It has been a week…..

…..and I am thankful. Thankful that Election 2016 is behind us. For months we were bombarded with negative rhetoric and ugly visual ads. Facebook throbbed with new posts, one more outrageous than the last. Terms such as crook and misogyny became part of everyday vocabulary in reference to our soon-to-be chosen president. The focus was on criticism rather then optimism, negative findings of the past rather than creative ideas for the future, exclusion rather than inclusion. I don’t know about you, but I was sad about the whole process.

Finally November 8th arrived, and I had the privilege of working at the polls with a fine group of people. We arranged tables to accommodate voters efficiently, hung customary notices, reviewed our assignments, and began the day with a long line at the door. Smiles and cheerful greetings welcomed our neighbors as they arrived. One dear elderly lady carried out her civic duty with the help of a patient daughter, others had moved to another part of the community and needed directions to their new polling location, a kind restaurant owner delivered lunch and then hours later dinner. Quite a few voters brought children and teens,  and we welcomed them eagerly as young witnesses to the democratic process. First time voters received a round of applause and cheers, much to their surprise. Some of us worked from 6 AM until closing at 8 PM .

After a full day at the polls, I returned home to view the colorful map and hear the earliest results coming in from the East Coast. Like many, I was very surprised. Late evening stretched into night at which time the map was complete and it was clear that the ever-intensifying nightmare of the campaign season had culminated in a victory for one candidate. Unprecedented protests followed along with fascinating commentary and many questions. Will campaign promises be fulfilled? Did the public receive false impressions from postings on social media? How did mainstream leaders miss the cries of a mass of the population that evidently feels “left out”? What impact will the new president in the White House (or on 5th Avenue) have on European nations teetering on the brink of electing far right leaders?

Only time will tell, I suppose. I hope and pray that thoughtful consideration and wisdom will play a role. Now one week later, there is another question. Should I prepare my mother’s cranberry-orange gelatin salad or fresh whole berry sauce? This is a question I can handle. And it gives me much joy!

Have a Happy Thanksgiving!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

X Country Memories

I love teachers and especially those who coach sports! Recently I observed and wrote about swim coaches during an especially humid and hot Pennsylvania summer. What follows takes us to a cooler place and time, to the vast open spaces and dusty winding paths carved into the foothills of the Rocky Mountains of Colorado.

Imagine a sunny day in Ft. Collins with low humidity and a beautiful sky that stretches on forever, except where the mountains rise up abruptly in the West and draw a jagged line against the sea of blue. The altitude is 4,984 feet. High school cross country runners in brightly colored uniforms arrive and walk 1/4 mile or more to the stadium, where at least twelve other groups are staking out their territory and setting up “camp.” Team members help coaches carry coolers packed with fruit and snacks, large water jugs, and assorted equipment included a large tent awning.

The first to arrive plop their backpacks onto the grass and work together to raise up the poles of the canopy. Others talk with the coaches about the course and schedule. Some nap, play cards with friends or quietly stretch. I sit by one of the coolers and smile as the students help themselves. It’s a pleasant, relaxed atmosphere.

Before long, groups of uniforms make their way onto the dry crackling earth of the stadium and gather behind a yellow line. The coaches accompany them to give last minute reminders and encouragement. Teams form circles and sing chants and then line up as they await the ringing shot that sends the entire mass of color and energy bursting down the course like a herd of great creatures.

I cheer for the red and gold team and then slowly meander back to my seat in the shade as the runners disappear into the distance. For the coaches there is no rest, however. They run ahead to the 1-mile marker in order to time their students. Then on to the 2-mile marker for more record-keeping and finally they race to the finish line at the 3.1 mile marker ( 5 k) to welcome their hard-working runners. This seems pretty strenuous to me for adults who get up before dawn to prepare for the day and begin teaching by 7:30 AM.

Now this is the key! Anyone who has ever set foot in a high school classroom knows that total attention and energy are required to effectively implement a lesson and manage a class. Teachers need to respond to the surprises that occur and, most important, they are committed to offering each student special individual care. Most teachers have five classes daily and that translates to as many as one hundred fifty students. As well, they teach various levels and content throughout the day and must prepare materials, write and grade tests, answer emails, attend meetings, administer make-up work, etc. This sounds like a full-time job! Teachers who coach sports move directly from the classroom to the responsibility of supervising students at practice and in competition. I never fully appreciated the extra rigor and energy required to be a teacher-coach—until now.

Back to the throngs of students who are pacing themselves, breathing, and concentrating on strategies while moving along the course…….it’s soon time for me to leave my comfy chair and find the finish line. Some students look like they’re in pain. All are perspiring. Some lurch forward with new energy as they approach the end. Others barely make it across. I cheer for each runner equally as he or she makes it to the finish.

 

………..This all occurred on a Friday after school. I was proud to be there and to secretly applaud my son, one of the coaches. As dusk fell, we returned to his house, engaged in lively chatter about the personal records made that day and the positive team spirit I had witnessed over and over. I learned that the coaches check in with each runner after a competition to ask if goals were met and what new learning has occurred. If a runner has a bad day, encouragement and understanding from the coach are essential. I discovered that it’s not about winning, but rather about character, learning, and growth. Eventually, we discussed dinner and came up with a nice menu of quinoa, spinach salad, and leftover grilled beef. It tasted great, but I shouldn’t have been hungry. After all——-I hadn’t run anywhere.

I love teachers…

and especially teachers who are also swim coaches. Picture yourself at a junior championship meet on a steamy Saturday morning, 88 degrees in the shade at 9 AM. Parents and grandparents set up their camping chairs under trees, but the coaches are out there in the sun for hours. They don’t even get to jump into the pool to get cool!

“Don’t forget to put on sun screen, Lauren.” “Ten and under boys breaststroke line up here.”  With clip board in hand the coach calls out names from the roster for the next relay and guides the children to line up in order. Then he reminds them to hold hands, the little ones at least, and follow along, forming a snake of tiny bodies in identical suits and caps weaving its way through the crowd at water’s edge. The destination is the end of the pool where the young contestants will climb onto the block in their assigned lane.

These things go like clockwork, it appears. No time is lost. The participants in the previous race stay in the water until the next group has entered. Time-keepers are in place. An announcer has already named the swimmers and their lanes, which is helpful for us proud grandparents because each child looks about the same. The best part is the finish. If one or two children lag behind, the entire group cheers for them. Each is congratulated for his or her time, not for beating out the others. The swimmers reach across lane lines and shake hands.

I like this spirit of excellence without harsh competition. The teacher-coach encourages each child to reach maximum performance, appreciates the effort and courage it takes, and……….no wonder my grandchildren come back to such a rigorous summer activity year after year.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Blueberries are in ….

and my kitchen is a mess. The sink is full of stained utensils. A large soup pot sits idly nearby waiting to soak in warm soapy water. You see, I just cooked up a batch of fresh blueberry jam. Various mason jars fill one side of the counter along with an assortment of extra rings and flat lids. I’m sitting here at the computer to rest my legs and prepare for the clean-up. At this point I could be thinking about how easy it would have been to select several lovely jars of jam from the shelf at the grocery store or my favorite country market. But wait…

I would have missed the treat of going to the farm stand to buy freshly picked berries, the feel of those lovely little fruits as I washed and drained them, the hands-on work of chopping them with my large chef knife and discovering below the deep blue skin a soft yellow-green center. And I would have never had the fun of measuring all those cups of sugar. This is where the healthy aspect of jam becomes questionable–nearly twice the amount of sugar as fruit– and the directions make it clear that the exact amount of sugar is required for success. I’ll just spread the jam very lightly on my toast and muffins, I think, while stirring the conglomerate of fruit and sugar together with a pat of butter. The butter is to reduce foam. Now who ever knew that foam could develop from berries and sugar?

With the stirring and timing complete and after skimming off any surprise foam that may have snuck into the jam, I carefully ladle the hot bubbly mixture into jars using a funnel to prevent spills. I keep a small portion aside. Somehow spots of deep reddish- purple end up on the stove and counter and on my kitchen towels but all is well if I manage to keep the jars upright as they become filled with the beautiful steaming hot liquid. The potential for burns is real and caution is important. With sealing lids and rings screwed on, the whole project is slowly lifted into a large pot of boiling water one jar at a time for the final treatment–the boiling water bath.

The most fun is the final step as the jars are gently removed and begin to cool. The difference in temperature causes a suction and the lids pop as they are pulled tightly onto the jar. I count the pops to be sure all jars are sealed. Finally I can relax, leave the jam alone to cool, and taste that little sample I had kept aside. It’s sweet, still warm, and fresh as a garden full of summer blossoms–this is why I love to make blueberry jam!

 

 

The two men in lane one

moved over a bit as I glided by. They’re perhaps retired, I thought to myself. One had handsome grey hair, the other a soft artificial orange. They chatted while engaging in water exercises. “….already for two years,” I heard. And then from the same man, “Thank goodness I’m still working.” I surmised that perhaps this gentleman’s wife had retired two years ago.

It was 8:30 on a cold snowy morning. The indoor pool offered a wonderful view of the outside world through a large wall of glass. It was magical! As I swam laps, the gentle breast stroke and signature side stroke that amuses my grandchildren, I hugged the lane rope while passing the men and thought about what I had heard.

“Thank goodness I’m still working.” Is he glad to work for financial reasons? Does he enjoy his responsibilities because they give him meaning and purpose? Is he concerned about being replaced?  Is this man grateful to be away from the house because his wife is now at home all day? Any of the above is possible. Perhaps he works part-time and has the luxury of making his own hours, I thought to myself. He lingered in the water after his friend left, sat for a spell in the hot tub, and….maybe he’s still there now.

What I do know is that this gentleman was grateful for his work, and that gratitude is a happy, healthy mindset. It’s contagious, in fact. I returned home after my swim counting the blessings of a wonderful career that I had enjoyed immensely AND feeling exceedingly thankful that I could go about my day freely, doing whatever popped into my imagination. Thank goodness I’m retired!

 

 

Memories….

…….. of springtime as a young girl bring to mind images of my mother in the kitchen working at the little black featherweight sewing machine. Springtime meant Easter was approaching and we girls needed Easter dresses. Mother always seemed to find beautiful fabric that had been tucked away in a closet or wooden chest along with patterns for fancy dresses with flowing skirts, puffy sleeves, sashes, and bows that were just the right size or nearly right. She was very skilled at both altering patterns and sewing.

As Easter approached there were late night “parties” in our kitchen—pressing darts, setting in sleeves, basting lace, and measuring and hand stitching hems. My sister and I helped as best we could but mother did most of the work. When the dresses neared completion we tried them on for fit and then climbed onto a dining room chair and stood patiently as she moved slowly around us with a pin cushion and yardstick. Standing still was important with those prickly pins all around our legs!

A new dress for Easter was only part of the project; a flowery straw hat, black patent leather Mary Jane shoes, and white gloves completed the outfit. Our mother was a smart and practical woman and so we passed the hats down, if they hadn’t been sat upon, and  purchased the shoes at a special spring sale. However, in all her frugality she put aside the cost factor for the final item. There was no skimping on the beautiful fresh white gloves. Indeed, it was the gloves that added an extra touch of elegance and beauty to the lovely new dress, colorful hat, and shiny black shoes.

My how times have changed! The once-popular featherweight sewing machines are now found mostly in antique shops, little girls wear dresses and shoes made thousands of miles away in factories where the workers are children themselves, and white cotton gloves are worn only by magicians. Mother was very proud of her girls in their Easter finery as we sat together in our usual church pew, sang joyful hymns, and listened to our father’s sermon. She too looked beautiful and must have been very happy……. However, she would have had trouble pumping gas on the way to church in her pretty white gloves, if indeed a gas station had been open. Yes, things have changed.