Music and my mom

I'm a little out of sync today. According to the calendar, I should be writing a tribute to my dad. But since I spoke to him this morning, all I can think of is my mother. She took another fall in the bathroom the other day. Thankfully, she sustained only bruises and a few scrapes, but it's another sign of her decline. My mother turned eighty in February; Dad will be eighty in July. She's recently been diagnosed with lupus, and the symptoms are piling up. Decline is inevitable, but so difficult to witness, especially from many miles away. They'll be here next month for our daughter's wedding, and I've already committed to spending more time with her then. Time--such a precious resource, always slipping away.

Today I watched an American Masters episode about Pete Seeger. This little clip tells only a piece of the story. I love these shows because you find out about so much more than just one life, you see the forces of our history. My mother taught me to love history and to pay attention to it, to think about how our lives are built on the lives of those that came before us. And while she was no Pete Seeger, she also knew the power of song.

When I was a child, we sang a lot. Even outside of church, which we attended several times a week, my mother loved singing. She sang to wake us up, she sang as we worked around the house, she encouraged us to sing with her. We were all hams and didn't need prodding. We sang four-part harmony in the car on long trips. She would switch from the soprano to the alto line whenever it suited her. My father would pat his leg because he can not carry a tune. He'd join us only for the comic renditions of strange little ditties from the past. "Deedee umpy, deedee umpy, deedee umpy, dum, dum, deedee umpy, deedee umpy, deedee umpy, dum, dum." Yes, that really was one of the choruses, don't ask me why. In between the nonsense choruses were made-up-on the-spot verses that went something like: "I'm a girl, I'm a girl, and the time is spring, I like to dance and I like to sing." Any variation that fit the rhythm was permissable and rhyming was the goal, but totally optional.

Mom always loved music. She knew it could motivate, unite, strengthen. She sang a passionate rendition of "Hand me Down my Silver Trumpet" in a soulful style that was more like Ella than the choral version I've linked to here. I remember how she would patiently point to every word in the hymnbook for me as we sang in church, an action that no doubt had a role in my early reading. Her singing voice is quieter now, and I'm not around enough to know, but I hope she's still singing.

Like Pete Seeger, she also believes in the power of protest, the idea that true Americans speak out, even when their opinions are not popular, even when they are dangerous. She taught us about women's rights while rarely bringing the topic up, taught us tolerance by example, taught us the value of loving others through everything.

I wish I could spend the day with my dad today, but for reasons stated and unstated, I miss my mom.

Two steps forward, three steps back

After a bout with knee pain, I bought an assortment of orthotics to put in my shoes to improve alignment. The knee pain was gone almost immediately, so I set out a reasonable exercise plan, increasing my steps by using a pedometer, doing some stretches and yoga most days. Earlier this week a new pain began in the opposite ankle. Unfortunately, this wasn't an unfamiliar pain; I'd felt it for many months in the other ankle before giving in and having it "fixed" surgically. It was one of the most difficult, horrible experiences of my life. The doctor told me it would take a year to completely recover. He was right. Needless to say, I don't want to do this again. So, I've been taking it easy, ice, heat, anti-inflammatories. I've even ordered a kit for a custom set of shoe inserts from these folks. All this because of flat feet! I wish I had known years ago about the consequences for not wearing good arch support. Not sure that would have made me do it, but at least I could have said I knew better. But now I've seen some improvement and refuse to let this curtail all the fun this summer. I have better things to do than worry about what hurts and why. How inconvenient to be a flimsy human!

The Beginning of the End

Today is the first day of final exams. Today is the last day I will see my first and second period classes. Today is the day I say goodbye to Mike--not this boy's real name, but it might have been if he had been born when I was. Mike has greeted me at my door at whatever time I've arrived since day one of the school year. There were less than a handful of days when he was absent. Mike, as he is eager to tell you, has Asperger's syndrome. Extremely high functioning in some areas, he is woefully blind in others. Mike gets the work in English class. He is learning to have something to say about literature and support it from the text, but it's not an easy task for him. He wants things nailed down. Concrete answers don't just seem like a good idea, you can sense his discomfort when they don't come.

We've had many interesting conversations this year. Well, that's overstatement, we've had many peculiar conversations that he may have found interesting. Recently, when the rain didn't seem it would ever stop, we had one like this:

M: So, exactly how long does a N'reaster last? (Proud of the knowledge he has, as always)
Me: Well, Mike, there are many factors contributing to storms...(some rot about high pressure and low pressure and the big cloud that covered the state). Maybe you should ask a science teacher.
M: (Weak smile) So, we don't really know, right?
Me: Yes, that's about it.

Mike has read the required number of books independently this year. Every book has been about Asperger's or autism. Every single one! I was impressed that he was able to find this number and variety on the topic. Perhaps he thinks one of those books will hold the key to understanding his own brain. If only we all could have the field of inquiry on the craziness that happens inside our heads whittled down to a few managable texts. I am sure at age 16 I would have wanted to get through them all, too.

Earlier in the year the sight of him huddled in his sweatshirt on my ramp would dig at me a little. I always have a short list of things that must be done between the time I get to my classroom and class begins. I've always treasured those few minutes of peace to assemble my day. I haven't had that this year. Instead, there was a steady, polite stream of questions, ranging from those with answers he should have known (Yes, there is a vocab quiz on Friday; it's on the board), to the truly esoteric. In the last month or so, I've come to love Mike and his uniqueness in a new way, probably just from knowing that this time would soon be passing. In just over eighty days he'll be sitting on some other teacher's ramp, waiting for that unsuspecting soul to arrive. A science teacher, I hope.