Teacher Voice

A friend from University of Louisville once said that she used "teacher voice" during a party at her house to get everyone out of the kitchen (or move them to some desired location). I think that teachers do have "teacher voice," and a belief that, for the most part, others will pay attention.

I used mine once on a plane. A big-wig basketball recruiter was standing in the aisle next to my seat talking to the big-wig person next to me. (I was eaves dropping.) The stewardess had repeatedly made the "please take your seat" announcement. I surprised even myself when I looked up at him and said, "Sit!"  He responded. My students respond to one-word commends. They think it's funny.

Teacher voice surfaced recently at a neighborhood coffee shop, Foxy Loxy, but with moderate success. Another attribute of teachers is our powers of observation; we're always watching. My boyfriend and I were next in line and I was taking stock of the girl in front of me. At first I thought that the rustic counter top was swaying -- could that be? -- but then I realized that it was the girl! A few seconds later her knees buckled and she was lying face up at our feet. I gasped and shouted to the barista, "She just fainted; call 911!" He peered over the counter, not half as alarmed as I would have liked him to be. Maybe this happens every now and then; students are the primary clientele and they aren't the best at self-care.

I must have repeated my demand. "Okay," he relented. Within a few seconds, the girl revived, explaining that she was just overly-thirsty. The barista said he'd get her some water, probably relieved at his new assignment.

I wasn't finished, though. I said to the girl as she was getting up: "You really should go see a doctor." She seemed to be recovering quickly, so I turned to the line of people closed in behind us (Foxy Loxy's ordering area is very cozy). In moderate teacher voice, I explained that whenever a person loses consciousness, that person needs to go see a doctor. (This was drilled in to me by my mom's doctor; she had occasional fainting spells, which we would casually mention to the doctor a few days later). People peered past me to the sausage kolaches in the case. My boyfriend suggested that I order.

We saw the girl once we settled out on the patio. She thanked me. I told my boyfriend that he was lucky I didn't try mouth-to-mouth. Her nose ring may have caught on my earring and there would have been even more of a scene.

Actually, I don't know CPR, but that's now on my to do list. Teachers have to be prepared for the next time we're needed.

The Roof

A therapist once told me, don't offer to help a neighbor with their roof if yours is leaking.

That was perfect advice for me. I tend to overextend myself (as a friend observed) and, when I do, I'm usually ignoring what I should be doing in some important area.

I'd like to do a lot of things, but then I think of the roving pile upstairs that has ebbed out of one of the guest rooms. It started as a pile of books from graduate school and then grew to include a pile of receipts. Sometimes the receipts live in a basket, sometimes in a drawer, but their preferred spot is next to the pile of books.

When I had a party, a couple parties ago, I moved all kinds of piles upstairs. The result was a respectable ("tawlable," as they say in the South) downstairs, but an upstairs that has become a little scary.  The books and receipts were joined by a small tin of clipped recipes, two unkempt plastic filing structures (one for finances, one for travel), and an overstuffed magazine basket. An issue of Time lies in the paper island and a picture of Donald Trump looms up at me with every trip up and down the stairs.

In addition to the awful look that my upstairs has acquired, I hate the feel of walking on paper. I've become pretty good at tip-toeing over it at night.

How do you eat an elephant, another friend suggested. That's how you clean the upstairs, one bite at a time. Then I won't have to sneak around the pile to help a neighbor.

Marlyn

A few weeks ago I found out that my cousin Marlyn died. I was so sad and shocked to hear it. As another cousin, Jeanne, said, she was the matriarch of the family.

I'll never forget one of the times that I met Marlyn during a visit to Cincinnati. We made plans to meet at a breakfast / lunch place, First Watch. When I got there she was waiting for me at a table, facing the front door. She made such a special event out of meeting me.

Marlyn and I are related because our mothers were first cousins. She placed a great value on family, her immediate family of course, but also extended family. Marlyn was fun and open minded and smart. She was such a wonderful example of taking care of, and including family.

Marlyn's father, Julian, was a clothier in Indiana. I didn't know him well, but I do remember that for a brief time Marlyn worked at a men's clothing store in Cincinnati. The owners asked if she'd work part time after seeing her make selections for her husband and probably interact with customers. For other activities, I'm sure that she volunteered, though I don't know the details. Marlyn took care of her mom, who resides in Cincinnati, and was a wonderful mom to her two sons and grandmother to their children. She traveled with her husband Alan and was fantastic at entertaining. I have so many memories of family gatherings at their house.

One of the reasons that I enjoy my mom's side of the family is that there's never been a guilt aura around a visit or contact. There's appreciation, and more contact is always welcomed, but never the "why haven't we heard from you?" feeling. It's nice.

When I talk about my mom's family, I typically say, to explain my far flung connections, "I have a lot of cousins around my age;" "they're very cool people;" and "if I met them socially I'd like them anyway." I could do a better job at staying in touch. Now that it's summer, why not? It's important to know who you're from. I like those parts of myself.

Technology troubles

Technology has always been empowering, but these days it's more of a necessity, that is unless you want to feel like a Luddite.

I should know, because I'm a technology laggard, which is a technical term (ironic, huh?) from the diffusion of innovations theory (Rogers, 1962). The theory explains how an innovation gains momentum within a particular social system. Laggards are the last among five categories of innovation joiners leaping on to what has become a slow moving train well after the innovators and early adopters have already begun to make some gadget affordable and understandable.

It's also ironic that this theory is about the momentum of accepting new innovations. I don't think that I've experienced technology momentum, ever. There's simply a small victory, like learning another way to delete a message, followed by a period of no-new-learning.

I wonder why.  I like technology, and feel depressed being left behind. The worst part is the language.  Obviously, with new stuff comes new language, and when you don't know what people are saying, it's like never having seen that movie that just won multiple Academy awards. You're out of it (meaning I'm out of it).

I think that my problem is the frustration. In fact, technology seems like guaranteed frustration. Who  wants to encounter frustration, particularly in the early part of the day? I guess that I need to keep in mind that feeling of ebullience when something goes right. It's triumph over luddite-self.

I'm terrified that, instead of daily runs at questions like how to rig my phone to hear a podcast in the car, or syncing my phone and computer (see, I told you a was a beginner), I'll keep at the same repetitive tasks that I know I can accomplish (clean kitchen, grade papers, etc.).

No!  I'm determined. More to come.

Rogers, E.M. (1962) Diffusion of innovations. NY:  Free Press.  

Home Depot

I finally have the time to arrange cookbooks that have been lying around on a bookshelf that I managed to paint.

We're in that lull at SCAD between quarters. More people from the neighborhood are visible, or at least they seem more so, with the sudden disappearance of art students balancing portfolios and supply boxes on foot, bike, and skate board and the circulation of SCAD busses.

Last night, after talking to my little sister in Maine and watching part of a political talk show, I decided to do a simple errand at Home Depot. I say 'simple' because I'm not much of a night or Home Depot person. I went down the front steps toward my car, and saw a man with bags on both shoulders approaching me.

"Good evening."

Relieved that it was going to be a polite interaction, I said "Good evening!"

He asked me for a dollar.  I told him I didn't have cash on me.

"Well, then, you have some crumbs?"

I laughed a little and got in the car.  My first thought after an interaction like this is, I've got to remember to look around more before going off my porch. The second is, I need to get involved somehow to help out where I live. I think about Weslyn Bowers, who started Blessings in a Bookbag here in Savannah; they give underprivileged kids extra food to take home on weekends. I need to follow her posts on Face Book and see if I can help out at one of her events.

At Home Depot I stand in line at customer service. There's a certain energy and self-satisfaction when you're at Home Depot after around 8 PM on a weeknight. Not only are you a do-it-your-selfer, you're doing part of the job at night, probably after working all day. Most people are at home watching The Big Bang Theory.

Two people work the customer service desk. The older, heavy set man is deeply involved with a customer. I'd seen him there before, and he seems like the grand master of the store. An employee with a long dolly of merchandise paused in front of him -- "Does this go in the back?"  He waited on me when I had a question about the top for a pipe closure. "Well, did you measure it or didn't you?" he scolded.

The younger one came from behind a computer to help me. This guy also takes his job seriously but isn't intimidating. Being a non-evening person, I ask if he drinks espresso before a shift.

"No, it just never stops."

After finishing with me he steps around the register to the next person in line. "Whaddya got?" Without waiting for an answer he looks over the customer's shoulder to start scanning the receipt that the customer's holding.  

I've always admired people who have that complete focus and on-the-job energy; I find myself mesmerized by them. With that focus, people enact a sense of purpose, whether working part-time or at their dream job.

In his commencement address at Harvard this year, Mark Zuckerberg said that our main challenge as a society is to create a renewed sense of purpose. A May 26 New York Times article ("Facebook Chief on the Road") chronicled Zuckerberg's trips around the country having face-to-face conversations with Facebook users. At an opioid addict treatment center he heard about the lack of purpose that the group felt. Purpose, he said, is feeling that there is something greater to work toward, that we're part of something bigger than ourselves.

Within an hour last night I saw two kinds of purpose. The first, I imagine, was to satisfy immediate need. The second was in an unexpected place, for me at least, customer service at Home Depot. If people don't feel purpose in the moment, in the future, and in various dimension of their lives, their well being will certainly fray and that will have ripple effects.

I'm trying to organize my time more by immediate and long-term goals. I can easily lilt one day to the next, especially between quarters without the pull of grading and emails. I'm inspired by my friends, who are hammering away at their own goals. Plus, I've already straightened the cookbooks.

Running Toward the Ball

So it's time that I told you about the name of my blog, Running Toward the Ball.  The phrase is from lacrosse, or at least I heard it at summer camp during lacrosse games (actually, during practice when the counselors were yelling at us). Don't get the idea that I was a lacrosse star. I was probably, quite happily, on the B team -- which they delicately called "Silver," the A team been "Gold." I guess that's the first stopping point in this memory -- I was very contented at that time to do my best. I wasn't resentful or jealous, but always working to be as good as I could be. I know that sounds pretty girl-scout like, but it was probably one of the most centered and happy times of my life.

Lacrosse was a somewhat intimidating sport, looking back. In field hockey, the ball was mostly on the ground and all you had to do was be a good runner, chase after it, and hit once in while. It seemed smart to maintain an equal distance from the girl with the ball as you ran up the field or even give more of a wide berth; the girls would whack the ball in huge diagonals and of course I'd go sprinting after it.

I tried the same strategy in lacrosse, but got reminded not to run awy from the person with the ball,  to run toward her. That seemed a little counter-intuitive to me, especially with all those sticks waving in the air.

Through the years the phrase has stuck with me and I've adapted it to mean moving toward a goal. I know that seems like the obvious direction, but at times in my life I've been, if not a self-handicapper, then at least not goal-oriented in a clear path, meaning, I'd let myself meander onto more interesting paths, or be a rebel rouser and somehow protest the clear and accessible path (especially those with rules and authority figures). I'm working on "being there" for myself in a more nurturing and rational way -- and not just once in a while.

Of course, getting older, the stakes become higher. Seeing and running toward are more important than ever.

Being Vital

At Thanksgiving last year before dinner, I spoke to out host's mother, Shirley. She and her husband had moved from Vermont to Seattle a few years ago to be with their son, daughter-in-law, and grandchildren. They lived in a retirement community.

Shirley was a great conversationalist. I asked if she missed Vermont.

"My husband and I were originally from New York," she began, in a New York accent. But her husband worked for IBM (short for "I've Been Moved") and they asked him to move to Burlington. They went and their kids, a boy and a girl, eventually enrolled in University of Vermont.

I'm not sure about this, but I believe that they had one car. At least the kids didn't have a car. So on a typical day, Shirley would drop her husband off at work and the kids at campus. Then she'd go to the bank,  the grocery, come home, put away the groceries, make her appointments. I assume that she'd make dinner, then go back to campus and pick up the kids. After dinner she's take them to the library.

"Wouldn't they be at the library awful late, for you to go pick them up?" I asked.

"Well, they'd take me back home so that they could have the car. It was a very small town."

Then she sighed and said, "Those were the days."

Shirley was looking slightly past me as she recounted all this. From her closing remark it would seem more fitting if she was reliving a life of golf, bridge games, and dinners at the country club. But her wistfulness was for a time when she saw herself as vital -- which is not to say that she's not vital now, with her children, grandchildren, and husband nearby. But in Burlington, she was the center of things in a way that enabled her family to run while each person pursued their goals. She created a world that called her to act everyday.

In the months since meeting Shirley I've thought about whether I'm vital in my world. In fact I feel the question like an undertow. At 57, how connected am I to communities other than my immediate ones -- work and friends here in Savannah? Yes, I stay in touch with a few people from high school, and extended family. But some important connections and activities have puttered to a stop. My ideas about those parts of my life have become more ideas than real.

What is being vital? It's being part of communities, using talents, being more present, more often for people who are important. It means involvement in activities that I see myself in, and some that I never thought about, as chances arise. It's a time that I'll look back on and say, "that was great" or "I can't believe I did that."

For Shirley, with immediate family in front of her, she probably became vital without even knowing it was happening (as my boyfriend said). In my case, I'm thinking about ways that I can be more vital and am trying to take a step toward it everyday. Writing about Shirley is a start.