Vignettes from Fifth Grade

My teacher was Mr. Pepper and he played the guitar. I brought him rocks from the playground after recess. I was going to be placed in "Open Class," but my parents fought against this new-fangled notion of mixing grades and had me put in traditional 5th grade.

Question #10 in our reading workbooks always began with "What do you think..." and I would occasionally be marked wrong! (For what I thought!) I campaigned against the injustice, going so far as to fashion and wear a billboard on the playground. Say no to #10! Viva la resistance! Mr. Pepper and I finally struck a bargain and I only had to answer every other #10. I still think those questions should be re-worded.

I chose Hawaii for my state report because I felt I was an expert based on our annual family vacations to Maui. Surprisingly, it entailed more work than just writing down what I already knew about the place. I got frustrated one day and wadded up my work-thus-far and threw it in the garbage. Mr. Pepper had me retrieve it, rework it and showed me how I could paste the rumpled paper onto a report page, as to salvage the piece. He gamely noted "nice texture!" in red ink when he returned it to me with final comments.

I met a girl named Dana who lived up the street. I went for a sleepover one night and her parents were gone much of the evening. We played with ingredients in the kitchen and would up wilting lettuce in a frying pan. The texture was intriguing and we thought it would be fun to bag it and sell it as "pot" at school. The next week, Jake said he'd buy some, but made faces and exclaimed "Ewww!" when we handed him the damp baggie. Looking back, I'm appalled at this game and that - despite all PSA's that drugs were bad - I thought it a good idea to sell pot.

Another classmate brought a gigantic bottle of vitamin c drops to school one day and sold them a tablet at a time. Sweet, exotic treats that they were, she made quick sales. Jeremy reported that they gave his dad the runs. Mr. Pepper decided to stop the sales of pharmaceuticals in school.

I ran for class president against Worth. My mom told me that she ran for class office when she was in college and worked with a friend to hand out flagged gumdrops across campus. I wrote clever sayings on tiny flags, glued them to toothpicks and stuck them in gumdrops. I tried to hand them out during freetime, but Worth said it wasn't fair. Mr. Pepper backed him up that it wasn't a reasonable campaign practice to bribe voters in the 5th grade. I cried and asked to call my mom, who - not seeing what the big deal was to any of us - told me simply to abandon the practice. I was crushed, even though we got to enjoy the candies after the election. My Print Shop printouts from my Apple II+'s dot-matrix printer paled in comparison. Worth won the election.

Our gold rush unit culminated in an overnight trip to Skagway via ferry (Southeast Alaska's topography doesn't allow for roads) where we saw Soapy Smith's grave, gambled fake money in a saloon, watched a musical revue, slept in the basement of a church and hunted for "gold" rocks. We fund raised for this trip by holding a family spaghetti feed in the school gym. One would assume there must have been other means that contributed to this field trip, but they eyes of a child only see things as magical happenings.

I developed a crush on Jaylin, a plainish new boy in school. It was less of a hearthrob so much as a curiosity about behaviors I saw in Bop! and Bananas. I'm sure he was clueless about how to respond to my friendly "advances," but gladly accepted monetary loans when I offered them. I think I ended 5th grade owed $2.

I didn't care for a particular girl because she was smelly and mean. My parents thought I was discriminating against her because she was poor, and thus smelly. I finally had to rat on her to get my mom off my back about spending time with her: I told them about how she wrote the f-word on the chalkboard after school one day.

Several times a year the school counselor would visit and let us know that we could come see him about any problem at any time. I thought this attention might be kind of neat, so I wrote a note to him about how I had a relative who annually binge-drank and another relative would have to fly to Seattle to find him and bring him back. I was disappointed that the counselor never called me in for an appointment. I tried again by writing about my parents yelling at each other during a disagreement they had one evening. This time, the counselor came to me during class and invited me to talk about it. The occurrence I'd described in my note actually wasn't that big of a deal and now I found that the counselor's appointment really wasn't as cool as I'd hoped. After some dull, "How did the argument make you feel?" and "It doesn't mean they don't love you," counseling, I was eager not to return to the office.

My "growing pains" were increasing and I sometimes had cold numbness in my pinky fingers during piano practice. After a series of doctor appointments in Juneau and at Children's Hospital in Seattle, the experts diagnosed me with rheumatoid arthritis, which was to be treated with 3 aspirin and 1 Tums three times daily. In short time I began gagging nearly as soon as I saw the bottle of Bayer. The Tums made it even worse, since those had to be chewed. I hid or disposed of the pills as often as feasible and tearfully swallowed the chalky remedy when forced.

The second part of my prescription was that I was to limit physical activity, particularly in school PE. My doctor's note was met with distrust and criticism by the awful Mr. Bonk, who was the worst excuse for an elementary school PE teacher to begin with. For a short time he let me sit out the activities prohibited by my note. Soon, however, he took me aside and told me that he had talked with his doctor who said I could jolly well do a certain number of similar activities. This brought him the wrath of my mother who called his office, Mr. Pepper and our school principal. The following week I came to class, asked him what I should do that day, and he told me he wasn't going to talk to me because my mother was trying to get him fired. Classy.

Even better, his wife served as a substitute some weeks later. By that time my family and the school had come to the agreement that I would just walk laps for the duration of PE. At the end of class she let me know that Middle School wouldn't allow me to walk laps, and that I'd lose credits (whatever those were) if I didn't do the activities with the rest of the class. Geez.

Finally, a radiation appointment in Seattle suggested hypothyroidism. By the end of the year, I was beginning to resume PE exercises with my class and taking a once-daily synthroid pill instead of the abundance of pain relievers and antacids.

Names I remember: Dana, Jeremy, Jaylin, Rory (during legislative season), J.J., Worth, Hiram, Kelly, Joy, Jessy, Sarah, Jean, John, Julie, Judson, Sherwin and Mark. Mr. Pepper, Mr. Bonk, Mr. Deitrich, Mrs. Harris and Mr. Walker.

On death and dying

A handful of elderly friends and family died at various times during my youth. I knew these were sad occasions, but I was not particularly affected. The first serious death took place when I was in 10th grade, when news shot around school that Joe Price from Haines had drowned while diving for sea cucumbers.

Again, while a sad report, this news didn't particularly move me... at first. However, within some 30 minutes, I walked into sophomore biology, began to put my books on a table, and... *BAM* felt literally awash in sorrow. This was an entirely new experience for me - the sorrow was more physical than emotional, and wracked my body. I'd gotten to know Joe and, while not a close friend, enjoyed his company. The guy had even drawn a corny cartoon in my pink address book at the close of summer camp.

The school attendance secretary was compassionate, and allowed us a free pass for the asking. An odd group of students from various grades and social circles gathered at a table in the commons to just... talk. And talk and talk and talk. We may later have gone to someone's house to talk some more. The shared sorrow, I realize now, was important in grieving, especially for a peer - so young!

In the next couple of years, my great uncle would die from a fall, and my great aunt soon after, from old age. Having had my grandparents pass on when I was quite young, these two were surrogate grandparents. I was confused and saddened. Perhaps not so much as I had been for the loss of Joe, given their old age, but still regretful that I wouldn't have them anymore. Later, with the birth of my first child, I was sadder, still, for the inability to have them enjoy each other's company. Later I would fantasize about them meeting and playing together in heaven.

The next eventful death was that of my mother-in-law's (from my first marriage). She died painfully from a cancer and, as usual, much too young. While I grieved, I was also comforted in my role as a supporter - to be the strong one for my [ex-]husband and our small family.

The next one was the SERIOUS one. Clearly, we're not supposed to have our children precede us in death. However, my nearly-3-year-old son was killed when we were rear-ended at high speed on the freeway by a vehicle that was passing emergency vehicles, and whose owner was talking on a cell phone and, if measured under today's blood guidelines, would have had DUI-levels of alcohol in his system. Understandably, the grief that followed was the most complex and lengthy, and I'll spare the detail. Sixteen years later it seems to have been someone else's life, particularly since I've essentially begun a new family since then.

I think the array of experiences has left me a fatalist to some degree. There's nothing I can do to prepare for a loved one to die, because drowning/falling/aging/cancer/collisions lay in wait. While that credo sounds deranged, it also gives me freedom to "live as if each day were my last." Perhaps that explains my penchant for bursting into song upon inspiration from a passing phrase. And explains why I'll voice my opinion or suggestion without fear of rebuke, no matter how far-flung my point may be.

With these fatalistic realities, I take some comfort in that there's nothing I need to do prepare. At the same time, I realize how human we all are and on some late, sleepless nights I shed tears for fear that the unknown can and will happen to me and those I love.

Sandwich dreams

For a couple of decades, I was addicted to contests. In my youth, I dialed furiously to be "caller #10" to Taku 105 (then my hometown's pop-rock station) for the opportunity to announce the evening's top-requested five songs. When I was 18 and eligible for tangible prizes, I listened all afternoon to answer random trivia or win free Bullwinkle's pizza (the ringtone of the jingle still brings me to full alert). While living in Anchorage one summer, I was pleased to make it onto Scott & Stu's Morning Zoo (KGOT) (though I forget now what I won). Perhaps my biggest prizes were in Seattle on Star 101.5, where once I won a ticket anywhere Shuttle by United flew (I chose to visit Kansas City, Missouri, to visit the Truman Library in nearby Independence), and another time a weekend vacation to Denver and tickets to the Wallflowers/Counting Crows concert at Red Rocks (and other wacky adventures shared with my wonderful Cousin Nikka). I was lucky!

I've been less diligent with contests in the recent decade, preferring to spend my time in other ways, but I'm not deaf to the lure of "free" winnings. I harbor a not-so-secret desire to put together a brief video of my kitchen skills to pull my way onto at least one episode of The Next Food Network Star. Today I spied a Mezzetta sandwich recipe contest on the Readymade blog (having recently read The Ungarnished Truth, I think I've a great chance!). I also confess to entering a Cinco de Mayo sweepstakes for some Mike's Hard Lemonade merchandise at Dave's Meats.

I guess you can't win if you don't enter! So, since I'm a winner...

P.S. I entered another Mike's contest during the writing of this blog entry...

For these things, I am thankful

When I saw a therapist (I can admit it – I’m a big girl) in 2006 about anxiety issues, she suggested treating one aspect of my neuroses with self-appreciation and thankfulness, without guilt. While I have a handle on most of my issues (well, at least those I was trying to conquer then; I’m sure I’ve developed new ones now!), I realize I haven’t “counted my blessings” in some time. It seems wise to give thanks more often than during an annual November poultry pig-out.

School. Nearly every day I’m blown away by what I see of my daughter’s educational experience. I’m thankful that she has good aptitude for studies and friend-making, that we have access to such a fine learning institution, and that my husband and I have comfortable friend circles there, and are able to share the good experiences as a family.

Retreats. I am thankful that we have open access to a nearby summer retreat where we can all unwind and enjoy Puget Sound and good summer weather. I’m also lucky to have access to a getaway in my hometown, which we use mileage tickets to access at least once a year, in the summer.

Daughter. Of course I’m thankful for a wonderful little girl, and know I always will be. I never dreamed how proud I’d be of her, for her kindness, respect for other, aptitude for learning, and child’s joy of the world around her.

Bidet-functioning toilet seats. It’s warm when I need it, and the spray of water always leaves me feeling oh-so-fresh. It’s a shame these aren’t more common in this country/culture.

Adjustable beds. When I’m sick, it’s indispensable as a TV-watching aide and as a method to keep me propped up so I can breath well. It’s also a great daily tool to adjust to my aging body’s needs based on the variety of activities I’ve chosen.

Good neighbors. Even if the house wasn’t my dream of nooks and crannies, I’d be hard-pressed to move, given our good relationships with neighbors – a great bunch of people who watch out for each other and enjoy spending time together.

This is just a partial list, of course… I’ll endeavor to pepper my thoughts with further thanksgiving.

Inevitable economy thoughts

It seems as soon as I launched my blog, I was immediately fighting writer's block. I have a great many subjects to spew out, but my mind keeps turning to the economy. And gloom. And doom. When will it bottom out and rise again? When will I understand the causes of it? When will it stop hurting our friends? How deeply will our family be affected?

And questions... and questions... and questions...