Author: mmtbagladyintraining

I will never forget when I fell in love with street art.  I was nineteen and riding a bus through Boston.  I loved how the laundry was hung high above the streets–delicate, colorful cotton prints swaying against the back drop of black steel and gray concrete. I was even more impressed with the big murals covering old brick buildings.  I took it all in and wondered what it would be like to paint on a giant wall that people passed by everyday.  That’s when I started studying bricks and learning how to draw the texture and the richness, because really there is no such thing as brick red. And whenever I get a chance to be in a big city, I try to see some street art.  While my companions are taking pictures of landmarks, I’m taking pictures in alleys and the sides of buildings.  Museums and tourist attractions are cool and all, but I’m just as impressed with a mural flashing by in the train window.  

A few years ago, Larry Weaver, the pastor at the church on 7th and Macon asked me to paint a mural on the church stairs. I was pretty happy to be asked to paint on an old crumbly stone and concrete surface, It was my first chance at street art.

7th and Macon is about as far as you can get from a big city street.  It’s quiet and shady and no one walking by is any hurry to get anywhere else.  I started with the steps.  I’ve never done steps before, so it was super interesting to learn how a to unfold a panoramic, cascading scene.  I wish I could do it again, because now that I understand all the nuances, I’d do it better.  But once you lay down color on a surface like concrete, do overs aren’t that friendly.  Must of the time I was pretty absorbed in my work, but I did talk to everyone who stopped to admire my work.  That’s what you do in a small town.  Or at least that’s what I do.  I learned right away that if you are doing work at a church, people assume you are part of the church.  I got asked all kinds of questions.  Where is the pastor? Do I have gift cards or vouchers for meals?  I told one guy I was just doing the painting, but I gave him my sandwich.  He sat down on the sidewalk and preceded to tell me his troubles which mostly involved drinking too much.

 

Yesterday would have been my parents’ 57th wedding anniversary and it was also the date of the annual Taylor family reunion.  I have only been to one reunion since my parents died, and when I walked into the backyard of my aunt’s house and saw my dad’s two brothers sitting side by side, all I saw was my father’s face and all the tears that I stuff away every day bubbled to the surface.  So my big plan was to take my bag of paint and go work on a mural on the steps of a church downtown.  I wasn’t going to the reunion and I wasn’t going to mention anything about my parents to anyone.

This summer has been hot as hell, and I was prepared for a day of painting in the sun. I stopped at Walmart for some metallic green paint, then I headed for the church. I had  sunscreen, my painting clothes, a gallon of water,  brushes, and a plan.  I’d only been at the church long enough to brush the metallic paint along the edge of the river I had painted the evening before,  when the wind kicked up and raindrops started lightly sprinkling my head.  There’s some irony.  I’ve literally wished for rain, every moment, since May and the one day when rain is a little problematic, here it comes.  So I sat in the doorway of the church, wondering if I should seal the painting I’d done, but I figured that the rain probably would pass.  I calculated that if I painted all day, I could probably finish by dark.  Sure enough, the sprinkles passed, and I left the shelter of the doorway to get my backpack of paint from the truck bed.  Yeah, so I left the backpack on the porch.  At home.  Frustrated, I packed up my supplies and went back for the paint.

When I got there, Shayne was watering the flowers in the backyard and Darian was actually tidying up her room.  I was just about to leave with my paint when I noticed Mom and Dad’s wedding picture.  I walk by it everyday without even looking at it, but I stopped for a second and really took it in.  Mom didn’t have a big old wedding dress on, but she did have heels and white gloves.   She believed in marriage, but she never did understand that whole giant expensive wedding thing.  She always said, “Weddings should be small and simple.  Save the money for the honeymoon.”  And Dad is so young in that picture and he looks happy, like he is taking home the best party prize.  That’s how he always looked at my mother.  I kinda smiled and asked the kids if they wanted to take a quick trip to Springs to the family reunion.  Shayne had to work and I had to paint, but I figured we could dine and dash and I could see my family for a minute.

The first people I saw were my uncles, just like I knew I would, but this time it wasn’t painful.  It was just my uncles in their ball caps and their jeans like I’ve seen them wearing my whole life.  Both of them lit up when they saw me and I got hugs and kisses.  Their hands are big and strong, just like my dad’s were.  I said hi to everyone else and ate some great food and reminisced with my cousins about our amazing childhood and our fun times in the mountains as kids.  I mostly sat with my cousins Bea and Berta.  Bea and her husband, Faustin just celebrated their 44th wedding anniversary.  I was their flower girl.  I also stayed with them when I first moved to Alamosa and they came up to Springs during my cancer surgery.  Berta has always been more like my big sister than my cousin and it’s been a long time since I just sat with her and laughed.  These two women know things about me that no one else in the world does, and sitting with them was like taking a deep breath and remembering who I really am.

I got back to the church and my painting job with plenty of daylight, but really not enough time to finish what I needed to finish.  I texted James and asked if he would bring me a headlamp.  The church is off of Main Street on a quiet street, but there is a bar around the corner.  At night you can hear the music and the loud voices of people entering and exiting the bar.  There was also a young guy walking around shouting things at the top of his voice.  He’d been around in the morning and all evening while I painted.  At one time, he might have frightened me, but I know what it’s like to be around someone with voices in his head.  I know enough to be cautious, but I wasn’t afraid of him, mostly I felt sorry for him and hoped that he had somewhere to sleep.  Shayne was like that not long ago, and I’m grateful everyday that he is off the streets and the voices are at bay.   James sat on the steps and stayed with me until I was ready to go.  That’s love.  Presence. Patience.  Protection.  It made me think of my father.  Dad called James, “Jaime.”  He always nicknamed, or Spanish- named, the important people in his life.  James is the only man in my life that my father ever nicknamed.  It was his seal of approval.

Learning to celebrate and appreciate what I have, instead of what I’ve lost, is an ongoing battle.  Living in the moment instead of in my head is an on-going lesson.  But the more I practice, the more I realize that I haven’t forgotten how to laugh and love.  Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad.  Thank you for giving me the family that I have and being shining examples of devotion and strength.

I made this top ten list when I first went to Chicago in 2009:

10 things I love about Chicago:
I love the lion statues in front of the Art Institute.
I love the Impressionist collection at the Art Institute.
I better make this simple; I love the Art Institute.
I love that there are literally millions of places to eat.
I love the rain.
I love Jane Addams and the Hull House.
I love that there are young revolutionaries in the city ready to make the world a better place.
I love urban gardens.
I love that street musicians play decent jazz on the corners.
I love watching the boats on the Chicago River.

10 things I would hate if I had to live here all the time.
The traffic. No one here drives appropriately. Traffic signals? What are they?
The sirens screaming all over the city at all times of day and night.
The train clacking by in the middle of the night. Go to bed people.
The hungry people on the corners.
The people in the park without socks or shoes. What do they do in the winter?
The wealth in a city of great economic disparity.
Dunkin donuts.-I think there are more here than in Colorado all put together.
The expense of everything–no wonder so many people are begging for a dime.
No parking–but wait a minute if I lived here I wouldn’t drive. It’s suicide.
The permanent smell of exhaust and trash.

My first trip to Chicago was nine years ago.  I went on a grant funded program for teachers to learn about American history.  It was an amazing experience because fifty or so teachers from Colorado travelled all over the Windy City to see where history happened–the site of the meat packing industry, the Pullman factory, the Haymarket Square, Union Station.  We ate food in a Lithuanian neighborhood, were served farm to table food at the historic Hull house, and. of course, sampled famous deep dish pizza.  Landmarks such as Marc Chagall’s mural, Picassso’s sculpture, and the site of the two world’s fairs were explored.  Plus we did fun things like attend a comedy show at Second City, and checked out Wrigley field.  The Cubbies weren’t doing so hot then and people were out of the park a little upset.  Okay, a lot upset.  And on my own, with a newly pregnant colleague in tow, we hiked five miles in the hot, humid air to see where the television show ER was filmed.  I saw and did more that week in Chicago than probably people who have lived there a lifetime.  In addition, to all that my birthmother lives here.  So for a small town girl, Chicago became my city.

This summer has been my summer to try to learn to relax and heal, so what better than a weekend in my favorite city with my amazing book club.  And it was pretty great–Hamilton, a blues concert, the Blue Man group, a book fair, and amazing food.  A friend of mine from high school was in town and stayed over an extra day to see me and I did get to see my birthmother, Kathy  She took me to the Lincoln Park Zoo which is one of the few  Chicago attractions that I hadn’t been to yet. The male lion was standing up on boulders looking magnificent; he took my breath away.  I can imagine if I lived close by, I’d try to see that lion as much as possible.  Knowing me, I’d pretty soon write a story about his day.  I’d start to think of him as my lion.  Charlie would get jealous, so it’s probably good I don’t have a lion.  All kidding aside, I love spending time with Kathy.  She grounds me.

The best part of the trip was spending time with the women in my bookclub.  A lot of my people in my life have done so many things for me since losing my parents, but the women in my book club have been my anchors.  I showed up on Stephanie’s door step one day soon after the funeral in hysterical tears.  She listened and got me to take a deep breath in her calm, peaceful way.  Sally has driven me to the breast cancer doctor, to my biopsies, to my ultrasounds, to radiation.  She’s brought over cherries and organized cleaning parties and so much more.  Catherine and her husband, Pat, literally saved Shayne’s life.  They gave him work and a purpose and have the ability to see beyond his illness and recognize his gifts and potential.  Linda and Susan are among my favorite colleagues and brighten my days with their empathy and laughter.  And I’ll never forget, how Patricia came to to the hospital when I had the infection and sat with me until I was released.  In these past years, there is nothing these women haven’t done for me.  We may have started out as a group to talk about books, but somehow that has evolved into sharing our lives.

When mom and dad were killed, we were reading Tracks.  Tracks is a memoir of a woman who trekked across Australia with a camel and sometimes a cameraman.  She had amazing things happen on her journey–like waking up with a sleeping bag full of poisonous snakes curling around her for warmth.  She survived to tell the tales.  I couldn’t read after mom and dad died.  Shayne was at his worst at that point, on and off the streets.  And I was trying to make sense out of all the insurance documents and the steps I needed to take to sort out my parents affairs, but I didn’t miss book club.  My friends had a gift for me.  It was a coffee table book of Tracks.  A survival story in photographs.  I have that book on display in my living room.  Everyday I walk by and remind myself, that surviving is all about facing the day with purpose.  I may not have chosen the journey, but I get to choose how to travel.  And I have never been alone.

Darian HATES when I write about her.  She pretty much HATES what I write.  Grudgingly, she will acknowledge that I’m a good writer, but she thinks I should not write about mom and dad dying, Shayne having a mental illness, or cancer.  She thinks I should write about going to an all girls boarding school, or working as a cocktail waitress, or learning to be a tattoo artist.  She also thinks that I settled by living in a small town as a teacher.  She thinks I’d be happier if I quit and moved away and became a writer or a professional artist.  She also HATES that she looks like me and she does everything she can to set herself apart.  She dyes her hair, wears dramatic make-up and bold clothes.  She calls me annoying, ridiculous, impossible.  Yep, she’s sixteen.  I never got the expression “sweet sixteen.”  It should be “savage sixteen.”

Savage or not, one of my goals this summer was to spend time with Darian.  As a parent, I hate to admit it, but I haven’t really raised Darian.  She was kind of raised by the village.  I went back to work when she was only five weeks old and my parents took more care of her than I did in the early years.   Darian had her own room at her grandparents house and her own bar stool at the kitchen counter and could get my parents to do anything.  If she said, “Grandpa, dance.”  He literally would pull out some shimmers and shakes.  If she told my mom she was hungry, out would pop the pots and pans.  I’ll never forget Darian saying, “Grandpa, I want to go to the beach.”  Two weeks later we were all in Tahoe spreading our blankets on the sandy lake shore in California.  When I did take Darian to work with me, she went from teacher to teacher, or there would be some middle schooler only glad to play with her.  I will never forget finding Darian sitting on a skateboard with one of my roughest middle school boys.  She was wearing someone’s beanie, watching the boys do tricks on the ramp in the school courtyard.  She was four.  She always liked older kids, because she had Shayne.  He was eight when she was born and he changed her, rocked her, entertained her by singing and dancing and reading to her.  He made blanket forts with her and took her to the park and movies.  He also helped her out with her chores–which meant he did them for her.    Instead of shutting her out of his teenage life, she was a sidekick, always included in his activities.  When Shayne got his license, he took over the chauffeuring.  Sometimes he’d take her to Sonic before school and drop her off late, telling her, “Walk in, like you own it.”  I spent time with Darian, but there were lots of other people making sure she got everything she needed.  Raising her was never all on me.  So when my parents died and Shayne got sick, the village took over.  James and my girlfriends made sure she got to where she needed to go, her friends shouldered her tears and her choir teacher and drama teacher and history teacher filled her hours. And honestly, she was the least of my problems.  She wasn’t lost and on the streets; she wasn’t an insurance agent, or a lawyer, or a doctor.  She was independent and strong and doing okay, or so I thought.  Or at least that’s what I wanted to think.

Last summer after I’d been diagnosed with cancer, I took Darian to a doctor for a physical. She was given a depression assessment and she came out kind of high on it.  I guess I wasn’t that surprised, but it did make me realize that at fifteen, D had her own shit storm.  Her grandparents were dead.  Her brother was not the same person who had been her champion and her comic relief.  And her mother had cancer.  Plus she had all the normal things all teenage girls have to deal with.  So I tried then to get it together and be a better mom for her.  Shayne was in Maryland and I thought it would give Darian and I time alone to build a new relationship.  It kind of did, but it also pointed out how deep her pain was.  My first indication was when I was cleaning Shayne’s room after he left.  He had spent a year in various stages of psychosis and his room left a trail of his downward decline.  He had journals filled with his spiraling thoughts.  There were piles of ashes where he’d burned documents and set fires to keep the soul snatchers at bay.  There were caches of his medicine that he’d hidden away.  Plus debris from his childhood–Pokemon cards, VHS tapes, frisbees and mementos from high school–his athletic letters, drawings from his girlfriend, Destination Imagination trophies and pins.  I worked on the room for a couple of days, boxing stuff up for Goodwill, sorting through the trash, reading over the journals.  Darian came in at one point and saw all the movies and things that I had boxed up and accused me of throwing away his childhood.  She wrapped her arms around “Speed Limit” (Shayne’s giant teddy bear) and sobbed.  For hours.  At first, I didn’t think much of the tears, but as it went on, I got worried.  I didn’t really know how to help her.  I’m a “suck it up and deal with it kind of girl,” she is not.  And that’s when I realized that maybe she needed someone other than me to talk to about her feelings.

I don’t really get depression.  It’s not like I’ve never been depressed, but for me I can turn it around–like exercise, or looking for the bright side.  I don’t get that “bone-crushing, I can’t get out of bed, I want to die” kind of phenomena.  As much as I want to deny it, that stuff is real for Darian.  I’d rather brag about her grades or post pictures of her in her glittery choir dresses.  But a clearer picture would be of her room–this giant mess of clothes and dishes and empty Coke cans that she hasn’t thrown away in weeks.  I cleaned her room, because she is so overwhelmed and crippled with her emotions that she didn’t even know where to start.  That I understand.  I can fix a messy bedroom, even if it is overwhelming and unbelievable, what I can’t fix is her heart.

Parenting is a tough gig.  It’s easy to make mistakes and hard to fix them.  A kid isn’t a malleable marble of clay either.  They each have their own emotions and desires and goals.  Darian might look like me, but she is her own person, on her own journey.  I’m doing my best to love her and support her in ways that I can.  She is stronger than she knows; and I hope that all those things the village has given her–confidence, resilience, passion will bring her through this time of pain.

Forty-nine years ago, my parents took me home from the adoption agency. The story goes that they were just supposed to meet me, but my brother, Michael, insisted on taking me home. So even though no baby preparations had been made, I for all intents and purposes became a Taylor that day. I was ten weeks old. Mom detailed my first few days in a two page narrative in a baby album. She was good about writing shit down. Even though we didn’t celebrate May 29 as a birthday or anything, it was still a day that didn’t go by unacknowledged by my mother. But it was kind of a private thing, between Mom and me.  She would usually buy me something like a pair of sandals for the summer and squeeze my hand and tell me that it was her lucky day.  I wanted to celebrate yesterday, but I didn’t want to acknowledge why.  Being adopted is one of those things in my life like having green eyes or long fingers, part of who I am.  Sometimes it’s mattered a lot, and sometimes not at all.  Yes, there’s a big story to tell, but it’s not all mine to tell and it’s complicated with lots of emotions and feelings to consider; so mostly I keep it private.   I have Kathy, my biological mother who means a great deal to me, and I have Rose, who is in my heart and mind every moment, and I have Brigitta, my second mom.  May 29 is not only my adoption day, but Brigitta’s birthday and celebrating with her was a great way to honor the family that I was given.

I was with James the night I got the phone call that my parents were in the accident.  He held me tight in his arms as I got the news that my dad had been killed.  I wanted to throw the phone across the room to stop the lies, but part of me knew that I had to ask about Mom.  I had to stay strong and focused because Mom was still alive.  When I hung up, I dialed a phone number that I’d known before I knew my own phone number–Brigitta Anderson.  She didn’t answer the phone, her husband, Joe did.  He was close enough, and I told him about the accident and that my dad was dead, tears streaming down my face and choking my voice. He got Brigitta for me; I knew he would.  The Andersons have always been part of my family.  Joe and Dad were in the military and retired about the same time and came to Canon to work in the prison.  Both had wives from Europe-mom from Ireland and Brigitta from Germany.  Pam and I are three months apart.  Our brothers, Kevin and Tom are two weeks apart.  The four of us were always together.  The Andersons and the Taylors; it was a thing.  Everyone in town knew we were a package deal.  Even to this day, I just refer to Pam as my sister, because she might as well be.  Brigitta said when she got on the phone, “What do you need me to do?”  She and Pam called Kevin and my uncles.  And they were in the room with the family the next day when mom’s machines were turned off.

In the months since the accident, sometimes Brigitta cooks spaghetti for me, or I’ve had dinner with her and Joe now and then.  They give Shayne work on occasion.  I don’t see them as much as I should, because honestly, sitting at the Anderson kitchen table just brings back so many memories.  And even if they are good memories, they can make me feel broken.  But I’m trying really hard not to be the broken girl this summer, so celebrating Brigitta’s birthday dinner was what I really wanted to do.  It was just a simple sit around the table casual dinner with the Anderson’s.  We had fried chicken, corn on the cob, mashed potatoes and cucumber salad, just like a dinner from my childhood.  Tom and Pam teased each other about a jar of honey.  There was lots of laughter.  The only thing that was missing was my brother, Kevin.  But then Joe told a story about how Kevin and Tom had tried to gather honey with milk jugs at a neighbor’s beehives when they were little boys and all of a sudden I could picture the scene.  Two little boys, one with dark hair, one blonde, in stripey seventies shirts and jeans, holding their jugs up to a swarming hive.  They wouldn’t have been scared of getting stung.  The honey would have been worth it.  It was probably Kevin’s idea.  He was forever coming up with a dangerous plans, like trying to fly, or building an elevator in a treehouse,  and the rest of us would go along with the plan, no matter how crazy it was.

Recently, someone asked me if I believe in destiny.  I don’t know if I believe in destiny or that things happen for a reason.  Lots of times I think things happen and you create the reasons to make sense of life.  But for whatever reason, I became a Taylor and then also an Anderson.  Mom and Brigitta were always there to pass out band-aids or popsicles or glasses of Kool-aid, or yell at us to settle down or go to sleep.  I can’t help but think how lucky I am to have to had such an ideal childhood.  I didn’t just get two parents, I got four.  And an extra brother and sister who no matter what, I can always, always count on.   I gave Joe and Brigitta and Tom and Pam hugs before I left.  I left the house, feeling happy, like I had truly celebrated getting adopted into the great life that I have.

 

Art is down.  Kids are gone.  Rooms are clean.  Shoes are off.  Sundress is on.  Immediately, I start to thing of ways to keep myself busy.  Should I go to grad school?  Get a job?  Paint the fence?  Clean the garage?  Take a breath. Relax for a minute.  Because even if I am excited about school being over, I have had a bad run of summers for a long time.  For the first time in a long time, my son is in a good place, I’m starting to be able to think about my parents without feeling like I’m about to fall into a pit of despair, and my body seems to be healing.  But this place of no impending trauma is so foreign for me that I’m having a hard time trusting it.

So instead of thinking about all the things that have colored my summers for the last years–Shayne’s streak of summer low points, my parents’ accident, my illness, I am trying to focus on the things that have made summer great in the past.  I’ve made a list.

The top item is riding my bike.  The best summer of my life was when I was getting up every morning at 5:00 and putting 20-30 miles on my odometer by 7:00.  I saw some amazing things–a sleek mink in the creek on the way up to Red Canyon, a coyote family hunting out by the airport on the highway, a bear drinking from the river.  I rode to Penrose, Florence, Rockvale, Coledale, Pueblo West, and Alamosa.  I remember riding to Cripple Creek and feeling like the hills were a piece of cake.  I was strong and fit.

Music is another good highlight of summer.  Hanging out at B Street Bash with my girlfriends is  always so fun, or bringing lawn chairs and margaritas to the park for the free concerts.  I love going to karaoke with friends and family.  And some of my favorite memories with James are concerts during Fibark and watching Rock Creek Road band at Whitewater.

Gardening used to be something I enjoyed.  When I was a kid, I spent hours in the yard, mostly to be with dad.  I would sit with him as he weeded.  I would pick beans and peas and strawberries.  I would follow him around while he watered and mowed and trimmed.  When I got my own house, I tended the grass, and pulled weeds and planted flowers and tomatoes and raspberries.  I’d have people over for backyard barbecues, proud of my yard.  Somehow, I came to this place of benign neglect about all that stuff. Last summer, I started to reclaim the yard with painting the fence and planting a rose garden.  There is more to do this summer.

My girlfriends have stepped up for sure during all my bad times.  They’ve brought me meals and cleaned my house and my car and listened to me during my tears and my despair, but we used to have fun.  Some of my best summer memories are of hanging out at the pool with Christie and Jill, riding with Maria, watching the cooking channel with Pam, or having lunch with Lora, or Karen, or Tracy.  I hope this summer, I can have more of those moments and no one has to come hug me because they don’t even know what to say.

James has been a rock through all my trauma, but I remember our summers that we hiked to places with crystal clear lakes, night walks with wine and moonlight, waking up slowly, afternoons with nowhere to be.  So much has changed, but not how I feel about him.  I’d like to get back to a place where I can be a partner instead of a damn damsel in distress.

Darian has been robbed of a lot.  Even before my parents died, I spent a few summers trying to keep Shayne alive.  She either was along for the ride, or left alone.  Darian has dealt with all the same things that I have without age or maturity on her side.  There was a time when she and I would go to Farmer’s Market, and hang out at the pool, and paint rocks in the backyard, and read books together.  I hope that this summer, I can have fun with her again.  My time is short, before she graduates and moves away as she so desperately wants.  I don’t want to clip her wings, but I want to make sure she has a reason to want to return, even if it’s only to visit.

My best summer memories are of spending time with my family in the Valley–San Luis, Alamosa, Antonito. I loved hanging in the mountains, eating food cooked over the fire, walking in the streams, fishing in the rivers, listening to the radio at ball games, or sitting around the table until late in the night, laughing and telling stories.  There is something magical about the Dunes at dusk.  I love how the air cools and the sand slips through my fingers while watching the sun go down.  l want to go back and walk the places my father grew up and listen to my uncles tell their stories and let my cousins mother me with their warmth and their love, and their amazing food that brings back my childhood.

My list actually could be go on infinitely.  I haven’t even mentioned my brothers, traveling, my nieces, spending time with James’s family in Wyoming, or afternoon naps.  It’s a good reminder that there are so many amazing things in my life.  I’ve spent a lot of time with the bad.  It’s hard not to not be on guard waiting for the next thing.  But it’s also draining and unhealthy and unproductive.  So even though my go to survival mode is to jump right to busy, to not think, to not feel, to not remember; I’m going to work really hard this summer on taking care of myself and becoming whole and healthy again.  Bring on the peace.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My daughter periodically has meltdowns over how much she hates Canon City, accompanied by tears and insults about how racist, small-minded, and oppressive this town is.  She doesn’t believe that once upon a time, I felt the same way.  I was just like her.  I couldn’t wait to move away and never come back.  I did the big city thing—Boulder, Denver.  I did the East Coast thing—Boston and the Cape.  I did the  South for graduate school—Virginia.  I did a thousand acre ranch in the middle of nowhere.  I did a stretch in Alamosa, which I realize was coming home without coming home.  And a short stint in the mountains, which was as close to Deliverance as I ever want to get.  No matter where I went, I always came back to Canon.  I didn’t call it home, just the place my parents were.  So in 2001, when I found myself in an impossible situation as a single mom of a seven year old and expecting a baby under unbelievable circumstances, I returned to Canon, because mom and dad were always my salvation.   I took a job at Canon City Middle School, which brought irony to a full circle.  I was back in the town I wasn’t crazy about, working at school that I had bypassed by going to Catholic school, and about to be a poor, single mother of two.  Not how I pictured my life turning out when I left town in my hot little Mustang at eighteen.

I started at Canon City Middle School (CCMS) when I was six months pregnant. I was one of the younger staff members at the time, which is saying something considering I was in my thirties.  Most of the staff was seasoned and solid in their lives and careers and they took me in like orphaned puppy.  No one asked questions; they just made me feel warm and welcome.  Inwardly, I was freaking out about all the chaos in my personal life, but I could forget about it at work, because I was having so much fun.  The kids were okay, but my colleagues were a blast.  They were always coming up with ways to play pranks on each other. Lunch time in the lounge could sometimes be so loud and boisterous that someone would have to shut the door.  I met or reconnected with some women that fall that have become life long friends, mentors, and inspirations.  Maria was with me the night Darian was born.  Karen offered me her gentle spirit.  Glenda fed me every day and had a giant baby shower for me.  Kathy brought me a giant gift of laughter every day.  And Carol sent me flowers on the behalf of the entire staff while I was in the hospital.

After Darian was born, she became a fixture in the building.  Everyone held her and looked out after her from the custodian to the principal.  By the time Darian was two, she was wandering all over the building because she knew who had candy or toys or who would read books to her.  CCMS became my family and for the first time I started to appreciate Canon City for more than just being a place where my parents lived.  I started hiking and biking the trails around town with Maria.  I started shopping and eating locally and met some great business owners and waitresses.  I learned about running into my students and their families at the grocery store and always being prepared to be friendly and courteous.   I met James at CCMS; even though our relationship began much later, the seeds of our friendship were sown that year working together, sharing laughter and frustration over eighth grade trials, tribulations, and triumphs.  And I teamed with Jill, Deanna, and Christie.  It was the first time in my life that I felt like I had sisters.  Christie was the organized one; the level headed one; that one that could handle it all.  Deanna was like having a little sister, but a smart little sister who could make me smile and inspire me with her passion.  And Jill was flat out funny, and crazy and kept everything real.  The four of us were juggling careers, motherhood, dating, marriage, and managing to teach middle school kids, but we gelled and had a blast for a few years.

Leaving CCMS in 2010 was a choice and not a choice.  Our district was facing cuts and I expressed an interest in teaching art at one point.  I pretty much had been told no, because I wasn’t elementary endorsed and the existing secondary art  teachers weren’t going anywhere, anytime soon.  However, when the restructuring came down, the HR director pulled me out of my classroom and took me into the auditorium to have a private conversation and let me know I was moving to elementary art.  At that point it didn’t feel like a choice, but I was excited about a chance at something new.  I loved the elementary kids right away.  They were so adorable and said funny things, but working in an elementary building as an elementary teacher was a culture shock.  First off, as an art teacher I was kind of on my own.  I didn’t have my team to hang with in the mornings, or eat lunch with.  There were no pranks or inside jokes.  And my janitors didn’t call me “kid,” and come tell me jokes.  And one of the secretaries was flat out mean.  I called Sheri, the CCMS secretary in tears one of my first weeks, because the elementary school secretary told me not to ask her any questions, and that I should figure things out by myself.  And staff meetings were so professional and boring.  The chairs were in neat little rows, and no one made jokes, or said WTH, or WTF when the principal said something asinine.  There were no big, raucous parties at each others’ houses with dancing and DJ’s and I didn’t have my girls anymore.  However, art and elementary kids were a much better fit for me.  And I’ve grown to love and appreciate the buildings I work in now.

I didn’t realize until my parents died how my school family has grown.  Almost every single person at both my elementary schools did something for me in the days, weeks, and months after the car accident and while my son was missing and in crisis.  And as the trauma has continued through my cancer, my school family continues to be supportive and caring and nurturing and a driving force in getting me through all my personal challenges.  This week one of my students wrapped a piece of string around his neck, really tightly.  I looked over and he was turning blue.  I ran over and grabbed a pair of scissors, but the string was too tight, but I realized that it was just wrapped, not tied, so I started unraveling it and was able to loosen it quickly and the color started returning to his face immediately and he was okay.  Me, not so much.  I mean, seriously. I signed up to teach art, not save someone’s life.  How in the hell did that even happen?  Of all the things I’ve experienced, that might have rattled me more than anything.

So I ended up at my old teammate, Jill’s, retirement party last night.  I thought about drinking because it’s been hard to get the image of that little boy’s blue face out of my head, but I’m still recovering from my damn colon infection and I’m not much of a drinker anyway.  When I got out of my truck, someone shouted my name from the house.  His voice carried all the way down the long driveway, to the road.  It was sort of like being on Cheers.  James and I laughed.  Jill was celebrating it big, as she should, and most of the old crowd was there, even if there were a few missing.  There were new people too, who have become part of my life since leaving CCMS.   The party was like coming to a place where everybody knows me and loves me.  It reminded me of coming home.

Canon is my home, even if Mom and Dad aren’t here anymore.  Darian is right—this town can be racist, and small-minded, and oppressive.  But so can anywhere else in the world.  It’s really about attitude and choosing how to fill your life that makes the difference.  Seventeen years ago, I might not have wanted to be back, but I found refuge here.  I am so grateful that I live in a place where so many people have touched my life and shown me love and warmth and acceptance.  I’m grateful for my school friends, past and present, every day.  They build me up and help me face all my challenges and remind me what love really is.

I was going to write about Mother’s Day yesterday, but it was so damn depressing that I couldn’t bring myself to post about it.  Not that this blog will be much better; it’s probably going to alienate all my readers.  It’s three am and I’m wide awake.  Why?  Because I am so hot.  I swear the minute my ovaries were taken out, the hot flashes started.

Maybe it shouldn’t be so surprising.  When I was nursing my kids, I had hot flashes.  I remember one time when I was teaching, for what ever unknown strange twist of fate, my milk let down in my classroom full of eighth grade boys.  And I was also instantly on fire and not just from embarrassment.  This kid named Stuart, who was possibly the most unaware boy on the planet for the most part, noticed immediately and said, “OMG, what’s happening, Ms.  T.  Are you dying?”  I think I said something like, “Keep reading.  I’m fine, ” as sweat and milk were pouring from my body.

So anyway, tonight I got out of bed to get myself a popsicle and the box was empty.  The dark chocolate raspberry ice cream was also empty.  Seriously?  It took all my will power not to wake the kids up and go all Joan Crawford on them.  Instead, I drank some water and stood in the doorway for a few minutes, completely waking myself up and confusing Blue and Charlie.  Blue is pacing around, his nails clicking on the bare floorboards.  Charlie is chasing around something only he can see.  It just went behind the bookshelf and now he is crying.  So there will be no more sleeping.

There are a bunch of things that people recommend for hot flashes.  Peppermint oil is the first thing I tried.  I bought a microscopic bottle for a small fortune and tried drops on all the places I heard you put them–neck, forehead, belly button.  Once I got it in my eye; that was very helpful.  I didn’t notice a big difference.  And I hate peppermint.  It reminds me of the time when my son was a baby and he ate a whole box of Girl Scout cookies when I was in the shower.  Thin mint diapers changed my entire outlook on that particular delicacy.  I have also tried black cohash tea, sage, red clover, and flaxseed oil.  I read one article about colon and liver cleanses helping to reduce hot flashes.  I know that I’ve promised not to write about my colon inflammation, but trust me colon cleanses haven’t helped me at all.  There are things I haven’t tried yet; I’m working my way through the list.  Maybe the magic is still to come.

The one thing that does help is exercise.  Ice skating is wonderful.  The rink is cool  and I’d give anything to be allowed to sleep on the ice.  Biking is great because the air moving over my skin feels amazing.  Even running is okay, probably because it is so torturous that I can’t think of anything else.  So maybe what I need to do is workout when I wake up in the middle of the night.  Hell, I’m already sweating anyway.  Tonight, I’m writing my blog, but one night I might open up my own gym for women who can’t sleep because of internal heat.  I’ll call it Crossfire.  I’m already working on the t-shirts.

I’m sure like everything else this will pass, but this might be a long, hot summer…..

 

 

It was teacher appreciation day yesterday.  I went to work.  I saw around 150 students in my classroom.  I trimmed and matted and hung up over 300 pieces of art.  I folded paper for six year olds who wanted to make snowflakes.  I didn’t remind them that it was eighty degrees outside and snowflakes are long gone.  I cut clay for a boy who lost his last project in an unfortunate smashing. I drew a turtle for a boy and a pony for a girl.  I hugged a kid who lost her tooth in her desk.  I hugged another kid who scrapped her knee on a table.  I said, “please don’t,”  “hush,” and “pick up that marker” around two million times.  I gleefully announced to my colleagues that it was my last Tuesday of teaching this year, because trust me, I am counting.  At the end of the day when I finally had a moment to look at my email, I found a handmade card on my desk from my fourth graders telling me that they loved me and appreciated me and hoped that I would have a great summer and be back for them next year.  It made me smile and I pinned it up on the bulletin board, even though I’m not sure I deserved it.

Teaching wasn’t my first choice of profession.  I’ve written about that before.  I had some vague idea that I’d be some sort of artist or writer and I fell into teaching because I needed a job and I was always good at school. This year teaching has been the hardest school year I have ever had.  Mostly I think it was the cancer.  I started out the year so exhausted from radiation and I just never really got my energy back and there were some things I just didn’t do that I ALWAYS do.  My first graders didn’t do their rainbow unit because I just couldn’t bear to sort through the crayons and pull out all the indigos.  My second graders didn’t completely finish their Mondrian style paintings because I couldn’t bear the chaos.  A bunch of the second graders didn’t get wind chimes and I can’t even begin to retell the saga of what went down with that story.  And for the first time in eight years my fifth graders didn’t make paper masks.  The thought of dragging out all the supplies for that project was so exhausting.  The surgery in February didn’t help, because I was gone for several weeks and my body just hasn’t fully recovered from all the trauma.  There are kids that came while I was gone that I don’t even really know.  And I was looking through the final stuff, all I could think was, wow, there is so much we didn’t get to this year.

To complicate things, ever since, my son got sick, I’ve questioned everything I ever thought about education.   I always told him to go to school and work hard and get good grades and go to college to have a successful job later down the road.  Shayne  did those things, even though he hated school to almost phobic proportions.  He tried to tell me, make me understand, but I didn’t get it.  School is what I know.  It’s what everyone has to do.  My response to him was, come on, suck it up and do it.   And he ended up homeless in LA, carrying around a backpack with an Allen wrench and a sweet potato afraid that the government was infiltrating his toothpaste.  I never saw that coming.  So now I watch kids line up in the halls like little robots and I wonder why we make them do that.  No where else in life do we walk in a single file procession.  I watch them air write words and read nonsense words and raise their hands to speak and I kind of think, really?  Is this what’s best for kids?  I show kids how to make a bowl out of a lump of clay and teach them about color and I think in my head the whole time.   Why am I doing this?  Does it matter?  Who cares if yellow is a primary color?  Is knowing any of this going to be of any value?   I think we lie to kids about what is important every damn day.  But I’m not really sure myself what is important or what really matters.

I saw my first grade teacher a few weeks ago.  She gave me a hug and told me that she was so sorry to hear that I’d been struggling with my health.  She is the teacher that taught me the difference between to, too, and two, and how to read contractions like don’t and can’t.  She’s the teacher that taught me to love school.  I also saw my high school math teacher’s obituary on Facebook.  It really hit me hard.    I can’t say I learned much in his class, but that was on me.  In my arrogant teenage years, I’d already decided that trig wasn’t going to be useful to me when I was painting sets on Broadway and I spent a lot of class time daydreaming and drawing flowers on my graphs.  But  a decade later, I got a chance to work as his colleague and I sat in on the same math class I’d blown off as a teenager.  I found him to be engaging and I got a ninety two on my final.  I’d sit with him at lunch and we’d exchange glances when someone at the lunch table said something asinine and sometimes I’d hang out with him and we’d watch a baseball game on tv.   I knew he moved back to Illinois to be with his family, but I never got in touch, even though I thought about it all the time.  My high school English teacher lives a block or so away.  I waved at her when I saw her getting her mail a few days ago and I realized that she is moving slowly and is sort of stooped now.  If I’m nearly fifty, she’s probably nearly seventy.  How did that happen?  She’s the one that encouraged me to write, made me believe that I could do anything I wanted with words.  And next month, I’m going to Chicago with my girlfriends and I keep wondering how I’m going to make it out to the convent to see the nuns.  The only nun left that really knows me is Sister Amy and she is nearly 100 years old.  She never was my teacher, but I learned so much from her.  She lost her mother when she was a young child, and was sent to St. Scholastica when she was just a little girl.  The nuns taught her everything she knew and she is kind and gentle and smart as hell.  She always remembers my birthday and asks about my family.  I will never forget how she used to take Shayne to breakfast with her and cut up his French toast, even though he was perfectly capable of cutting his own toast.   I can’t not see her, because what if she doesn’t make it till my next visit?  I’ll never forgive myself.

With all the strong teachers in my life I guess it’s no surprise that’s the direction I headed in my own life, even if it wasn’t my initial plan.  I have the utmost confidence in my artistic abilities and the ability to string words together to deliver a message, but feel sort of shaky about leading hundreds of children to unlock possibilities and encourage them to find their voices.  Teachers have to be self-sacrificing and patient and dedicated.  Children are strong and resilient, but fragile and impressionable.  I don’t ever really know the impact I’m having.  If I’m in the classroom touching hundreds of lives, I want to do it well, better than I did this year.  Part of me wishes that I could have a do over.  But I think do overs are one of those lies we offer up to kids.  Maybe because we want to still believe in them ourselves.  I have made a promise to myself to take this summer as a time to find peace and let my body heal and get strong again.  In the fall, I get a fresh start.  That’s about as close to a do-over as I get.  There’s a lot to appreciate about new beginnings.  I appreciate the opportunity to be able to have one.  And I hope next year, when we reach teacher appreciation day, I’m saying, “Bring on the swag.”

 

I had a colonoscopy today after two months of on -going pain and other issues that I promise not to write about.  I thought having an invasive medical procedure  would distract me from thinking about my dad.  Today would have been his birthday.  I largely ignored social media because I wasn’t sure I could handle seeing my memories of birthday pasts popping up.  Thank goodness for anesthesia because it mostly made me sleep through the day.  But I’m awake now, and I can’t quite turn off my sadness.

I did come out of my grogginess in the late afternoon and took Blue for a short walk and sat out in the sun for a bit.  My roses are leafing out nicely.  I found out about the breast cancer last year around this time and I had an urgent need to get some things done around the yard.  One was to make a rose garden.  At the house I grew up in my dad had roses of all varieties growing against the garden fence, along the side of the house, in front of the house, and near the patio.  I spent hours standing next to him telling him dumb stories, reading to him out of my library books, as he hand watered each and every bush.  I think he had an internal timer for knowing when the buds would open to a perfect blossom because he would clip a couple and bring them to my mom in the house.  He almost always brought her pink buds, not red for love, but pink because that was her favorite color.  When they sold that house, mom went around and took pictures of all the rose bushes.  One of the first things Dad did in their new house was to plant rose bushes at the edge of the lawn.  I was living in Denver then, but I remember being home when Dad was digging the holes with his post hole digger.  His crazy cat was hiding in one of the holes next to the bird feeder.  Dad got a kick out of that and left her, her foxhole.  She wore a bell, so usually the birds got a clean get away.  And when they moved to their last home, Dad once again planted rose bushes.  One of the last things I did at that house was to photograph one of the roses in bloom.

When I was working at St. Scholastica, I met Sister Jean who also had a profound love of roses.  She tended the roses near the front entrance much like my father.  She hand watered them daily and snipped the dead petals, so more would flourish.  I will never forget Dad coming by the school and getting out of his car in the circle drive and clipping one of the roses just ready to bloom with his pocket knife.  “It’s for Madre,” he told me.  I didn’t think much of it, because that’s what he did, but the next morning, Sister Jean announced during morning assembly that someone had stolen one of her roses on the brink of bloom and she was very sad and troubled by this sin.  I came to her later and told her that my father had taken the rose to give to my mother.  Sister Jean laughed and said, “Oh, well, if it was for love, then that’s a noble reason.”

I wanted my own roses, to water and tend and honor my memories of my father and mother.  So today while I was sitting out in my rose garden taking stock of work that needs to be done in the yard and trying not to think of my father, and trying not to think about what my swollen colon means,  a hummingbird flew over my head and hovered near the climbing rose.  I’m not sure what attracted it, because there isn’t anything blooming really, and it only stayed a moment and took off.  And I instantly remembered being a tiny child camping with my family in Aspen Glade near Antonito.  Dad came rushing to the campsite, excited to show Kevin  and me something.  He took us to the truck. A hummingbird had somehow flown in one of the cracked open side windows and was going crazy trying to escape.  Dad opened the door and very carefully caught the bird in his hands.  He held it so Kevin and I could see it up close.  I will never forget how tiny it was and how fast its heart was beating.   Dad set it free.  I can’t see a hummingbird without thinking of my dad’s big hands, gently releasing that creature into the morning mountain air.  I’m not super spiritual and I don’t look for signs and stuff like that, but I went back into the house with a sense of peace.

If I’ve learned anything in the last three years, it’s that really none of us know what the future holds.  I guess it’s best to be positive.  As much as I try to hold my pain at bay, my dad is always, always close to my heart.  I just need to remember that my memories are good and give me strength.  So happy birthday, Dad.