.

That's what I'm imagining it to be.  I have so many angels in heaven these days, grandparents and parents and little friends watching me from above.  I've decided that they are blowing out the angst and clearing the way for the new baby and it's taking an awful lot of power to do so.

When my car door slammed shut, pushed by the wind, I thanked Daddooooo for closing it for me. When my breeze-assisted walk to the mailbox is faster than it's ever been before, I thank my spirits for the help.  The clouds speeding by overhead are a reminder from G'ma of those rides we took so that she could admire them from the road.

The birds are flapping their wings more vigorously than ever, battling the forces that resist their forward motion. The plants need extra watering since the winds are more desiccating than even the summer heat. Loose flower petals and leaves are piling up in corners and under low shrubbery.  My mailbox door refuses to stay shut.

Did I mention that it's been very windy lately?

The Laramie Project, Tucson High Style

Lolly told me about it.  We find ourselves at the same, interesting, unconnected venues without planning together, so I took her suggestion seriously.  A blast email found two friends with a free afternoon, and we were off on an adventure unlike any other.

http://tinyurl.com/lh6jtsa

This was a deep, serious, thought and tear provoking event.  Based on months of interviews by Moises Kaufman and the Tectonic Theatre Project, the play chronicles the death of Matthew Shepard through the eyes of the 22,687 inhabitants of Laramie, Wyoming.

Tied so tightly that the first officer on the scene struggled to cut the ropes, beaten so badly that his face was unrecognizable, he bled and cried and suffered alone until a random bicyclist passed the lonely buck fence in the wind.  The only clean place on his body were the tracks of tears on his cheeks.

Even the plain facts are horrifying.  At 5'2" tall.... or maybe taller, depending on whose telling the story.... Matt was a 22 year old student at the University of Wyoming, there in Laramie.  He was gay.  His murderers were drinking, looking for trouble, and offended by his sexual orientation.  All of that came out in their confessions; the crime was solved with remarkable speed and efficiency.  The police made sure to get it right.

But the facts are not the center of the play.  How could this happen?  Who are we as a town?  What could I, personally have done to alter the outcome?  How can I live comfortably within my skin when my sexual orientation is at the center of a homicide?  For there was no doubt that gay panic was at the heart of this crime.  The perpetrators admitted it.  The townsfolk discussed it.  The audience soaked it in.

http://www.people.com/people/article/0,,20743011,00.html

Directed by Art Almquist, People Magazine's 2013 Reader's Choice Teacher of the Year, thirty students at Tucson High Magnet School drew us into their world, which wasn't their world except during the eight run schedule.  It was hard to imagine them living any other way.

The limo driver, Doc... Officer Reggie Fluty... Romaine Patterson.... I know that there were students on the stage performing the roles but, in the moment, I was unaware of any difference between the human saying the lines and the human who told them to the Tectonic Theatre Project fifteen years ago.  

Fifteen years ago these kids were riding tricycles and eating Otter Pops.  Fifteen years ago Judy and Dennis Shepard's oldest son, his father's hero, sat at the corner of his local bar, drinking and taking in the scene.  Did he come on to the driver of the truck by placing his hand on an unwelcoming thigh?  Did that prompt punches to the face and blows to the head with the butt of a gun?  Was he kidnapped or did he go willingly, looking for a ride home after a late night out?  Again, the facts are less important than the reactions surrounding them.

The religious leaders' intolerance.... the don't flaunt it in my face diners in the coffee shop.... the classmates and the educators and the waitress and the physicians and the others who lived and worked in Laramie and shared their thoughts are the center of this remarkable work.  Staged plainly, with straight back chairs moved from side to center to side again the only props, the students manage to create a fully fleshed out world.  You can hear the wind.  You can feel Matt's fear.  You ache and cringe and writhe with each new character.

Add caption

Did you know that Angel Action was started as a response to the protesters at Matthew's funeral? Romaine Patterson, Matt's best friend, created big ass wings so that she and her companions could block the view.  Worried about the chants and epithets her volunteers would be close up against, she went out and bought earplugs.

That's the kind of social change I can get behind.


The play ran 2 hours and 40 minutes.  Initially, we were appalled.  It was high school theater, after all.  It could have been awful... slow... ponderous... miscued... un-lit... unintelligible.  Instead, we were sorry to see it end.  The standing ovation was generalized, not just parents and BFF's but strangers, as we were, there for an afternoon, with no particular allegiance to the school or the players.

No particular allegiance until now, that is.  

Feeling Crummy

I never get sick.  I got shot, but I don't get sick. I come from hearty peasant stock, as I am fond of reminding TBG.  His tummy is sensitive; I eat everything and never have a problem.

That is, until it's important that I be up, dressed, and waiting along the road for Amster and the kids to drive by.  Then, I wake up at 2am, ready to hurl all the delicious foodstuffs I consumed yesterday. I shake. I quiver. I end up on the floor, the cool, tiled floor, sweaty and moaning.

Needless to say, there wasn't much sleeping happening in our house last night.

TBG found me medicine, but I had to feel well enough to swallow it and keep it down.  That took some time...... the sun was up before I was certain that the pill would end up in my gut and not be rejected by my uncooperative body.

I texted Amster at five o'something, begging off and apologizing for not being able to join them on Race Day.
I spent the morning in bed, the afternoon on the couch, and I've come to the desk to type to you because I know that you are out there, waiting for my daily report.

Sorry it's not cheerier.... or longer... or more uplifting.

Feeling crummy.... that's all I have to say.

Advancement Via Individual Determination

It's a mouthful, isn't it?  AVID is just that - a mouthful, a life full, a very big bite to take.  It's getting ahead on your own power.  It's going to college, and knowing what that means in real life terms.

It's a seven year program, starting in middle school and continuing through high school.  Amphi Middle School's first cohort is graduating this year, and through the tears there were awards and applause and reminiscences.

"Do you remember those first essays you wrote, back in 5th grade?" led to groans and cringing. Describing change over time, the students were called leaders in the classroom, scholars who had bonded with the teachers who led them for the past three years.  There were Creative Thinker Awards and Leadership Awards and AVID-ude Awards and Kings and Queens of Tutorials were crowned in every grade.  Every name was read aloud, because, as Ms Wall, Vice-Principal and head cheerleader for AVID, told us, "It is important that everyone be recognized."

The GRIN volunteers were called upon to observe, comment, interact and then, after the ceremony, to serve at the buffet line.  As one wrote this morning,

The evening was different, however, in that we got to see the results of the school’s positive spirit of change. ....... the teachers (are) supporting and encouraging students to reach beyond their known world......

And what dreams they reach for.  I took photos of the story boards created by the 8th graders as their final project.  After field trips and research and interviews and conversations, they developed..... well... let's let them tell you themselves:

They were to describe their past, their present and their future.

This future dance major put her facts and figures on purple paper, adorning the board with leaps and back bends and sunshine.  Her words were as sunny and upbeat as her poster.

Several of the boys are convinced that professional sports are in their future.

Take the time to smile and read about this up and coming New England Patriot Quarterback: 

I've never read  a more honest analysis of the push me-pull you existence of a middle schooler.

When I asked him about it, he smiled, ruefully, and admitted that his intentions were often better than his actions.  Complimenting him on his stated determination to try, he blushed just a little and turned away. Saying it out loud makes it much more real. Writing it down makes it inescapable.

He was looking at his dream and assessing the costs.

It was a moment, denizens.

There were baby pictures from Africa from this budding OB/GYN

Her reasoning teeters on the edge between childhood and adulthood with disarming oblivion.

  These two are planning to attend Cal, together with a third friend who wasn't available for the photo opportunity.  Two are going to be medical doctors and one a forensic anthropologist.
They know where they will live, and how they will earn rent money, and how many credits it will take to graduate.  They are certain that, together, they will achieve what they dream.

The dreams were varied.  Some were new to me.

 Cynology?

These are all first-generation-collegians.  They have no footsteps in which to follow.  AVID makes sure that they understand the ramifications of their decisions.  Financing the future is a major focus. 

We agreed that there aren't a lot of people with 422000 American dollars lying around, and that confidence in the future is a good thing.  Casting a wide net is a strategy that has worked in my life, but I, unlike this student, never had a plan.

Not all the parents spoke English; listening to her student translate her plan for the future nearly burst this woman's cheekbones.  We were so proud, standing there together, I reading along as the Spanish words brought tears of joy to the faces around me.

There was a great deal of thought given to the words on the posters. 

The future is very real for these students.

They know that it will take their Individual Determination to make their dreams happen, to create their Bright Futures 

They've all learned the same lesson: 

Following Directions

The yard guys were here this morning, though I thought they were coming next week.  I put on my shoes and my gloves, grabbed my clippers, and found that I was already too late: the lone poppy on my acre of arid land had been culled as a weed.

Ernie, the owner/supervisor/all-around-great-guy, was holding it in his hand. He was as dispirited as the plant.  The fury in my soul was mitigated by the sorrowful droop of his shoulders.

"I just finished telling him to leave the poppy and take all the rest........"

He was as upset about being ignored as he was about the murder of the pretty little volunteer.

I knew just how he felt.

I ordered half a sandwich today.  Then, feeling hungrier than usual, I asked if I could have a whole one. I was not surprised when the smaller portion arrived at the table; I was surprised at my lack of reaction.

I seem to have come to expect that my words are floating out there, sometimes heard, sometimes ignored, sometimes not noticed at all.  TBG and I have taken to talking aloud to ourselves. Were it only one of us I might be worried, but that we are both doing it makes me feel marginally less foolish.  The fact is, it's a self-reinforcing little habit - I know that when I talk to myself I will also be listening.

Amster tells Elizibeth to clear the table and the kitchen counters and the words fall on a typical teenager's deaf ears.  The request should not have to be made, nor should it be ignored.  We're trying to decide whether to focus on instilling the behavior or demanding her attention.  We'll lose either way, but it would be nice to have a strategy.

puzzles.com  

I'm often not much more compliant, myself.  I give myself rules - no Facebook after noon until the next day's post is written - but, when no one's looking, I cheat. That I am the no one who is not looking is a mobius strip in and of itself, and yet another example of not following directions.

Is there an inconsistency here?  Am I railing against others when I am guilty as well?

Yes.  I am unapologetic.

I'm as bad as the rest of the world.

I think it has something to do with the overload of information.  News reports repeat tweets.  Games are broadcast with words running beneath the screen.  CNN talks all day about nothing, sacrificing accuracy for verbiage, as the link to The Daily Show will (hilariously) demonstrate.  Being first trumps all... and that only works if people aren't really paying attention.

Following directions, and feeling consequences for ignoring directions, are basic skills reinforced in kindergarten.  Miss Levine gives multi-part directions just once at this point in the semester; in August, her instructions are broken up into mini-messages.

Come to the mat.  

Find your place.  

Cross your legs. 

Hands to yourselves.  

Eyes on me.  

No talking.

That litany is now

Get ready for story time.

In the often chaotic worlds her students leave behind each morning, Miss Levine imparts a sense of order and structure, an atmosphere of expectations and security.  The students are part of that environment; over the course of the year they learn that following directions has immediate and positive consequences.  They sit quietly, they hear a story.

I wonder where all that good behavior goes as we age.  Perhaps we need to reinstitute story time?