Swing In A Tree

Thursday, February 9, 2023

"Fearless Lizzy"

I spent my childhood roving the neighborhood with a feral pack of my sister’s friends. Living on an Air Force base, our parents (translate that to mothers-our dads were flying) meant we left home at dawn, showed up to feed for lunch, and then disappeared again until porchlights signaled us to come home after dark.

The summer of ’64, we discovered the playgrounds for the officers' children had superior equipment. The enlisted men had to provide swing sets for their kids that weren’t even dug into the ground. If we swung too high, the entire structure would lift up into the air, spilling us onto the dirt. The officers’ area offered swigs set in concrete bases, an assortment of monkey bars, tetherball, a large fiberglass turtle to crawl on or sit under, and a wonderful climbing set of bars shaped like a train! Adding to the attraction was the fact that this area was banned from us to use.

Being the smallest and youngest didn’t deter me from keeping up with our wild horde when we ventured into the forbidden zone. I loved nesting under the turtle. Kicking my feet high into the air to propel me into the blue summer sky while on the swing made me squeal. The bars shaped like a train, though, scared me. The older kids challenged each other to jump from one end to the other. At one section, they would swing, pick up momentum, and let go to soar through the air to wrap around a pole that seemed a mile away. The force of their jump would allow them to spin and slip down the long shaft.

Most days, the older kids left me alone to amuse myself. One fateful day, a couple of boys hoisted me onto the train and sang challenges that I could jump from bar to bar just like them. I remember my sister’s wide eyes and heard the worry in her voice as she warned me not to let the boys bully me. But I climbed up, gripped the thick bar, swung my short legs madly in an attempt to propel myself through the air, and hit the ground.

My personal memory ends with impact.

My sister recounts the panic when blood seeped from my forehead. A couple of the boys ran to get help from any of the officer’s wives, knocking on doors and begging for help. They got reprimands instead. We weren’t supposed to be in that playground. The double whack of the bar in front of me and the ground behind me left me unconscious. My sensible sister knew not to even try to move me. She sent the boys to go get our parents.

Most of the time, Dad missed illnesses and emergencies as he spent months gone on TDYs. This time, he was outside mowing the yard when the terrified boys raced up yelling that I’d fallen and wouldn’t wake up.

I have no memory of Dad sweeping me from the ground and into the car. I can’t recall the emergency room nurses or doctors checking me out, cleaning my head wounds, and wrapping me with bandages. I have no recollection of saying, on the way home, “Who are you?”

The U-turn Dad took seems visceral in my mind, but I distinctly can recount that I heard Dad’s words when he carried me back into the ER, “She’s still broken.”

Fearless Lizzy spent three days in the hospital with a concussion. Nurses or doctors woke me up all night long, quizzing me about my name and age. If I napped during the day, someone would swing by, wake me up, and ask me if I knew where I was. I got all of the ice cream I wanted. Once the doctors felt I was in my right senses, they let me go home.

I never, ever, returned to that playground. If older, bolder kids challenged me to follow their escapades, I’d glance to my sister for feedback. A slight nod from her meant I could attempt the dare. I trusted her judgement for a long time before I learned to trust my own.

My sister, baby brother, and me

Me standing next to my YOUNGER cousin. I was small!

Wednesday, February 8, 2023

“Leaves”

As the first frost neared, the water overflowed

with reflected color of summer’s demise

High in the wind, a remnant of warm days fell—

alone—floating, turning, then softly at home

Autumn silently ran among the towers,

forcing the windowpanes to lose their fastened grasps

In shimmering glory they cascaded down,

shattering to rest at the tree roots below

There, at last, by the river and on the curb,

the vestiges of yesterday piled together

They shift in the wind and await the first snow,

wait to be buried in a blanket of cold.

August 26, 1975

Tuesday, February 7, 2023

“Teaching Nirvana”

1990's Me!

I am a Psychologist certified in the state of Texas to teach Psychology and English. When I began my career in 1980, no other teacher in Bexar County had my credentials. For my first six years in the classroom, I taught seventh, eighth, and ninth grade English. In 1986, the principal from our campus shifted to the high school and took along some of the best and brightest teachers within our district. He wanted me on his campus to design and implement the first course in Psychology offered at the high school level within our Region. I had one stipulation to making this move—that my classroom would be open to all topics initiated by students with his support.

That first year, I experimented freely with my curriculum utilizing a couple of old textbooks, my own personal library, and the professional journals available through the APA. During the next decade, my principal sent me to training on Critical Thinking, Cooperative Learning, and Multiple Intelligences with David Lazear. My education included Gifted and Talented certification and Advanced Placement training. Within all of that, I also continued refining my skills as an educator for teaching writing, which I integrated into my Psychology curriculum. The course I developed became one our district offered to other campuses throughout Texas with my availability for in-services and workshops. Because few high schools offered Psychology at their schools, I became the main teacher for student teacher training. Over a few years, I trained seven student teachers from Trinity University, UTSA, and Southwest Texas State University (now Texas State University). My reputation within not just our District and Region, but throughout the state was impeccable.

You can imagine my surprise when one October morning, one of our counselor’s tapped on my classroom door and said I needed to report to the principal’s office immediately, and that she’d be taking my classes for the remainder of the day. My students did their “Oh, Miss, what you do now?” quarry as I grabbed my purse and headed to the administration building. As they knew earlier in the week a very frank and open discussion on masturbation had been brought up by a student, we all figured we knew why I was heading to the office. Mentally, I began my reminder to the principal that he’d agreed that my classroom was open to ALL topics brought up by students.

When I entered his office, he waved me to a chair as he finished a phone conversation. His expression stern, he leaned forward and stated, “I’ve been running interference with District Office over a parental complaint. That was the parent. Apparently, you are ‘endangering the students and faculty of this campus by opening the door to Satan.’”

My jaw dropped. “What?”

“She says you have your classes sit in the dark and open their minds and thoughts which allow Satan to enter. When I told her that her son’s enrolled in an elective, and we’d change him to a different course today, she refused because it’s her duty as a Christian to make certain evil doesn’t get an opening at this school. Her son’s not the only one at risk. So . . . what have you done that would trigger this woman?”

“I have no idea!” I began. “Last week I did the heart rate activity. Could that be it?”

This multipronged lesson integrated demonstrating gathering data (heart rates) after students first entered the classroom, walked the stairs 3 or 4 times, took a second pulse reading, and then did a guided relaxation activity with a taking their pulse rate a third time. I’d done it for several years to teach mean, mode and median with the data derived along with giving my high anxiety students fairly fast method of relaxation that they could do easily at home.

I explained that the final step to lower student pulses involved multiple steps once students stretched out on the floor, sat at desks with arms and feet uncrossed, or lay across a few desks. With lights off and Pachelbel (usually) playing softly, students tensed every muscle in their bodies. Then I’d instruct them to relax and focus on breathing in a steady, even rhythm with me repeating softly, “In through the nose. Out through the mouth.” Next, I’d have them think of a favorite place and “see it, hear it, taste it, feel it. A warm sun, feathery breeze.” After about fifteen minutes, more heart rate data would be collected.

He asked a few questions, jotted notes onto a legal pad, and said he’d take care of the problem. By the end of the day, someone from the main office scheduled an appointment for the next day to observe the activity with one of my classes. Obviously, no gateway to Satan opened through this lesson. I don’t know the details for how the parent backed down, but I never heard another complaint.

Educators today often ask how I survived for thirty years in education. My years really were different than what the classroom teacher faces today. That one rare incident of a parent challenging my instruction occurs constantly now. The support I received from my principal and the district office personnel doesn’t exist for the teacher today. They face out of control parents threating their safety. They combat dick-less men who fear anything that doesn’t teach that white, Christian males are superior to women and minorities. Their censored bookshelves sit bare in some states.

The war against public education started while I still worked in the classroom, but the conflict grows daily into open hostilities against every teacher who enters a school. I don’t have any answers to my friends currently teaching except to chant “in through the nose, out through the mouth” as they prepare for a long, hard battle.

Monday, February 6, 2023

“Room Design”

https://yoworld.com/

My sister loves trying different games through her Facebook account. In 2014 she raved about YoVille and invited me to play, too. Then she switched to Bejeweled Blitz and Words with Friends followed by Mahjong Wonders 3D Cube. She bounces from game to game, sending requests for me to join along. While she’s out searching for her next form of entertainment, I still load the now YoWorld onto my computer daily. My collection of houses, furniture, outfits and hair numbers the thousands. I rarely utilize the social aspects within the game. I simply do enough to gather funds for my various purchases.

My relationship with Bejeweled runs deeper. I discovered that playing a round or two before stretching out in bed resets my brain. During the years of caregiving Mom, playing this computer game nightly rewired my thoughts to focus on lining up and blowing up little colorful jewels. This played out behind my eyes when I settled for the night. We even purchased Bejeweled 3 to refocus me with variations of the basic game. For the last thirteen years, my bedtime routine includes a round of two of “Poker,” “Zen,” or “Butterflies.”

While my sister dropped Mahjong Wonders 3D Cube rapidly, I found the drill helped my memory and speed of matching alike items. Although I played it for many months longer than my sister, I dropped it for almost a year. When I quit work with the 2020 shutdown, this game became a favorite way to past time.

Room Design caught my sister’s attention about a week ago. She asked for me to play along because you challenge friends to room design duels. We’ve shot competitive contests back and forth for over the past few days. Every day, I note that the list of friends participating in the game grows longer. Now if my sister and I follow our usual pattern, she’ll shift to another game by March. I will be ensnared in the game for another ten years!

https://www.facebook.com/RoomDesignGame/

Sunday, February 5, 2023

“Sweet Tooth”

My quest to limit daily sugar intake means I travel a rough, temptation strewn road. A couple of years ago, I edged away from sweet iced tea by ordering half-n-half. I ran victory laps when “unsweet” became my go to order. At home, my Earl Grey hot gradually shifted to less sugar, then honey, and finally nothing but the wonderful blend on its own. We’d dropped all sodas about six years ago, but the urge to down a hot Dr. Pepper when my throat burns with an infection lingers in my memories. Dad’s remedy remains warm and comforting when fever devils me. When COVID-19 invaded our home right before Christmas, I begged for ginger ale and Dr. Pepper to soothe my symptoms. That influx of sodas has left me craving sugar again.

I noticed a few weeks ago that my tea order at restaurants had relapsed to my sweet addiction. My morning Greek teas, usually brewed without honey, had crept back to a dollop each morning. My eyes draw to pictures of desserts when I browse online, and I shoot furtive glances at the donuts when at HEB. My determination to dodge candy bars and chocolate entered the maximum level of stress when Girl Scout cookies hit the streets. Every night, I allow one indulgence—either a single Blue Bell Krunch Bar or their Fudge Bar. My goal remains focused! I will wean off of that nightly treat and return to my pre-illness status of a monthly sweet treat from our neighborhood Dairy Queen.

As I struggle to avoid the bombardment of delicacies that constantly barrage my daily routine, I focus on a plan of action that takes me away from the cravings that batter me at the moment. For my benefit, my mantra “Less is more” becomes the chant that pulls me away from reaching for a Milky Way!