My First Valentine

 February 12, 2022

The first boy I ever loved was a boy named Saburo.  He was in my kindergarten class, and I remember the day I first became aware of him.  He sat next to me on the rug in the classroom.  We were seated in little rows and columns, all facing the teacher.  She announced that she was going to go down each row and have us all show her whether or not we knew how to tie our shoes.  Apparently, this was part of the curriculum back then. I suppose it was so because a teacher of five-year-olds wouldn’t have time for much else if she had to spend all of her time stopping to tie children’s shoes all day long.  Anyone my age will recognize that this was in the time before Velcro, so learning to tie one’s shoes was a necessary life skill.

I sat about four rows back, and the teacher started with the first row of children, asking each child to demonstrate mastery of tying their shoes.  I started to panic–just a little at first, but growing with each subsequent masterful display.  It seemed as if I was the only student whose mom had forgotten to pass on that particular bit of knowledge, and I was going to be the only one in class unable to perform the task at hand.  Clearly, I was beginning to be visibly agitated; I didn’t want to disappoint my teacher or be embarrassed in front of the class.  Tears clouded my eyes and I stared down at my feet, shod in the little shoes that would be my undoing.

Suddenly, a quiet voice said gently, “Do you not know how to tie your shoes?”  There was no judgment, just a sincere acknowledgement of my discomfort.  I looked at Saburo and sadly shook my head. “No, I don’t know.”  I barely trusted myself to speak, afraid that I would dissolve into tears.  “I can show you how, if you want. I know how.”  Gratefully, I nodded.  He reached over to my shoe and began, “You take each string and make a bunny ear out of each…”  He was direct and efficient, and most importantly, he didn’t draw attention to us as he quickly and quietly taught me what to do.  

By the time my teacher got to Saburo and me, I had had an opportunity to practice a few times and managed to make a decent showing. He didn’t realize it at the time, but he had come to my rescue and I thought he was wonderful.  In that tiny gesture was the beginning of a fast friendship that would last for four years, until his family moved back to Japan.  ( We actually reunited many, many years later, but that is a story for another time.)  I loved him.  I loved him in the simple way children love each other–innocently, wholly, and without reservation.  We were inseparable, we two.  A simple act in the right moment was all it took, and he had my heart.

A Treasure Trove of Books

 January 24, 2022

I gave my students several prompts to choose from to write some literacy narratives: stories about the way in which people, moments, or events helped shape their sense of themselves as readers and writers.  I thought I'd write to a couple of the prompts along with them.

My tendency toward book hoarding might very well have begun when I was the very young age of seven or eight.  I enjoyed reading, but probably loved all subjects equally at that age–I hadn’t really seen a front-runner emerge in terms of academic interests.  However, a random instance of the right place at the right time probably went a long way toward tipping the scales.

My brother and I were bus riders.  Our parents worked, so we clamored on the neighborhood school bus at the end of each day and got deposited some four or five blocks from our house.  We walked the rest of the way home alongside a handful of other kids from our block, with Gary tasked with making sure I didn’t get lost on the way.

Several weeks after walking the familiar route home, one day we saw a giant orange dumpster parked in front of one of the houses a couple of blocks from our house.  I don’t know why the first instinct of a couple of the boys was to climb up and peek in since we all knew that dumpsters were for trash,  but I suppose they thought they might be lucky and find an old discarded baseball glove or deflated basketball, or even an old broomstick handle that they could fashion into a makeshift sword to wield at the rest of us for fun.

The big dumpsters have metal ladders permanently affixed to the side.  The curious boys scrambled up and surveyed the possibilities.  One by one they climbed back down, scowling in disappointment. Gary asked what they had seen.  “Worthless!” one of the boys grumbled.  “The whole thing is filled with old books!”  My ears perked up.  Gary’s did too.  He climbed up.

“They’re right, Donna! Tons of books!”  He disappeared down into the dumpster and scoured the titles.  He came back down with a few.  I begged him to let me find some books too, and he told me I could as long as I was careful.  I could barely contain my excitement. Once I reached the top of the ladder my eyes were greeted with a veritable treasure trove.  Hundreds and hundreds of books had been tossed in–paperbacks, hardbacks, westerns, romance, classics–as far as the eye could see.  Some of them were missing book jackets or had torn pages, some of them were well-worn and others were in much better condition.  It was as if an entire library had been upended into the dumpster.  I reached down and picked up a book or two to read the back of the dust jacket to see which ones I wanted to take.  I got a little mired in indecision.  How could I just pick a few?

Gary grew impatient.  He started yelling at me to get back out of the dumpster so that we could get home and have our afternoon snack.  Although he was excited by getting a ‘new’ book or two, he wasn’t about to give up milk and cookies because of it.  I told him I was having a hard time deciding.  He said I could just grab a couple now and we could bring a bag the next day and take several more.  That seemed reasonable.  I took two that I had been contemplating and climbed my way back out of the dumpster.  I was thrilled.  Books, for free?  With the prospect of seemingly infinitely more tomorrow?  I’m quite sure that I skipped all the way home, unable to contain my joy.

The next day, I anticipated mining the mountain of books all day long.  Gary and I had both brought bags from home to fill.  After school, we walked quickly toward our intended destination.  We rounded the corner to the street with the dumpster.  It was gone!  All of my excitement was crushed.  Whoever had scheduled the dumpster to be delivered to the house had apparently already had it sent away, presumably to the local dump.  What a waste!  What a travesty!  I had been THISCLOSE to having more books than I could possibly carry, and that dream was dashed in an instant.  Never mind that most of those books were not likely books that would hold the interest and imagination of a seven-year-old.  But the hope that maybe they were…it was heartbreaking.  The books had been there, and then they vanished.  

Years later, and more books than I can possibly count later, I have become something of a book hoarder.  I haven’t read all of my books, though I’ve read many of them, and the fact that I own books I’ve yet to read certainly doesn’t stop me from buying new ones when a new title or storyline piques my interest.  I can only imagine that when I see a new book that speaks to me, whispers its possibilities in my ear, there’s a seven-year-old girl whispering in my other ear, “Take it now while you can!  Who knows if it will still be here tomorrow?”

Anyone Remember the Movie Ice Castles?

 January 22, 2022

I gave my students several prompts to choose from to write some literacy narratives: stories about the way in which people, moments, or events helped shape their sense of themselves as readers and writers.  I thought I'd write to a couple of the prompts along with them.

When I was in sixth grade, we had a competition for reading in my class.  My district was very competition-driven.  My teacher, who was a hiking fanatic, had a giant butcher paper, snow-capped mountain covering the wall behind his desk, and each student was represented by a tiny push pin with our names affixed like tiny banners.  We had a goal of a certain number of books to read by the end of the semester, and each week our little push pins would journey farther up the mountain in increments that correlated to the numbers of books we had read. The first person to meet their reading goal would summit the mountain and earn a prize.

The prize was one I can’t imagine being awarded in this day and age, but seemed perfectly reasonable then.  Our teacher would take the winner out for dinner and a movie in the theater.  The movie would be of our choosing.  As I said, our school was very competitive, and in particular there was a boy named Derek Woolverton in my class with whom I had the fiercest–although friendly–competition. We were both in the top reading group, and each of us was determined to summit the mountain first.  We read voraciously through the semester and maintained a neck-and-neck race all throughout.  There was another student who joined us at the top of the pack, and ultimately, the three of us summited in the same week.  There was a three-way tie for first place.  Our teacher decided it was only fair that all three of us would share the prize.

We debated  about the movie we would get to see.  Derek was loudly advocating for Star Wars.  I was not much interested.  I wanted to see Ice Castles, a love story about a competitive skater who overcomes tragedy with the help of her dedicated boyfriend.  I was able to sway our other competitor to my side, and Ice Castles won.  I am sure that our teacher would probably rather have seen Star Wars, but he allowed us to diplomatically decide among the three of us, rather than weighing in himself.

I don’t remember where we went to dinner that night, but getting to go out in the evening to a movie theater with my teacher and two classmates was a true reward.  Going to the theater at all was a rare treat back then. We felt like classroom celebrities–kind of a big deal when you are only ten years old.  Once there, we got a big bucket of popcorn to share and allowed ourselves to be enveloped by the darkness of the theater.  The music swelled, and the film came to life.  We were entranced–even Derek, who was won over by the experience and didn’t hold it against us that he wasn’t sitting in the theater watching Star Wars.

It was the days before the internet, and Nextflix, and the likes of HBO.  When we did watch films or television shows, it was almost always on the small screen on one of the three channels available to us at the time.  A real, larger-than-life movie was a novelty, and although I was engrossed in the film and it made me cry in all the places it was designed to tug at my heartstrings (yes, even back then I was an emotional and sentimental girl), one of the things that I can distinctly remember was that there was so much swearing.  It was a rated PG movie, but it was a 1970s PG, which meant PG encompassed a whole lot more language, nudity, and violence than the films of today.  This was even before the PG-13 designation came along, so the net was even wider for films that fell into this PG category.  I can remember clearly that it was almost as though there were two sides of myself watching–the one absolutely enjoying the storyline and the whole experience I had earned, and the other side that was very definitely worried that our teacher would get in trouble for bringing three young, impressionable kids to this movie.  My own parents didn’t swear at home, and this movie was probably the most swearing I had ever heard in a concentrated two hour block.  Although I wasn’t offended by it, I thought perhaps if my parents knew, they would get angry.

Ultimately, when I got dropped off at home and my mom asked me if I had enjoyed the evening, I told her all about it–sans the swearing.  She smiled and told me she was glad I had had a good time, and that she was proud of me for earning the reward, and then she sent me to bed.  It was late, and there was school in the morning.  The movie and the experience remained a treasured memory for me for a very long time, and the film remained one of my favorites for several years.  I had already been a dedicated reader by the time that competition came along, but being celebrated for it even further cemented my life-long love for it.

How Did I Get Here?

 January 18, 2022

I gave my students several prompts to choose from to write some literacy narratives: stories about the way in which people, moments, or events helped shape their sense of themselves as readers and writers.  I thought I'd write to a couple of the prompts along with them.

You never really recognize the unusual circumstances you might find yourself in if you have nothing with which to compare that circumstance.  When I moved from Garden Grove to Clovis, California in the fourth grade, the discrepancy between the two schools was something that would inform my life and place me on a trajectory I might possibly never have traveled otherwise.

I loved school, and in my early elementary days I was a good student. I was the kind of student most teachers enjoy having: quiet, compliant, relatively intelligent, and a people pleaser.  What’s not to like? I caused no one any trouble, nor did I ever raise any alarms, neither behaviorally nor academically. I was the kind of kid that made a teacher feel good about herself, because I was a ‘success’ under her tutelage.

In Garden Grove, we had a specialized Reading Lab.  Once a week, our teachers could schedule time to go in and rotate through various stations designed to grab our interest and attention.  There was a variety of machines, presumably state-of-the-art at the time (but which would now be seen as amusing relics of the past), on which we could take turns playing games, challenging ourselves to speed reading,  and creating art to signify short stories we read.  We clamored around the stations and excitedly awaited our turns at each.  Reading Lab was seen as a privilege, and it was one that could be taken away if the class misbehaved during the week.  It was a powerful incentive; we thought when we were in the Reading Lab we were getting away with playing during school hours, instead of what many saw as enduring the tedium of the classroom. Little did we know that our teachers knew something we didn’t; having the reward of self-selected and self-directed reading was one of the most powerful learning tools at their disposal.

Reading at my elementary school in Garden Grove wasn’t celebrated or made to feel unique or even aspirational.  It was simply part of the culture of the school.  As far as I know, our teachers didn’t preach about how important reading was, or how we needed to excel in it if we intended to succeed in life.  We just lived it.  It was understood.

In the middle of fourth grade, I moved to Clovis and started just after Christmas break.  Naturally, on my first day my teacher needed to assess my abilities and skills.  She needed to know what I knew already, and where I would need support.  At the beginning of the day, she sat me down to run through a series of diagnostic reading tests.  I found them to be almost comically simple at first, and even as we progressed through the levels I flew through each one, missing no responses.  My teacher was impressed.  She continued with the assessments until I had reached the highest level, which still posed no challenge.  She showered me with praise and her wide smile gave me all the feedback I needed.  I felt like a genius, and she looked like she had won the lottery with her new student.  I was going to like this new school.  In my old school I was a good student, as I said, but as far as I knew, nothing remarkable.  This new teacher seemed to think there was something special about my aptitude for reading and vocabulary.

I rode on that emotional high throughout the morning.  We went to lunch (where the cutest, friendliest boy was ‘assigned’ to help me navigate the cafeteria and the playground, which he did with charm and a willing attitude), and once the bell rang to return to classes, I found where my classmates were congregated to follow them back to our room.  That’s when the trouble began.

Since I started in January, classroom routines and procedures were already well-established and ingrained in the students.  They all knew that after lunch they would silently file in, sit in their seats, and await the next task.  I found my way back to my seat and waited silently with them as my teacher efficiently passed row by row to deposit an assignment on each desk.  Without saying a word, she moved from the last student’s desk to her own, picked up a timer, and elaborately set it.  “You have three minutes.  Go!” Her voice was loud and abrupt, breaking through the silence.

My classmates ducked their heads and began furiously scribbling.  The only sound in the room was the sound of pencils on paper.  I looked down at my own paper.  On it were rows and columns of boxes with numbers and ‘X’s in each one.  I sat staring, not moving. “What am I supposed to do with this,” I thought, bewildered, “and why on earth is the alphabet mixed in with the numbers?”  In fourth grade at my old school, I had not yet been introduced to multiplication, and certainly not to the very competitive, speed-driven 3 minute Math Facts exercise that was so popular in my new district.  I couldn’t begin to fathom what I was supposed to do with 3 ‘x’ 4, let alone know how to do it in a speedy fashion.

I am a people-pleaser at my core.  I had never encountered a situation where I was utterly at a loss in school, and I was horrified that the teacher who was singing my praises earlier that morning was going to be disappointed in my complete lack of ability to understand the task at hand.  I was also a relatively shy kid, and being new, I was reluctant to simply tell my teacher I was confused.  It was humiliating.  So I did the only thing I could think of.  I lifted the lid of my desk quietly and pretended to search the inside of it for a pencil, presumably to be able to get my Math Facts done alongside the rest of my classmates.  Tears had sprung to my eyes and I couldn’t keep them from rolling down my hot cheeks, so I tucked myself further and deeper into the desk.  It didn’t occur to me that the sight of me hiding under the lid of my desk wasn’t nearly as discrete and clandestine as I thought it would be.  Within seconds my teacher was kneeling at my side, trying to quietly lure me back out from inside the desk.  She seemed surprised and concerned to find me crying.  “What’s the matter, Donna? Are you okay?”  I explained to her that I had no idea what this paper was on my desk, or what to do with it.  “It’s multiplication,” she said quietly, as if that was all the explanation needed.  I blinked at her, a blank stare indicating the words meant nothing to me.  “You don’t know your times tables?”  Continued blank stare. A slight shaking of my head.  She went over to her desk and pulled out a little study sheet to help me learn them.  I thought that perhaps she was rethinking her earlier assessment of me as a star pupil.  Math would be my undoing–in my eyes and in hers.

My old school was apparently pretty advanced in the teaching of reading–and woefully nonchalant about teaching math.  My new school, though they took reading seriously, was much more enamored of math, from the very early grades.  Being able to score 100% on a 100-problem math facts sheet (front and back!) in the three-minute time frame was a badge of honor.  Naturally, it took a very long time before I was able to catch up to my classmates and achieve that benchmark. From my very first day in my fourth-grade classroom, I started to see myself as a star reader, and a sub-par math student.   Before I had only ever seen myself as a student.  The distinction wasn’t really anything having to do with me–I hadn’t suddenly grown as a reader or lost I.Q. points as a math scholar between schools.  It had everything to do with the focus each school had placed on the different subjects, though I wouldn’t have been able to articulate it at the time.   But on that day, a divide began to grow between my reading and my math-oriented selves.  When we experience success at something, we have a positive connection to it, and it makes us want to do more of it.  When we experience failure, we often avoid the very thing where we feel we failed.  After that day in elementary school, I wanted to read often, and as much as I could.  I felt validated, strong.  I continued to get positive reinforcement from my teachers and my peers for my reading ability.  I tried to engage in math as little as possible, because I associated it with that feeling of confusion and helplessness.  The more I read, the better I got, and not giving that same kind of attention to studying math, I did not grow at the same rate.  I fed what I perceived to be already strong, and reinforced that reading and language were the subjects for which I was best suited.  Years later, I find it no wonder that my chosen path was to become an English teacher.

And yet…I have always wondered what would have happened if I had not changed schools.  What would have happened if I had continued on the same path, feeling right on par with my classmates in both of those core subjects?  What if I had never gone to a school where suddenly the differences in my schools had instead translated to a difference in my own ability–to myself and to my teachers?  I think I still would have enjoyed reading had I remained at my first school, but would I have thrown all of my concentration into that subject because that’s where I found comfort and solace?  Would I have ever encountered a time when my math abilities were a disappointment at my former school, or would I have continued to give my studies in math equal weight, as I would not have shifted my perception of myself as a math student?  That single day, decades ago, defined a part of me, and every step I took thereafter solidified and reinforced that definition, without me having realized it.

The Fletcher Experience

March 6, 2017

A couple of weeks ago, on a whim, I looked up my old 5th and 6th grade teacher on Facebook.  I had tried to look him up before, but it's tough to look up folks when you don't know their first name--or if their first name is "Mr.".  Anyway, he was one of those incredibly unique and interesting educators that not all students are fortunate enough to encounter in their careers, and he made quite an impression on me in my young days.  I always wondered where he ended up.

Recently, it came to me that perhaps I was remembering that Neil was his first name, though I couldn't be sure.  I did a quick search and found a Leo Neil Fletcher.  I looked at a couple of pictures to determine if he was someone I recognized; I saw a couple of pictures of him (I was fairly certain I recognized that mischievous twinkle in his eye), but mostly I saw some incredible underwater marine life photography.  Leo Neil Fletcher was a world traveler, an adventurous diver, and an excellent photographer.  This certainly fit my memory of Mr. Fletcher--a consummate outdoorsman and a free spirit. I didn't know if he'd remember some shy kid who was in his class some 40(!) years ago, but I thought even if it wasn't him, the photographer in me was thrilled by the beauty in his work.  I decided I'd like to connect with him.  Within minutes of my friend request, he accepted.  Two days later he messaged to ask me if I was the same Donna Mayes who was in his class at Dry Creek Elementary so long ago and after confirming, we exchanged a few  'where-has-life's-journey-taken-you' messages.  I tagged him in a couple of old pictures from those early days, which led him to reconnect with a few of my classmates, including my two best friends back then, Kari and Missy.

After a little trip down memory lane, Mr. Fletcher suggested it might be fun for those of us who were still local to have a mini reunion of sorts--he was on a brief hiatus from his travels and was game to catch up with some of his very first students.  We planned to meet up at The Elbow Room on Friday night.

Six of us were there, plus Mr. Fletcher.  Still the consummate story-teller, Mr. Fletcher regaled us with anecdotes that he remembered, and we shared some of our favorite memories.  There was bombarge (Dodgeball), and marching out of the blacktop, competing with the other classes.  There was a love of reading--he read us The Hobbit, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, among others, and weekend camping trips.  There was the incident with Bo and the alligator lizard, and an epic footrace against the fastest kid in our class, which naturally, Mr. Fletcher won.  There was the movie that Mr. Fletcher took three of us to see after we'd won a reading contest in class.  (The movie was Ice Castles, by the way.  I can't remember who the other girl was that came, but I do remember that she and I overruled the boy, Derek, who most certainly did NOT pick Ice Castles as his first choice.  I also remember, sitting in the theater, that I thought even then that the movie was perhaps not quite appropriate for 5th graders, but I really wanted to see it anyway.  In retrospect, there were a lot of things that I think Mr. Fletcher got away with; call it beginner's luck, or willful ignorance of the rules, or an adventuresome desire to stay just out of reach of the realm of the ordinary--the status quo. Doing things differently didn't mean we didn't learn; it just meant that we learned things in a way that was real and that stuck with us.  It's the thing that made him so memorable to us all.)

It's a strange feeling, straddling the world of the past and present simultaneously.  We sat there, both 49 and 9 , and he both 65 and 25.  We were at once teacher and students, and old acquaintances reconnecting over a drink and a meal, reminiscing about the Fletcher experience--a shared moment in time, many, many years ago. They say that a teacher's first class is impressed upon  one's memory in a way that is more indelible than classes that follow, no matter how much you love those subsequent years. As much as Mr. Fletcher made an impression on all of us, his students, I like to believe that as he sat there, laughing, connecting, remembering, that perhaps we made a lasting impression on him, too.

    Missy, me, and Kari

        Missy, Will, me, Mr. Fletcher, Tammy, Kari, and Eric

       Me and Mr. Fletcher

Not Quite Normal, But None the Worse for the Wear

October 10, 2011

I spend a lot of time running my kids around to soccer and drama and choir and softball and robotics...you get the drill. When the kids were younger, there was T-ball, gymnastics, soccer, ballet, tap--if my kids expressed an interest, I thought I'd let them give it a try so they could see what 'spoke' to them.

When I was a kid, some of the same things my kids expressed interest in also appealed to me. My five-year-old little self was enamored of fancy tutus and the tip-tappy sounds of musically magical tap shoes. Little girl leotards were sparkly, and I wanted five or six fancy ones to wear to gymnastics class while I balanced precariously and glamorously atop the balance beam. I coveted the jaunty pink T-ball hats that the community Little League bestowed upon the little girls as they first learned the correct direction to run after hitting the ball off of the tee. I wanted all of those things desperately--things that many of my classmates had. I heard about them running off to practices and classes after school, and I wanted to join them. I saw myself, if I was able to join my classmates in their various glamorous activities, as elegant, beautiful, and graceful. Who wouldn't want to see me in all my finery out on the stage, or out on the gymnastics floor, or out on the baseball field? I know I wanted to see me there.

My mom, inexplicably, had other ideas about what I might like to try as a child. Who knows what her rationale was. Maybe she thought that having me try out an activity that was more obscure would give me an edge and help me excel in the field. Maybe the activities that she chose to sign me up for were simply less expensive lessons than the lessons my counterparts received. I really couldn't say. All I know is that when the other kids in the play group were off in their respective dance and gymnastics classes and learning about the rules of the great American sport of baseball, my mom ushered me into our 1970's Brady Bunch-style station wagon and drove me off to accordion lessons. Yes, you read that right; I learned the invaluable skill of playing a portable piano organ.

Now, lest you think I am disparaging the venerable art of the accordion musicians around the world, let me assure you I have respect for those who can play any instrument--any instrument. This many years later, this is a lost and mystical art to me. No, it's just that when I was taking lessons so many years ago, from an old man with an almost indecipherable accent in a tiny studio across town, I only knew one other person who was under the age of retirement who was learning to play the accordion, and that was my brother (also dragged unceremoniously, a fairly unwilling participant in the whole ordeal). I'm not sure if Mom thought we would eventually grow up and take the world by storm on the Lawrence Welk show with our modern renditions of polkas, or if she was grooming us for the life of a quirky street musician. Either way, our foray into this musical sub-culture was a brief one. My only real source of pride in the whole episode was that it was universally acknowledged (well, by my parents and my teacher, anyway) that even though I was two years younger than my brother, I was the better accordion player. A dubious distinction, to be sure, but I was proud of it, nonetheless. Sibling rivalry will do that to you.

You'd think after our undistinguished side-trip into the non-traditional that my mom might have learned her lesson and brought us back a little more center. You would think. But no, that's not exactly how it went. A few years passed, and Mom decided it was time to seek out a new extra-curricular activity for me. Again, I'm not sure what put this particular thing on her radar, but suddenly she was researching baton twirling. Not cheerleading. Not dance. Twirling. Don't get me wrong; in some parts of the country, twirling is, even today, fiercely competitive. And there are definitely sparkly outfits--sequins and glitter galore, automatically garnering more than a passing interest from me, especially since playing the accordion offered nothing like anything girly. But mainstream, here in California? Not even back when I was in elementary school. Once again, perhaps it was the only thing that wasn't cost-prohibitive. Or maybe she decided to stack the odds in our favor by sending her girls into lessons that most little girls didn't have. Whatever the reason, we delved into the world of twirling and parades and half-time shows.

This endeavor lasted much longer than accordion lessons--some two or three years, by my count. And unlike the accordion, I really enjoyed it. I twirled as a member of a team; I twirled solo. I got to march out in front of bands in parades, and wore my hair in fancy buns with glitter in my hair and sequins on my outfits. Eventually, I twirled myself right out of relevancy though, as twirlers eventually got benched in favor of high stakes cheerleaders on the football field and high powered dance and guard teams moving in synchronicity in band field shows.

In junior high and high school, I found my way to some of the more traditional extra-curricular activities--choir and swimming and band--and I loved them. These things were neither better nor worse than my previous affiliations, but at least I know other people who have had some of the same experiences I had in these organizations. But twirling? And even more so, accordion playing? Oh, those are secret societies, I think. Those of us who endured should have developed a secret Freemasons-type handshake to identify each other later in life, since I don't know too many who freely give up that information to just anybody.

My own kids have found themselves attracted to a wide variety of activities over the years, some of them in the realm of the mainstream, and some of them not so much. The main difference with my kids is that I have allowed them to find their own way and seek out their own interests. They got to chose. If I had a kid who wanted to pursue twirling, I would help him or her seek out opportunities to learn those skills. The kids who showed interest in Destination Imagination, in baseball, or in choir or dance--they piled in the van and off to rehearsals we went. I want them to seek out places where they can do what they love (not necessarily what I love), regardless of whether they are 'popular' activities or off-the-beaten path ones. However, I think that if one of my kids decides to get involved in, say, accordion-playing or Live Action Role Playing (hypothetically speaking) because it's what they really love and enjoy, I'm going to suggest that they try to institute a secret handshake. Later in life, they might enjoy being able to reconnect with their own people once again.


The girl playing the accordion is not me--she's just a representation. As far as I know, there is no photographic evidence of my musical prowess. The picture of the baton twirler, sadly, is me.

The Gaetje Girls Start A New School Year

August 30, 2001

This is a big year for my beautiful nieces--Taylor starts high school, Devin starts junior high, and even Bailey is starting at a new elementary, since Lisa had to move to Fullerton this year. Here's hoping that they all get off to a wonderful start and make lots of new friends!

Final Garfield Band and Choir Concert

May 31, 2011

Danielle, my little one who likes to try everything, started the flute this year as a sixth grader. Although she was a beginner, she challenged herself to stay in the sixth grade band with the second-year kids. Her band teacher was impressed with her progress, and she had a great time with the music this year. Her last band and choir concert was the end of May, unfortunately on the same night as the CSF Banquet for Brianna, where Bill and I would both be. I got to be there at the very beginning of the concert, but bowed out in time for Brianna's event to start. Luckily, Danielle's two step-parents, Doug and Laurie, stepped in and were able to make sure her family was represented in the audience. (Some days you just wish you had a clone, you know?)

Soccer Dad

May 19, 2011

Danielle recently brought home an essay that she'd written for class. It brought tears to my eyes, and, confidentially speaking, Doug was not exactly stone-hearted when I shared it with him, either. This is why we do what we do, Babe--it matters, and they notice.

Soccer Dad
by Danielle Lutjens

I would give a trophy to my step-dad for helping me with soccer. He is always supportive and looks for ways to help me get better.

Since I started doing indoor soccer, my step dad, Doug, never missed a game. He also cheers for my other team mates. Every person on all of my soccer teams appreciates him.

This year he has bought me goalie gloves, a goalie jersey, and soccer socks. He and I go to the park by our house and he helps me practice for about two hours, twice a week and when I get home from school he tells me to go outside and throw the soccer ball in the air and catch it seventy-five times without dropping it.

Every game for both seasons of indoor soccer that I have played he has come to. One time he cheered so loud he distracted the other team and we made a goal. He also congratulates the whole team even if we lose.

My step-dad is a super soccer dad. He is supportive and I have a great time practicing soccer with him. These are only a few reasons why he deserves this trophy. He is great.

Musical Jeopardy--Spring Choir Show Bree's Senior Year

May 19, 2011

Last week was the Spring Show for choir. Bree's been involved in choir for several years, and this was the final performance of her high school year. The Musical Jeopardy theme was fun and upbeat, but nostalgia still kicked in for Mom, so it's quite possible there were a few tears--in a good way, of course. So many of these friends of hers are kids she's grown up with, and I've seen them all blossom from little kids playing on the elementary playground to wonderful young adults getting ready to seek out their futures in the world. I can't wait to see what's next for these kids.

My baby, all grown upBree and her best friend, Shelby
Bree and her boyfriend Aaron--their very own American Gothic

Bree and one of her oldest and dearest friends, Austin
Nicole and Bree--friends from many years back
Part of the kids' second grade Destination Imagination team, plus the mom-coaches: Michelle and Nicole, Bree and me, Cindi and Macie, and Austin
Proud mamas
Bree and her best friend from elementary school, Macie
Austin, Nicole, Bree, and Macie--friends for eleven years

My sweet boy Austin
Miss Natalie--gotta love that kid!
Amber and Bree--these girls adore each other
Kathryn and Bree--'just-as-good-as-sisters' friends

Garfield PTC

May 16, 2011

Hard to believe, but my stint as a Board Member of Garfield's Parent-Teacher Club is coming to an end. I have been a part of this organization for the past several years--since my oldest (who is now graduating) was in 1st grade. I have served a few different positions over the years, ones that I felt I could take on as a working mom. I have been Historian, Parlimentarian, and Past Board Member each at least a couple of times, rotating every two years. Each of these positions allowed me to continue working with this group of women who are motivated and dedicated to supporting our school and our children in every way possible. Along the way, I have made good friends and gained real respect for the hours and hours these women pour into volunteering on behalf of the Garfield teachers and kids.

Some of this year's PTC Board: Krysty, Tammi, Jenn, Stacy, me, Teri, Kim, and Principal Jessica Mele

Like Brother, Like Sister

May 15, 2011

Earlier this year when Nicholas started track for the first time, Danielle expressed an interest, too. Since Brother did shot put, and since she's a very strong little girl, she figured that would suit her, too. This is her first track meet ever. She made a very good showing and got to hang out with a few of her good friends who were also competing in the event. I just love how willing she is to try new things. She wants to be involved in everything!

Softball Awards

May 4, 2011

I just love working so close to Danielle's school so that I can run over to awards ceremonies and sporting events without missing too much school. Danielle's softball team ended the season this year with only one loss, and she got to play a little first base and a little outfield, as well as catcher. Still, the position where the pitcher throws the ball straight at her face appears to be her favorite one. That's my fearless little girl!

Spring of Sixth Grade

April 5, 2011

Spring pictures for my baby girl!

Garfield's Open House

March 28, 2011 Thursday was a graduation of sorts--a graduation for me. Garfield's Open House night, 2011, was the last one that I would attend as the parent of an elementary school student. My baby is growing up, sights already set on middle school. She paused just long enough in her journey across the bridge to look back and reminisce, proudly showing me the projects she's been working on all year in her 6th grade classroom. Her poetry:

A mask bearing symbols representing her interests and personality: a paintbrush and pallate, a soccer ball and a softball, comedy/tragedy masks, Mickey Mouse, a happy face, the color yellow (her favorite). A short essay she wrote, speculating on what she would do if she won the lottery. She is very generous with her new-found pretend money. I am happy to say I get to go on a cruise with her if she wins the lottery. I could use a vacation, so I'm crossing my fingers.... A person of influence and one who has contributed to humanitarian/charitable efforts: George Clooney. They studied the Ming and Tang Dynasties, and Danielle created a dragon to represent the Chinese culture. Danielle's name in Chinese characters. Danielle with her teacher, Mrs. Arruda.

Danielle with Mrs. Olivas, who was the first grade teacher for all three of my children.