Interesting Phone Call.....

I had an interesting phone call Friday morning. I guess it actually bordered on shocking, but the surprise has worn off and the intrigue remains.

Let me give you some background first.

My parents divorced around 1967, when I was only 6 years old. I don't remember many details of life when they were still together, and the ones I do remember weren't very pleasant.

I wasn't very close to my father after about the age of 8 or 9. I guess that's when young girls start having friends and sleepovers, and going back and forth to my father's house every other weekend wasn't my idea of fun. He once resorted to bribery to get me to come live with him full-time. He told me he would buy me a pony if I would come live with him. I was only 8 years old, so I agreed. He didn't want me to live with him; he just wanted to stick it to my mother. She wisely allowed me to go stay with him for the summer, confident that I would want to come back home before school started. She was right.

My father remarried in 1976, when I was 15. We didn't see each other much, and I was of course all about ME at that age (I finally grew out of it sometime last year). My step-mother's name was Doris, and when I DID see them, she was always very kind and welcoming to me.

Doris had never been married before she married my father at the age of 39. My sisters and I asked each other repeatedly through the years why she would wait that long and then marry HIM. She was much too nice a person to be with our father. He never seemed to appreciate her goodness, although she was apparently important enough to him that he stayed sober as long as she lived. When she died in 1998, my father immediately returned to the bottle.

Back to the phone call.

The man on the other end of the phone said he was the baby that Doris gave up for adoption in 1964. She would have been 27 years old at the time, much older than most single moms these days, but of course it would have been scandalous in those days for a single woman to have a baby. (I wish it were scandalous these days instead of being a rite of passage for some.) He and I don't necessarily have any connection, except for the fact that if Doris had raised him, he would have been my step-brother.

The man had apparently talked to Doris before her death, and they had made arrangements to meet. She had to cancel one time, though, and he had to cancel another time, and I suppose life intervened. When he thought to look her up again, he learned she had died in 1998.

He wanted to know what kind of person Doris was, and he wondered if anyone had pictures. I was ashamed to say I didn't know a lot of details about Doris, but I could assure him Doris was much too good a person to have been with my father. I only had a couple of pictures, one taken at Frogger Blogger's house sometime in 1997 (I think) and one from my wedding to Sweet Girl's father in 1982. He also wanted to know how Doris died, and unfortunately it was from lung cancer. She had quit smoking for 3 years when doctors found the first spot on her lung, and she wound up having part of her lung removed. She did okay for several years, except for being easily winded, which didn't in any way impact my father's habit of walking too fast for her to keep up, but then the cancer returned with a vengeance.

I have so many questions, but of course there is no one to ask. My father has one surviving sibling, my aunt Joyce, but she was as floored as I was, so I'm sure she doesn't know any details. My father knew of the child's existence, and according to his NEXT wife (grrrrrrrr), he "never forgave Doris." Yep, that sounds just like him, holding something over her head that happened before they ever met. My father died in 2002, so i can't ask him either.

That must have been a terribly difficult decision for Doris to make, and yet she was one of the kindest, gentlest, most loving people I've ever known. I guess it gets said a lot after someone is gone, but I wish I had appreciated Doris more while she was still alive.

Doris and my father, sometime around 1997. I have no idea why Doris's eyes are closed.

Doris and my father (far left), my mother, me and my first husband, his parents. Yes, I'm that short (5'2"), but he's also that tall (6'10"). You can probably tell where he got his height.

Isn't life interesting?

Unexpected Text Message.....

I received an unexpected text message this past Saturday from Jason, my BFF from high school.

I've written about him a number of times:

• Why I Missed Homecoming my Senior Year
• Wrong Place at Definitely the Wrong Time
• Not a Responsible Baby-Sitter
• Another Jason Story
• When I Met Jason

We have been in touch only sporadically since he coerced me into returning to the Facebook world. We text every now and then, email almost as infrequently. But the feelings I have for him are just as strong as they were when we were in high school and college. It's sort of a brother/best friend/confidante/partner in crime wrapped up in one. A perfect relationship without the sex. Which some would say makes it a perfect relationship.

Jason's text on Saturday read: "Hey D. Wanted to give you my new number in Atlanta. It's....."

I texted back: "Wait...What? You're in Atlanta?" And naturally I was 6 hours in the OTHER direction, in Florida.

Jason has lived in Texas for years. It's where he lived before he came to Georgia when we were in 9th grade. I knew he was a Texas boy at heart and would someday return there. So it came as quite a shock to learn that he was back in Georgia.

Naturally I want to see him. But I'm also a little ... what ... shy? Nervous? I haven't laid eyes on him since before Sweet Girl was born. Pardon me for the understatement, but a LOT has happened since then. I'm not so worried about how we pick up where we left off; my weekends with girlfriends from high school has shown that we do that very well. I guess I'm a little apprehensive about how to go about merging all these people together, people who are very important to me but would have absolutely nothing to do with one another if I weren't the common denominator. Does that even make sense?

And because I've sent Jason the link to my blog before and there's a slim chance he's reading this:

Jason - I loved you for who you were before you knew who you were. I hope you will love the person I've become as much as you loved who I was. I hope we can get together soon. Almost thirty years of catching up is going to take ... well, thirty years or so.

I'm Not Sure this is the Same Kid......

When we interview students for our program, it's hard to predict which ones I will gravitate toward when they actually become our students. Because of A) my cynical nature (gasp! you say) and B) the number of times I've been burned, I try not to get my hopes up too high about any of them. You're a loser until you prove me wrong. Well it's not quite THAT bad, but they know to put on a pretty face and say the right things in their interviews, and then their true colors shine bright once they enter our program. Therefore I try to reserve judgment until I've had a chance to see them in real action. Or inaction, as the case may (all too frequently) be.

I've always been drawn to the trouble kids. And the troubled kids. I'm not bragging when I say that in a lot of cases I was able to relate to them when other teachers couldn't. It's not a skill, it's not a talent. It's just something I have that I don't know HOW I have. Perhaps it's empathy for those students whose misbehavior reminds me of that of both my brothers.

When I first started teaching in an inner city school, I had some rough classes, because the newest members of the faculty always get the most difficult students AND WHY IN GOD'S NAME WON'T SOMEONE CHANGE THAT? I remember one particularly hardened group in my 3rd period class, all boys, all bored, all marginalized in some way. There weren't many in the class, because those tended to drop out fairly quickly, so at least I wasn't as outnumbered as I could have been. I tried to follow the curriculum and, because I was a new teacher, I wasn't nearly creative enough. We muddled through illustrated versions of Romeo & Juliet and other classics, and I truly thought I was doing what they hired me to do. I'm not sure I reached many of them, though.

There was a young man in that class who went by the name of "Red." I wish I could remember his real name. He wasn't redheaded, and he was trouble with a capital "T." But I liked him. And I was probably more than a little afraid of him. These kids were most likely to respond to you if you were REAL with them, and maybe that's why I got along with them. One day Red was flashing a wad of cash during class, and I scolded him. "What are you doing with that kind of money at SCHOOL?" I asked him. "It's not safe to carry that kind of cash around."

"I'm going to buy me a new pair of tennis shoes after school," Red replied.

"Well, don't bring that much money to school again. It's dangerous."

Sure enough, the next day Red sported a new pair of whatever the hot tennis shoes were at that time. AND he had a wad of cash. I jokingly (and stupidly and naively) asked, "Red, where do you GET that kind of money? Whatever you're doing, I think I want to try it too, so I can have me some money like that."

Red got dead serious, and I believe he would have turned pale if he hadn't been African-American. "No, Mrs. Bragger," he said, "I don't think you do." He looked genuinely frightened that I might do something foolish (as he was obviously doing) just to make some money. I believe he would have tried to stop me. I have been touched by that little exchange for my entire teaching career. I wonder what Red is doing now, if he's in prison, if he's still alive, or if he turned things around.

Another student in that same group was named Shawn, and I had had him the year before in middle school. Shawn had the worst stuttering problem the speech pathologist said she had ever seen in her ten years of working with students. He would open his mouth to speak, you could hear the air rushing in (or out), his mouth would move a few times, and occasionally he would manage to blurt something out, but it would be so fast that I couldn't understand him. It might be as simple as asking for a pencil, but it was an ordeal for both of us. I would apologize and ask him to repeat it. It's a wonder he ever spoke to me. But he kept trying. In middle school we all had to teach a "transition" or "special" or whatever the heck they called it back then, and I was assigned to teach an 8-week unit on speech communications. Lucky me, Shawn wound up in that class. Mercifully he was absent one day, and I spoke to the class about the fact that Shawn just wouldn't have the same set of requirements as the rest of them. Bottom line. End of story. I think they understood, or perhaps they were relieved they wouldn't have to watch Shawn suffer in front of the class, trying to make a speech about washing a dog or something.

Then Shawn wound up in my high school class, and he was probably grateful to have a familiar face. His stuttering was no better, but we got along fine. I was never one of those teachers who forced students to read aloud, and I didn't usually call on them cold in class just to prove to the rest of the students that some of them didn't know the answers. One day, though, I was going over some questions in class, and Shawn raised his hand. He volunteered to answer. I don't even remember if he had difficulty getting his answer out, but the fact that he WANTED to answer the question for me has remained in my mind one of the most triumphant moments in my career. I could easily have stopped the lesson right then and sat down and cried. I hope Shawn is doing well today.

The original purpose of this post, though, is about one of our current students. J.J. is nothing but a country boy, and during his interview he slouched in his chair and was fine with his mom answering the questions for him. We asked him about his past and why he hadn't been successful. He had failed most of the courses he had attempted, mostly because he didn't care enough to try. He would go to class and put his head down, and he only brought about 9 or 10 credits with him.

During the interview, his mother said what his main problem was. She pointed to the one male teacher in the room and said, "Taking orders from you, no problem." Then she pointed at me, "Taking orders from you, big problem."

I bristled at that, and I said, "Then we've GOT a problem, because if you look around this table, most of us are women." I think she said something to the effect that he would work on it, and I pretty much wrote him off in my mind right then. I knew he would come in with an attitude toward the women teachers, he would resist efforts to get him to do his work, and he would become a discipline problem. I didn't expect him to last long, especially considering the number of credits he still needed to earn and his past discipline issues.

Nothing could be further from the truth. He has already completed several courses, and he approached me one day about the possibility of finishing by this May (almost impossible, but admirable still). He has always been polite to me, he never talks back, he says "m'am" even though I don't expect it, and his attendance has been exemplary. Don't get me wrong, he's not the perfect student, but he has been a pleasant surprise. He has a tendency to want to play games on the computer, and he never complains when I take control of his computer and click him out of them. Or better yet, I see that he's playing some sort of skill game, and when I take control of his computer, he can't manipulate his character at all. He has to sit there helplessly and watch his guy die. Or his car crash. Or his bike tumble off a cliff. I take a wonderfully perverse pleasure in doing that. He'll spin around in his chair, grinning, but he never gets offended that I have interfered in his game. Again. But he genuinely cares about his courses, and he is working hard to get as many finished as he can. I believe he will graduate, possibly next December, but definitely no later than May of 2012. And he was for all intents and purposes a drop-out when he came to us.

I'm so glad I can still be surprised.


I don't even hold it against him that he's a Georgia Tech fan.

Surprise, Surprise.....

I love surprises!

After a HELLACIOUS day (why do those ALWAYS come when you're trying to dash out early so you can leave town for a long weekend? Payback?), I just barely had time to change clothes and pack the few remaining belongings that I had not already put in the RV for our weekend bicycling trip. Seriously, I don't think a single article of clothing is left in my house. We brought it all with us.

Hubby? I think we're going to need a bigger RV.

There was a package on the table, though, and it was addressed to me, and I couldn't go away for the weekend leaving an unopened package on the table.

I hadn't ordered anything. Not this week anyway.

It's too early for my Gym Dogs t-shirt to be here.

I haven't left anything behind at a hotel lately, so it couldn't be something someone returned.

It was even better than any of that.

It was a completely, totally, 100%, bonafide, genuine SURPRISE!

My blogging pal Maggie sent me a beautiful yellow cap that she knitted herself. Amazingly enough, she had to have mailed this BEFORE I whined and whined about how cold it was going to be this weekend.

As you can see, she also sent me an eyemask. How could she have known that we have parked the RV in a church parking lot (more on that later) DIRECTLY UNDER A SECURITY LIGHT?

I think it's a special kind of bloggers' telepathy.

The ride this weekend is in North Florida. But Friday's ride has a remote start back across the Georgia border, so we were going to have to arrive at the campground in the dark tonight, park the RV, get up tomorrow morning, drive north to a church in Georgia, ride our bikes approximately 50 miles, then go BACK to the campground. Not much of a problem for people who have regular vehicles.

RV people? Not so easy.

We decided to cut out the middle man and just "camp" at the church tonight. We'll be here in the morning when the other riders arrive, then we'll get to the campground in the daylight tomorrow afternoon. We'll miss breakfast tomorrow morning at the campground, but it would take DAYS to eat everything Rozmo brought. We will not go hungry.

(Uh......God? Sorry about stealing your electricity. I would leave something in the offering plate if you didn't have to lock your doors these days. And I can explain about the bloody marys in your parking lot. Really I can.)

No matter what the weather does this weekend, my head will most certainly not be cold thanks to my blogging pal Maggie.

I love surprises!

Now if the weather can surprise us and jump up there in the 70's tomorrow, it will be just fine with me. I'll get plenty of wear out of my new Maggie-made hat this winter.

Unexpected Surprises.....

Yes, I am completely aware of the redundancy of that title.

I won't bore you with (all of) the details, but today was just a grumpy day. So far it's been a grumpy week. Some might argue that it's been a grumpy life, and I just might be happy to chop them off at the kneecaps. I'm just sayin'.

Beginning with the clothing drama this morning. It didn't really begin with that, though. It began with someone who is R-E-T-I-R-E-D getting up at 5:30 AM and screwing up my morning routine. I really wanted to watch Dancing with the Stars from last night.

What I didn't want to do was listen to someone mutter through the whole newscast.

Sorry, I've blogged about that before. Moving on.

THEN came the clothing issues. No time to iron, toes not ready for capris and sandals, too warm for sweaters and turtlenecks. Yay for that. I dug to the back of the closet and picked out something loose and comfy to go with generic gray slacks.

While SOMEONE stood in the doorway, whistling tunelessly. I don't think he knows he does it.

Two outfits later, also dug from the back of the closet, I stomped downstairs.

"That's not what you picked out," he said, glancing up from his precious Soduko puzzle.

OH, SO YOU PICK NOW TO NOTICE WHAT I'M WEARING? AFTER (ALMOST) 13 YEARS? SERIOUSLY?

As I said, it's been a grumpy day. He really is the world's last perfect man. Most of the time.

I realized on the way to school that I hadn't eaten breakfast. Sometimes I take it with me and eat after I get there. Today I forgot, and the only thing I had at school was chicken noodle soup.

Just try starting your day off with chicken noodle soup for breakfast. You'll be mean too, I guarantee. Particularly if you only have one little packet of club crackers to go in it.

Then I grumped at students all day. None of it was undeserved, but grumping takes energy. Then after school we had two interviews, one of whom canceled 10 minutes before her appointment (great first impression), and the other of whom was so totally wrong for our program that I wanted to smack the person who recommended him to us. Except she apparently already has a traumatic brain injury, because that's the ONLY excuse she could have for entertaining the foggiest notion that he would be successful at our school.

I know you're wondering when the hell I'm going to get to the unexpected surprise.

Actually, there were two.

First of all, Hubby wasn't home when I got home. Now don't get me wrong, I love him dearly, but his absence meant that I could watch the recording of DWTS that I thought was going to have to wait until his next golf trip to watch.

Then there was a check (finally) for the ugly motorcycle that I won last October and the guy finally sold it for us. That wasn't unexpected, though.

The unexpected surprise was from a certain motor company's financing division. I thought my car would be paid off in October. We paid way too much money for way too many bells and whistles, and then we got 0% financing, so the payments are waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyy too much every month. I was looking forward to October, when I would no longer be enslaved to car payments.

The letter came today informing me that this month I will make my last payment.

I feel like I just got a big raise.

I could almost foot the bill for a Sisters' Weekend in Missouri weekend after next.

I'm just sayin'.

Afternoon Surprises.....

After a fairly crazy week (with one more day to go -- an all-day field trip tomorrow), it was such a relief to get home this afternoon and put on my sweats.

With all due apologies to any male readers who may stumble upon this drivel, the best part of coming home in the afternoon is taking off my bra. When I retire, I may never wear a bra again. I don't care WHERE they end up, frankly.

Today when I took off my bra, something ELSE (and unexpected) fell to the floor.

Oh, THAT'S where that peanut went.