Seattle Seahawks + Guiness Book of World Records = Ridiculous Case of Civic Pride

Posted on October 1, 2013 by gretchenwing

I am not a pro football fan. True, I’m not quite as bad as some of my island friends who claim not to know what “NFL” stands for, but, in the overall range of not-fan-ness, the only reason I’m not one of those annoying spectators who demand to know “Wait, why’s that guy doing that?” when you take them to a game is that no one’s ever going to take me to a game.

So I should be embarrassed to admit that I’m proud of “my” Seattle Seahawks because they set a world record last month. Well, not them, exactly. Their fans–a.k.a. “The Twelfth Man.” (See, if I were a COMPLETE and TOTAL not-fan, I wouldn’t know what that meant. So maybe there is hope for me, or no hope, depending on how you look at it.) They set a record for NOISE.

Yep, it’s official, folks. 136.6 decibels, breaking the previous record by 1.6 And the previous record holders, the hardy fans of the Galatasaray Soccer Club (that’s in Turkey, in case you were wondering) can ~~suck it~~ try again next year, jolly good luck and all that.

Want to hear what 136.6 decibels sound like?

What’s funny is, hearing this story gave me a rush of civic pride that continues to bubble up anytime anyone mentions the topic. How in the world can this be? Am I such an insecure Northwesterner that world attention of any kind that doesn’t mention “the Battle of Seattle” or the wimpiness of Steve Ballmer automatically pumps me up?

Gotta admit…I was just in New England, and I found myself keeping score: “There’s a Dunkin Donuts. But ha! There’s a Starbucks right across the street. We’re catching ’em! Oops, there’s another Dunkin Donuts…dang.”

Civic pride, anyone? Do you fall victim to it over silly stuff? Or do you save your “I Left My Heart in ________” moments for something more real, like when Boston rallied after the marathon bombing? Or maybe pride is pride and love is love, and it doesn’t even matter why?

Life of Pie: Crusty Author Gives Flaky Secrets

Posted on September 28, 2013 by gretchenwing

Fill in the blank: “It’s as American as apple _________.”

Not cupcakes. Not tarts. Not even empanadas. PIE, damnit. As far as I’m concerned, pie is IT and always will be.

I’m a pie girl from way back. My family had an apple tree that bore gazillion apples every September. Not too great for eating, but nice and tart, perfect for–no, not tarts!! PIE. I made two pies every day for as long as those apples kept coming, one for our dinner and one for the freezer.

I got pretty good at pie.

Over the years, I’ve noticed an interesting phenomenon: people are afraid of pie crust. They tell me horror stories of bad pie-crust trips that scarred them for life and sent them running, thereafter, for the frozen-food section to buy nice, safe flaky ones made by a machine. Or they gave up completely and just bought the whole pie. (Or went gluten-free, but that’s another story.)

Or, like the World’s Nicest Boss, Holly B (of Holly B’s Bakery, where “Holly’s Buns Are Best”), they moved permanently to the land of pie surrogate: Crumble. Tart. Danish.

When I first started working for Holly three years ago, she told me, “I’m scared of pie.” This is a woman who can make croissants from scratch that dissolve into a million tiny buttery leaves on your tongue. If SHE’S scared of pie…well, dang. That must be one scary pastry.

I bugged her, off and on for three years, to let me make a pie sometime and sell it. Granted, until this year my status as Assistant Baker was not much of a bully pulpit. But once I started Head Baking, a couple of months ago, I became more of a pie bully.

Me: So, Holly, will you let me make a pie sometime?

Holly: Well, sure…

Me: How about tomorrow?

Holly: Well, we still have more than half a marionberry crumble to sell…Let’s use that up first, then maybe…

Finally last month she relented, probably just to shut me up. I was SO excited, I brought my own ingredients with me to work: the instant tapioca that I use for thickener (which the bakery doesn’t carry) and my own blackberries picked from the roadside, plus a couple of nectarines bought from a stand. I wanted my pie to make a statement.

Like most people, I prefer my stories with happy endings, so I’ll try to manufacture one for this anecdote. My pie sold out, while the marionberry crumble did not. People said nice things. And I got to see, for one brief shining moment, a “Gretchen’s Fresh Blackberry-Nectarine Pie” sign out on our bakery counter (in fact, the sign was Holly’s idea–told you she was the World’s Nicest Boss).

Too bad I didn’t take a picture, ’cause that sign hasn’t been back, not even in a different flavor. The problem? I didn’t bring my A game when I needed it most. Using the Cuisinart for the first time threw me off (I don’t own one, so I always make my crust by hand). I cut the butter too small, reducing FP (flakiness potential) by half. And, scared of overly gloppy pie slices when my masterpiece was cut, I overdid it on the instant tapioca. The result was a delicious-tasting blackberry-nectarine medley with the consistency of…let’s say slightly melted gummi bears.

Holly was not impressed. Of course, being the World’s Nicest Boss, all she said was, “Let’s work together to find a crust recipe we both like, shall we?” Nothing about the gummi bears. I made a personal vow to hit one out of the park on my next pie at-bat. But I didn’t get the chance. August passed into September, our bakery hours began to wane, and I began to resign myself to another year of pielessness…

…until last week, when Holly invited me to make an apple…tart.

Hey, fruit in a crust? Sounds like pie to me.

Not. Gonna. Mess. This. Up.

We used her recipe. I watched the Cuisinart like a hawk and shut it off when the butter chunks were still the size of almonds. Then I mixed the water in by hand like I do at home. And since we were using apples instead of berries–no tapioca to worry about, just a little flour & some spices.

The result:

It’s called a Rustic Tart for a reason, OK?

I like my stories with morals too, so here’s one: Perseverance pays. That “Rustic Apple Tart” was so ridiculously flaky and delicious, both Holly’s and my confidence soared. Yesterday she told me, “I want you to keep doing that.”

And you know what? I will. I’ll make Rustic Tarts every day if she wants. Only in my head, I’ll be calling them pies.

Since you’ve read so far, here’s your reward: Gretchen’s Three Secrets to Perfect Flaky Crust.
1. Use ALL BUTTER. Yes, Crisco makes flakes. But it also tastes like Crisco. And a butter crust is delicious even a few days later, while a Crisco crust just tastes like…soggy Crisco. Good ratio: 2 cups flour/ 8 oz. butter

2. Leave the butter in ALMOND-SIZED CHUNKS when you cut it into the flour.

3. Use ICE WATER to moisten your crust.

4. When moistening dough, DON’T SQUEEZE. Handle it as little as possible. It should be very tender. If it breaks, so what? It’s dough. Stick it back together with some water.

OK, I lied–that was Four Secrets. But yeah, I’m a little flaky.

If you must, weigh in with your own PIE SECRETS. But I probably won’t listen. On this topic, I’m a tad close-minded.

“Godkid:” Now THERE’S a Word

Posted on September 24, 2013 by gretchenwing

Meet Allison, a lovely young-thirty-something teacher. This is how my husband and I used to tell people about her:

Us: Our adopted daughter Allison is coming to visit this weekend.

People: Oh, you adopted a girl? That is so wonderful; now you have a daughter along with your two boys. Do they get along well? How long ago did you adopt?

Us: Uh, no…not that kind of adopted. Actually, she kinda adopted us…

People: Oh.

Until recently, that’s the best way I could find to describe my relationship with a woman just barely young enough to be my biological daughter (if I’d started young myself). A woman I love like a daughter/younger sister/niece/friend. She’s also my favorite adventure buddy, ready to pop on her backpack and follow me up steep ridges at very little notice. Had we been given the option at an early enough stage, we surely would have adopted her. But Al came into our lives a bit more gradually than that.

When I taught high school, Al showed up in my Sophomore Honors English class. She wasn’t a squeaky wheel; she certainly wasn’t the most talented writer. She was a neat kid whom I liked, but never considered I made much impression on her.

In her junior year, she signed up for a 3-hour pilot program, a block class called International Business and Global Studies. With the independent thinking IBGS promoted, Al hit her stride and became a bit of a star in the class. She also, to my surprise, became a cheerleader–a very serious, hardworking one. But again, I didn’t think we had that strong a connection. Plenty of other students seemed to need me more.

So, a year later, when my husband and young kids and I were enjoying his sabbatical year in southern New Zealand, I was surprised to receive a request from Allison: could she come visit? She’d always wanted to travel, and had managed to convince her mom to give her the trip to NZ as an early graduation present, since she had a built-in place to stay. Here’s the conversation I had with my husband about it:

Me: Yeah, she wants to come stay for, like, 10 days. Might be nice to have someone to help with the boys. She’s very responsible. She’s a straight-A kid, a cheerleader…

Husband: A CHEERLEADER?? Here? For 10 days?

Me: ~~Oh, get over the stereotype, tons of cheerleaders are very smart and serious.~~ Yes.

Long story short: Allison came. Her second-ever plane trip–flying solo to New Zealand! She ended up extending her trip so she stayed three weeks. The boys loved her. My husband was deeply impressed with her. And we all adopted each other.

Next year when she started college and her own family was going through a tough time, she moved in with us for a while.

So…our adopted daughter. Our relationship has only grown deeper as she’s become a teacher too, and a singer & guitar player, and a competitive athlete like I used to be. But still–kinda awkward to keep having to explain it to people.

But a few months ago it finally hit me: she’s my goddaughter! No, her mother and father never initiated that relationship in a ceremony. No, church was never involved. No, we have no official documents. But that phrase seems to capture the nature of our relationship perfectly.

That got me to thinking about the word. Goddaughter. Godson. Godkid.

We all know what it means: an assumption of love and co-responsibility. Parenthood without biology. Parenthood with built-in distance, maybe some legal assumptions, but nothing one would go to court about. Parenthood especially blessed by a higher authority.

But think about it: Godkid. How cool is that word? Doesn’t it conjure up all kinds of images?

So I thought I’d ask my readers: what does “godkid” mean to you? Do you have any, either church-related or secularly? Are you one yourself? Do you like the word? Is there another one that fits better? Let us hear!

“I’ll Put a Girdle ‘Round the Earth in 20 Minutes”–ok, Maybe Years…

Posted on September 19, 2013 by gretchenwing

24,901 miles. 40-some-thousand kilometers. That’s one big girdle!

Puck (in Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream) got the job done in 20 minutes, seeking out that famous love-potion flower.

(Original image from NYC ballet, courtesy dancetabs.com)

But I get bragging rights. I’ve run around the world THREE TIMES. I’m willing to bet all distance runners do this sooner or later:

calculate our weekly mileage, allowing for known variation over the years
multiply that number times the number of weeks in a year
subtract a small percentage for illness and injury
multiply the total times the number of years we have been running

...Voilá! Le grand total: 75,000 miles and counting.

My secret? Not marathons. NO WAY. Never ran one of those, never plan to. Watched both my parents training for ’em as I grew up, and that cured me of any desire to ~~suffer ridiculously for three-plus hours~~ run one.

No super-long runs either. The longest races I’ve ever run were good ol’ 10ks (6.2 miles); the longest training run, 15 miles, and that only once.

Nope. All I’ve done is run, mostly 3-6 miles, usually 5-6 times a week…for a long, LONG time. I’ll be 52 next month. I started running when I was 7 1/2. (You do the math; my brain is tired from all that mileage calculation.)

It sure wasn’t my idea to start running as a 3rd grader. My dad, a scientist, was one of the original Health Nuts of the late 1960s, and when he learned that running improved your cardiovascular system, it therefore followed that NOT running would lead to an early grave, right up there with eating hot dogs. So we became a family of runners, by paternal decree.

I hated it.

My sister and I used to run down our country road in North Carolina for our little 2-milers, sneak into the woods, check our watches till enough time had elapsed, then run home, panting heavily. Let’s just say I was no Zola Budd, bounding around like an eager gazelle.

But…I was fast. Put me in a couple of races…I beat people. I beat GROWNUPS. I loved that. I loved medals and ribbons and later, trophies. I kept running, and training, but for the wrong reason: ego.

Except that ego kept me in the sport. And, like early religious training, that depth of immersion causes a certain amount of internalization–swallowing the river water in which you’re baptized, so to speak. My river was FITNESS. And 45 years later, I am truly grateful to my dad for doing that to me.

Sure, I had my years of rebellion. In college I walked off the track team…in the middle of a race (not proud of that). In my 20s I quit again, gained weight, decided I liked myself better as a runner, came back to it more seriously than ever. I also gave up racing in my late 30s, tired of fighting a painfully persistent hamstring injury. But now, in my 50s, I still run.

Not every day. These days, in fact, my mantra is “A mile’s a mile.” That means I can walk or hike or jog at any pace and it still counts as mileage. It just might take longer. (OK, strolling through a museum doesn’t count. Note to self: look up WHY STROLLING THROUGH A MUSEUM IS SO FRIGGIN’ EXHAUSTING EVEN WHEN IT ISN’T BURNING ANY CALORIES.) I’ve even worked out my own cool little equation to compare miles on a bike to running miles.

Because, yup–I’m still counting. Workin’ on that fourth girdle.

How about your own sports history? Were you raised with a sport that saw you through? Have you had to invent yourself as an athlete? Do you have a sport or fitness activity that you rely on every day? What does that sport do for you? Let us hear!

Get Lost: Why Hiking Feels Like the Most Important Job in the World

Posted on September 16, 2013 by gretchenwing

The logline of this blog is “Will Backpack for Chocolate,” so I thought about titling this post, “No, Really, I WILL Backpack for Chocolate,” just to be cute. Because I went backpacking this summer and did indeed eat an awful lot of chocolate. (Mac & cheese too, but that doesn’t sound as snappy.)

But then I went for a day-hike last week and realized, all cuteness aside, chocolate has nothing to do with it. Descending from a bright, sunny ridge full of the vestigal summer wildflowers into dark fir woods felt like the most important thing I could possibly be doing. Never mind that it was a Tuesday in September and nearly every non-retired friend I could think of was at work. I felt completely justified, even proud of myself, for walking on a mountain.

How can this be? I’m pretty Type-A: I love making lists and checking things off. Days are for Getting Things Done, as much now, in my part-time baker/part-time writer “career,” as when I was schlepping through the school year as a mom/teacher. I check my watch a lot, even when I don’t need to. I schedule time for everything from thawing ingredients for tomorrow’s dinner, to catching up on DVR’d Daily Shows.

Why does hiking feel so…productive?

I have a few theories. Ready?

1. I’m a nature-girl deep in my soul, raised on runs in Duke Forest and trips to the Blue Ridge Mountains. My Senior year of American Lit. focused on the Transcendentalists, so I imbibed Thoreau & Emerson & Annie Dillard at a tender age. Of course I’m an environmentalist, if by “environmentalist” you mean I believe in marshaling communal resources to protect the natural world as much as possible. Therefore, spending time in nature feels like political witness: putting my money where my mouth is, walking the talk.

2. I am also very, very social. I love my family and friends, and I value the extra closeness that a day of hiking, or a night in a tent, creates. That validation you get from calling your mom long-distance and reconnecting, despite your hectic schedule? That’s what a day in the woods with friends or family feels like.

3. As a lifelong athlete, I’ve also been trained from a young age to put exercise of any form into the category of “Necessary and Good,” along with personal hygiene and music practice. Hiking is making me stronger, therefore it is good.

4. Emerson wrote in his essay Nature, “In the woods we return to reason and faith.” I have found this to be true even when I wasn’t thinking about it at the time. Nature has always been my church. (And, come on, what other church encourages the eating of M & Ms?)

Am I over-thinking this? Well, duh. I over-think for a living these days. But it’s interesting to tease out the strands, isn’t it?

What about you? Does Nature give you another gift that I didn’t mention? Is there another completely self-indulgent activity you enjoy with equal lack of guilt? Or are you hopelessly infected with “There are better things I should be doing with my time”-itis? Let us hear!

Spirituality on the Radio, a.k.a. Shame-less Self-promotion

Posted on September 12, 2013 by gretchenwing

A sweet guy from Wisconsin interviewed me for the radio a few weeks ago. Since I live in Washington (which, granted, has a few similarities with Wisconsin except that they don’t call their U of W “You-Dub” like we do, and our hills are a tad higher), this really is as random as it sounds.

The sweet guy is Mark Helpsmeet, who turns out to be aptly named. He runs a radio program out of Eau Claire, Northern Spirit Radio, which focuses on non-denominational spiritual journeys. Its offshoot, Song of the Soul (title taken from a Chris Williamson song), deals with the musical side of that issue. A friend on my island who had previously been interviewed for Northern Spirit gave Mark my name. After Mark You-Tubed a couple of my very amateur performances, he decided I was a good fit for his program and gave me a call.

Random photo of Mt. Baker at sunrise, inserted because, well, it seems kinda spirity…

I sent him MP3s of some of my songs ahead of time. Then we spent a cheerful hour-plus phone conversation discussing my music. Since I consider myself an accidental song writer (see https://gretchenkwing.wordpress.com/2013/08/26/sure-i-have-a-website-just-a-sec/ for more on this) this was an easy conversation.

Mark: So where’d you get the inspiration for that term you use, “sufferometer”?

Me: Oh, I just made that up.

See–not exactly Bob Dylan.

So a few days ago Mark sent me the link: “Gretchen, your Song of the Soul is up!” and encouraged me to send it to everyone. He needs to promote his radio program even more than I need to promote my music. Much, MUCH more…since I’m really not feeling any need to promote my music.

So here’s my dilemma. I do want to share Mark’s program for those who are interested, and I do want to share my interview, because, let’s face it, it was FUN to be interviewed for the radio–in WISCONSIN!–while sitting out on my own sunny deck with my dog.

But the program is about spirituality, and the intro, if you listen to it, is VERY, well, spiritual-sounding. NOT churchy, NOT preachy, just…spiritual. And, well…this is my blog. I try very hard not to alienate folks who wander into Wing’s World. My rule is, if I wouldn’t have brought it up in my classroom, I wouldn’t bring it up here.

Here’s what finally weighted the scales: Mark is a great guy who reached out to me. I’d like to help him promote his work. I’m just attaching this caveat so no one thinks, “Wait…WHERE is she headed now, and do I really want to go there?”

The interview itself? Not “spiritual” at all–unless by “spiritual” you mean family/social/political influences such as everyone has.

So, with me so far? Then here’s my suggestion: check out my interview at http://www.northernspiritradio.org/index.asp?command=showinfo&showid=631911164185

Then, if this is your kind of thing and you want to know more, check out the rest of Northern Spirit Radio at its main site, http://www.northernspiritradio.org/

You’ll be glad you did. Mark’s a good guy.

This post does give me the excuse to bring up this question, though, which is one I certainly would have asked my students: What does “spirituality” mean to you anyway? Give me your best definition. When handled respectfully, this is a wonderful topic to share, and it has nothing to do with self-promotion. 🙂

Life of Pi…Why?

Posted on September 10, 2013 by gretchenwing

Hey, I’m in danger of turning into a curmudgeon and I need your help.

It may already be too late. I keep wondering why they had to make Life of Pi into a movie.

Oh, I know. It came out ages ago. And no, I have not seen it. So why even bring it up?

Well, see, last month I finished reading Cloud Atlas. I can remember my reaction, because I wrote it into my journal, though I cannot reproduce it here verbatim: “effing BRILLIANT.” Then I recalled that the reason I had read it was that my book group grew curious after the movie came out last fall, and that started me wondering: why make a movie out of this book?

(orig. photo courtesy foundwalls.com)

(courtesy Pinterest.com)

The whole brilliance of Cloud Atlas is in its narration. The nested stories, jumping ahead in time, then falling back, revealing hidden connections, stimulating thought And yes, I know that stories told visually can do this too, but they miss a key element: writing style. The way that Mitchell’s style changes with each of the six stories is what raises Cloud Atlas above the level of a great story, and turns it into something scintillating.

The potboiler tone of Luisa Rey’s tale, which we later learn is the manuscript of another character; the painfully gorgeous imagery of Sonmi 451 as she discovers real life; Zachry’s chopped and stunted syntax in the brave new tech-less world of the future…how can a movie capture these?

(orig. photo courtesy my.hsj.org)

(courtesy samuel.ward.com)

I remembered thinking much the same thoughts when Life of Pi came out the year before. That book captured me with its tricky narrative, the way the truth of the story itself is left hanging at the end. The way the whole thing begins as a memoir and only gradually reveals itself as a novel (or maybe I’m just slow). Yes, the visuals must be stunning. Didn’t it win an Oscar for that? (Note to self: start caring enough to google that.) But Life is Pi is way more than visuals. If folks only see the movie, they’ll get something out of it, no doubt. But if they see the movie and forego the book, they’ve missed out big time.

I can certainly think of some books which were vastly improved by becoming screenplays: Schindler’s List and Chocolat are two that come to mind (the latter written by my college roommate’s husband, Bob Nelson Jacobs :)).

But I need some convincing here. Life of Pi–worth the celluloid (or pixels, or whatever they use these days)? Cloud Atlas? Can you think of other movies which add to the impact of their original books, or even surpass them? Or do you, bless your heart, actually agree with me? Are you a curmudgeon-in-training too?

Happy Anniversary to My Ever-Lovin’ Cradle Robber

Posted on September 7, 2013 by gretchenwing

We thought we were pretty darn scandalous, back when we started. He was a teacher, I was a student. He was 32, I was 17.

OK, I am milking this just a bit. My hubby was a teacher…of law students, and I wasn’t one of those, as I was too busy being a Senior in high school at the time. So he wasn’t MY teacher–duh. And, yes, he was, and, amazingly, still is 15 years old than I am, but, as I’ve always told people who gasp, “But doesn’t the AGE DIFFERENCE make things tough?”: “Actually, no, he was always very mature for his age.”

Still, we kept our relationship secret for two thrilling months. Then, when I finally confessed our relationship to my mom, she said…

“Ah, yes. I thought so.” So much for scandal.

Today my cradle-robbing sweetie and I celebrate our 26th anniversary. (If you count from when we started our relationship, it’s actually been 34 1/2 years. We’re not the rush-into-marriage type, obviously.)

Still goin’ strong after 34 1/2 years

A year ago, we celebrated by renewing our vows. Our sons were both there, and let me tell you, there ain’t NOTHIN more precious than listening to your kids make funny-sweet speeches at the wedding of their own two parents.

I don’t mind violating my husband’s privacy, but you’ll just have to imagine our sons off to the side, making us laugh & cry.

So what about that age difference? The only weirdness I can remember is when my own sons reached that age-17 benchmark and started imagining how they would feel if their female friends were dating a 30-something. Their reaction was pretty much, “EWWW.” Of course I assured them that my 17 year-old self was far, FAR more mature than their own friends. 🙂

Ken’s on Medicare now; I have to buy my own insurance. He’s retired; I’m still working. Of course he works harder in retirement than he ever did for a paycheck–yup, I married that kind of guy–but it’s all work he wants to do, like building me a special rack for my earrings, made out of a myrtle branch.

We will have our unique challenges as he ages before me. We know it’s unlikely that he’ll ever have much of a relationship with any grandchildren our sons may someday produce. We know I’m likely to outlive him, maybe by 15 years or more. On the other hand, as Ken points out, I could walk in front of a bus tomorrow–or, on our island, a deer. We’ll take what comes, and feel ridiculously grateful for it.

So, tonight? We’re going on a picnic. He’s not a big flowers-and-jewelry guy, but when I worried that our picnic might be nixed by rain, he said, “So what? We’ll wear rain gear.” Now that’s MY kind of romantic.

And our special dinner? Well, when someone says, “How you doing? Need anything?” Ken’s always responded, “A steak sandwich and a root beer float would be nice.” So guess what we’re having. I’m gonna go pack it all up in ice right now and stuff it into my knapsack.

But don’t tell Ken. It’s a surprise. Happy Anniversary, babe.

So…what’s the age diff in your relationship? Anyone beat 15 years? Any women out there older than their male spouses? What’s that like? I love when you share!

Teach Your Children Well…and Others’ Children Too

Posted on September 4, 2013 by gretchenwing

Teach your children well

Test them like hell

Till the last bell sounds to free you

Learn ten dozen names

And coach their games

Trying to sustain what it means to be you…

That’s the chorus to my latest song (with an ironic-but-grateful nod to CSN), a gift to my former fellow teachers heading back into the classrooms this week.

Or last week. Or last month. I had a former neighbor call me a week ago from Phoenix for homework help for her seventh-grade daughter. (My neighbor escaped communist Czechoslovakia in her teens and wasn’t feeling too confident about responding to an American teacher’s demands for a perfect Thesis Statement.) When I told the girl, “Wow, an essay in your first week back?” she informed me she’d been in school for a MONTH already.

So, kudos, y’all, students & teachers & exhausted parents alike. Rah! Go get ’em. Another school year begins.

Can you tell I’m feeling just a wee bit ~~guilty~~ nostalgic?

I’ve heard it said there’s no such thing as an ex-addict. I’m pretty sure this applies to teachers as well. It’s a permanent condition. Our teacherly hormones are hard-wired to the rhythms of the school calendar. November, January, May, we feel the thickness of the universe closing in–phantoms of past grading periods. Summers, we relax. And around Labor Day, our pulse quickens once more.

I don’t have any slick photos or videos to snazz this post up with. (Well, I have tons of photos of past students, but I’m not about to violate their privacy like that.) Instead, I thought I’d toss out a few vignettes from 20 years in the classroom, each a little “window” into that world that most adults leave behind at age 18, except for the occasional parent conference and graduation ceremony.

Me: How was your Thanksgiving, Grant?* (*all names changed to protect identities)

Grant (an 11th grader): Awesome! We went to Canada to see my grandpa.

Me: Canada, wow. What part of Canada?

Grant: This place called Lopez Island.

Me: Umm…Grant, that’s not in Canada. I was on Lopez Island too. It’s in the U.S.

Grant: Really? But we watched Canadian television…

Miranda (a 10th grader): Oh my GOD, what is THAT???

Me: What, the thing in the cage?

Miranda: What IS it? It just moved!

Me: Miranda, that’s my chinchilla, Chiquita. She’s been there all year. Since the start of school.

Miranda. Whoa. I never noticed her before. (Note: this conversation took place in APRIL.)

Me: (after repeated, increasingly impatient requests for student to stop talking to his seatmate) John, shut UP. (yes, those never-to-be-spoken words did cross my lips)

John (12th grader repeating 10th grade English for 3rd time): YOU shut up.

John & I, out in the hallway, then had one of the most honest and sincere conversations about the importance of mutual respect that I’ve ever shared. I don’t remember the details, but you don’t need to hear them to know that sometimes gifts can come wrapped in the unlikeliest packaging.

These are the funny ones. Some vignettes are more poignant:

The Korean exchange student giving her oral report on How to Make Delicious Kimchee, followed immediately by the sixteen year-old American on What It Was Like To Have My Baby (now a two year-old).

“Steve” explaining his one-day-on, two-days-off pattern of attendance: “When my mom’s drunk, I have to watch my baby sister.”

“Brandon:” Why do I have to learn to write a f—ing essay? No offense, Ms. Wing. I just want to work on cars with my dad.

Me: I don’t know, Brandon. Sounds like a pretty good life to me.

I could go on, but right now I’m too busy getting lost in memories too layered or fleeting to share. I loved almost everything about teaching: the kids, the material, the rhythm of the year, the creative autonomy, the occasional treats in the staff room. I did NOT love faculty meetings, not being able to reach parents by phone, and grading essays on weekends. (My husband once told me, “I’d be more excited to see you without essays than without clothes.” Of course I put that line into my song.)

I walked away from teaching well before retirement age, because the timing was right for my husband and me. I’m avoiding the local school here, knowing that even occasional subbing would suck me right back into that happy/heartbreaking/exhausting/rewarding vortex when I am trying to stick to my new career as writer/baker.

But in September…I hear those sharpening pencils, and my heart beats a little faster.

What does back-to-school mean to you? Freedom, doubt, hope, dread? What memories does it conjure up for you? Let me hear!

That Rings a Bell: Birmingham Still Echoes at the March on Washington

Posted on September 1, 2013 by gretchenwing

I was still in diapers when it happened.

The bombing of that church in Birmingham, Alabama. September 15, 1963. You know–the 16th St. Baptist Church. The one on the corner of the square where the German Shepherds and the firehoses were turned on the peacefully assembled people.

(courtesy bplolinenews.blogspot.com)

(courtesy engineerfloknowledge.blogspot.com)

(courtesy pinterest.com)

The one where those four little girls died.

Watching the 50th Anniversary of the 1963 March on Washington this past week brought it all back. Not because of the speeches or the music, however inspiring. It was that bell that did it for me.

At noon, right after an impassioned speech by one of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s daughters, and right before the appearance of our nation’s first Black President, they rang the bell that had been salvaged from that bombed church all those years ago. And I started to cry.

(courtesy dailymail.co.uk)

I am a 51 year-old privileged white woman, but I am a child of the Civil Rights Movement.

In 1957, my parents moved from California to North Carolina to start my dad’s career and raise a family. They were horrified by what they found there. You don’t need me to describe it for you: the “Whites Only” signs, the “Colored” drinking fountains. You’ve seen it all before, in documentaries if not the actual news of the time. Maybe you’ve even lived it.

My parents didn’t want their three little girls going to segregated schools. So they, as part of the Durham Friends Meeting, started the Carolina Friends School, the first integrated school in the state. And they got involved in the sit-in movement.

Three years after the first, spontaneous sit-in at the lunch counter of the Greensboro Woolworths, and a year after the bombing of the church in Birmingham, my dad got arrested, along with a few others, trying to desegregate a Howard Johnson’s in Durham.

His case went to trial. The jury couldn’t reach a verdict, so a mistrial was declared. The state prosecutor compelled my dad not to leave the state until the new trial, but at the same time refused to set that new trial date. My dad was trapped. As a young professor of zoology, he could not travel anywhere for his field research, or to attend a professional conference. North Carolina had imposed a kind of in-state house arrest.

So he took the state to trial. And lost. He appealed to the State Supreme Court…and lost again. The Court agreed that my dad had, in theory, the right to a speedy trial, under the 6th Amendment, but that he couldn’t force the state to prosecute him because…wait for it…the 6th Amendment did not apply to the states, but only to the federal government.

So…on to the Supreme Court. I’ll skip to the happy ending. In 1967, the Supreme Court sided with my dad and said, yessiree, the states do too have to give people their 6th Amendment rights, just like they have to give you due process and equal protection and all those other wonderful rights from the 14th Amendment. (Can you tell that one’s my favorite?)

If you want to be a Super Legal Geek like me, you can read about the case here:

http://caselaw.lp.findlaw.com/scripts/getcase.pl?court=us&vol=386&invol=213

You can probably tell that I’m skipping over a lot of anguish and fear from the time, as well as deep guilt from my family’s knowledge that our whiteness was a protection that my dad’s Black colleagues did not have. Take all that mix of emotions, insert it into childhood, and voila: memories and images from that time period still make me cry.

Here’s another example, from Birmingham itself. My husband and I drove through a couple of years ago on a cross-country road trip, and stopped at that famous park to make a pilgrimage.

Then…

(courtesy amistadresource.org)

…and now:

Let me tell you, I had to force myself to walk between those snarling dogs. And they were only bronze.

So that’s why that bell gets me. Because it was THERE. Like those brave folks, who continued facing down the Birmingham police and the Klan even after that murderous bombing, it survived. It RINGS.

Do you have memories of that time? Or images that get you right in the heart? Or does it all seem too long ago and far away? I am so very interested to know how the images of that time work on you. Let me hear!