A low rumble of thunder from the north made me thankful we were indoors on this night of restless weather. Rain soon beat an uninterrupted rhythm on the roof and windows.
I looked forward to finally having a small window of time this evening just to read. I tucked my Kindle under my arm as I snugged a blanket around me on the sofa while my husband flipped through channels looking for the basketball game. There was something about reading inside while rain pelted on the outside that resonated warmth and security to me.
My Kindle blinked a warning that the battery was critically low, and I sighed and pulled the blanket off to go get the charger. I was midstep down the hall when a searing bolt of lightening filled not only the outdoor sky but flooded every window. The lights died and the momentary silence was broken with a short squeal from Teenaged Daughter, in her bathroom. "My hair! How can I finish curling it now?"
My husband smiled as he made his way to the utility room to get portable lights and flashlights. "Why are you curling your hair? You aren't going anywhere," he laughed.
"I was practicing a new style, and it's only half done!" she lamented. She sighed and came out of her room to get one of the flashlights. "I guess I'm just going to text my friends."
"Stay off the phone," he warned. "Remember what happened to Grandma? (Lightening Strikes) We don't want any more lightening incidents when someone is on the phone." She sighed again, flopped into a chair and grabbed a book and a flashlight.
"I think you girls have the right idea. Some reading will be a good thing to do while we wait for the power to come back on, " my husband remarked as he pulled out a big book from a shelf and a adjusted a portable lantern near his chair. I looked at my now useless charger and Kindle. "Here, Hon, here's another light so you can still read," he offered.
I thought for a moment. "I think I'm going to try it the true old fashioned way," I told them as I stepped into the living room. I removed one of my grandmother's kerosene lamps from the top of the vintage piano where they serve as accent pieces. It still had lantern oil in it from a school project. The wick was trimmed. I lit it and moved to the bookcase that fully covered an entire wall of that large room.
The lantern cast a warm and supple light on the shelves and shelves of books. I ran my fingers across the spines until I came to some of my oldest books. The House of the Seven Gables, this copy printed in 1868, caught my eye and I slid it out. I held it close to my face and inhaled as I moved to a small desk to set up my lamp. It smelled of long skirts and high button shoes, of stovepipe hats and carriages and horses and war and a divided nation.
I wondered about the first person who had bought this book, brought it home from a bookstore and perhaps read it by lamplight, as I was doing now. The pages, though softened with age and now a faint ecru instead of white, still proclaimed clearly in the dancing lamplight, "Halfway down a by-street of one of our New England towns stands a rusty wooden house, with seven acutely peaked gables..."
I pulled the blanket tightly around my shoulders and stuffed the Kindle and charger into a drawer even as the rain continued to tattoo the roof and the lantern cast intricate shadows on the wall. "...facing towards various points of the compass, and a huge, clustered chimney in the midst..."
I love a rainy night.
Thursday, May 16, 2013
Friday, May 10, 2013
An Italian Lesson
"Move, move, quickly!" she yelled at those of us who straggled behind. Her trademark black wig, her large, dark sunglasses, and the crimson red lipstick slathered on her lips gave her a cartoonish appearance.
"Sieg Heil," my friend, Kurt, muttered.
Her head snapped around to where we dragged our feet at the end of the line. "What was that?!" she demanded.
Kurt quickly answered, "Nothing, nothing at all, ma'am."
My head throbbed, my mouth felt like a dozen stuffed animals hibernated in it, and my stomach was already signaling revolt. Mrs. Wilty, our high school choir teacher and head chaperon of this senior year trip to Europe was known for her strict ways at school, but here on the streets of Rome she grew even more strident in her control and her admonitions.
Kurt moaned quietly. "Ohhh, my head." I nodded, but barely. It hurt too much. Truth be told, a small group of us had just made it back into the hotel two hours prior to our 7 AM wake up calls. The night life of Rome held too much fun for us not to unwrap that forbidden package. Although we were wily enough to outwit our sponsors, we were no match for the consequences of our revelry.
Mrs. Wilty and the other adult sponsors led the 40 seventeen and eighteen year olds past a cluster of older women sitting against the edge of a building where we were to eat breakfast. They were dressed simply, with sensible dark shoes and scarves covering their hair. They chatted animatedly among themselves, their deeply lined faces stretching into smiles as their hands helped to tell their stories with large gestures.
One who used a cane to prop herself into her chair chortled as the last of us sat at the outdoor tables near where they were, revealing a mouth about half full of teeth.
Mrs. Wilty made her way through the tables. "Each of you will get two fried eggs, bacon, and orange juice. Eat quickly, and clean your plates. We have to show our appreciation! Do NOT appear rude to the Eyetalians! We want the Eyetalians to like us!"
Although I couldn't see my face, I felt it turn green at the thought of the breakfast. Kurt's head drooped even lower as he braced his elbows on the table. "Do we have a problem here!" Mrs. Wilty barked as she stopped at our table. A feeble head shake No was all I could muster.
The breakfast plates were placed before us, a light brown moat of grease coagulating around each egg. I knew I could not eat it, although Mrs. Wilty was going from table to table to be sure everyone was finishing their breakfast. "Eat! Eat!" she admonished.
"Eat! Ea....ow!" she squealed and jumped before she stopped dead in her tracks and drew her hands over her rear end. Her mouth, outlined in that bright red lip color, made a perfect O.
The elderly lady with the cane slowly retracted it from whacking Mrs. Wilty's behind. Now she used that same cane to point to Mrs. Wilty. "You-eh," she said as she narrowed her eyes at the teacher. "Be-eh nice. Just-eh be-eh NICE." Her friends nodded in agreement and punctuated her words with rapid Italian assents. She held her stare and jabbed the cane once more at Mrs. Wilty. "Be-eh nice."
I am far removed from my 17 year old self in age and behavior, and I'm sure the elderly woman has long departed, but her voice still rings true. Be-eh nice. Just-eh be-eh NICE.
"Sieg Heil," my friend, Kurt, muttered.
Her head snapped around to where we dragged our feet at the end of the line. "What was that?!" she demanded.
Kurt quickly answered, "Nothing, nothing at all, ma'am."
My head throbbed, my mouth felt like a dozen stuffed animals hibernated in it, and my stomach was already signaling revolt. Mrs. Wilty, our high school choir teacher and head chaperon of this senior year trip to Europe was known for her strict ways at school, but here on the streets of Rome she grew even more strident in her control and her admonitions.
Kurt moaned quietly. "Ohhh, my head." I nodded, but barely. It hurt too much. Truth be told, a small group of us had just made it back into the hotel two hours prior to our 7 AM wake up calls. The night life of Rome held too much fun for us not to unwrap that forbidden package. Although we were wily enough to outwit our sponsors, we were no match for the consequences of our revelry.
Mrs. Wilty and the other adult sponsors led the 40 seventeen and eighteen year olds past a cluster of older women sitting against the edge of a building where we were to eat breakfast. They were dressed simply, with sensible dark shoes and scarves covering their hair. They chatted animatedly among themselves, their deeply lined faces stretching into smiles as their hands helped to tell their stories with large gestures.
One who used a cane to prop herself into her chair chortled as the last of us sat at the outdoor tables near where they were, revealing a mouth about half full of teeth.
Mrs. Wilty made her way through the tables. "Each of you will get two fried eggs, bacon, and orange juice. Eat quickly, and clean your plates. We have to show our appreciation! Do NOT appear rude to the Eyetalians! We want the Eyetalians to like us!"
Although I couldn't see my face, I felt it turn green at the thought of the breakfast. Kurt's head drooped even lower as he braced his elbows on the table. "Do we have a problem here!" Mrs. Wilty barked as she stopped at our table. A feeble head shake No was all I could muster.
The breakfast plates were placed before us, a light brown moat of grease coagulating around each egg. I knew I could not eat it, although Mrs. Wilty was going from table to table to be sure everyone was finishing their breakfast. "Eat! Eat!" she admonished.
"Eat! Ea....ow!" she squealed and jumped before she stopped dead in her tracks and drew her hands over her rear end. Her mouth, outlined in that bright red lip color, made a perfect O.
The elderly lady with the cane slowly retracted it from whacking Mrs. Wilty's behind. Now she used that same cane to point to Mrs. Wilty. "You-eh," she said as she narrowed her eyes at the teacher. "Be-eh nice. Just-eh be-eh NICE." Her friends nodded in agreement and punctuated her words with rapid Italian assents. She held her stare and jabbed the cane once more at Mrs. Wilty. "Be-eh nice."
I am far removed from my 17 year old self in age and behavior, and I'm sure the elderly woman has long departed, but her voice still rings true. Be-eh nice. Just-eh be-eh NICE.
Thursday, May 2, 2013
A Little Love Story and the Winner of My Giveaway
Drum roll....the winner of my giveaway from last week is..... Jamie Jo from Lord, Make Me A Saint! Congratulations to Jamie and a hearty thank you to all who participated. I was more than a little hesitant to put my voice on that last post because we never sound like what we think we sound like, but you all were terrific. Thank you!
I have 16.5 days left until I am retired from the classroom and while excitement is growing in my heart, so also is the lump in my throat. I'm going through my older school posts. This is one from my first months of blogging.
Every day could use a little love story.
Carlos had bounced from foster home to foster home by the time he'd reached 8th grade. The only memories he had of his real parents were dark and painful. His mild cerebral palsy and autism necessitated him taking all his classes in a self contained special education unit, where he began to thrive. Carlos read voraciously. He was also selectively mute, only using gestures or on the rare occasion, a simple spoken word. He self-soothed when he became nervous by fluttering his hands near his face, as if they were silent doves. His serious expression never loosened into a smile.
Rachel had lived with her grandmother most of her life. She was a happy, bubbly girl, grown large with her grandma's delectable cooking. Although in 8th grade, she had the mental age of a 6 year old. Her speech was limited, but she also loved coming to school in the same self contained unit Carlos attended.
On a grade level field trip to a state park, their regular teachers were unable to attend. I kept a close eye on them, both to ensure their safety and because I didn't know how the other kids would treat them.
I was proud of the other 8th graders. They were kind to Carlos and Rachel and went out of their way to include them in the tour group activities. Carlos and Rachel both seemed a little overwhelmed, but kept up well with all we did that morning.
Our scheduled lunch was a picnic near the river in a scenic spot canopied with enormous oak and elm trees. The other students grabbed their lunches and gobbled them down, eager to toss a football and explore our area. I sat at a picnic table with Carlos and Rachel.
They shyly and quietly ate their lunches. Rachel giggled a few times as I tried to engage them in conversation, but Carlos kept his grave expression as he finished his sandwich. He stole a few glances at Rachel and his hands began fluttering.
He turned on the bench and faced her. She had her eyes on her food, still smiling, oblivious to his attention to her.
"Rachel," Carlos murmured softly. She continued to look at her food.
"Rachel," he said louder. This time, she swung her head towards him.
His hands fluttered rapidly.
"Rachel, you are my heartbeat," he said clearly, without cutting his eyes from her. Although his syllables were truncated, his voice was steady.
"Huh?" she asked, uncomprehendingly.
"You are the air I breathe, Rachel," Carlos said with fervor.
No one had ever heard this boy say more than two words together. I felt like I was intruding on a sacred moment. I held my breath.
Rachel moved her head slightly towards Carlos.
"What it mean, Carlos?" she asked.
"I love you, Rachel. I love you," Carlos replied. His hands finally stilled themselves, his gaze intently fixed on her.
"Aw, I wuv you, too, Carlos," Rachel answered. She giggled and pulled open a bag of chips, crunching one loudly.
His expression softened and he exhaled a long, satisfied sigh. A small smile curled up at the corners of his mouth. The other teachers and kids loudly jumbled back to where we were and it was time to load the bus.
They did not sit in the same seat on the bus, but he looked back every now and then and grinned at her. She giggled back at him. His whole frame relaxed into the seat and his hands rested calmly in his lap.
As we unloaded back at school, they still did not walk close to each other, but each time he looked at her, she smiled and laughed shyly and he crinkled his eyes and beamed tenderly as they made their way back to class.
And love still conquers all.
I have 16.5 days left until I am retired from the classroom and while excitement is growing in my heart, so also is the lump in my throat. I'm going through my older school posts. This is one from my first months of blogging.
Every day could use a little love story.
Carlos had bounced from foster home to foster home by the time he'd reached 8th grade. The only memories he had of his real parents were dark and painful. His mild cerebral palsy and autism necessitated him taking all his classes in a self contained special education unit, where he began to thrive. Carlos read voraciously. He was also selectively mute, only using gestures or on the rare occasion, a simple spoken word. He self-soothed when he became nervous by fluttering his hands near his face, as if they were silent doves. His serious expression never loosened into a smile.
Rachel had lived with her grandmother most of her life. She was a happy, bubbly girl, grown large with her grandma's delectable cooking. Although in 8th grade, she had the mental age of a 6 year old. Her speech was limited, but she also loved coming to school in the same self contained unit Carlos attended.
On a grade level field trip to a state park, their regular teachers were unable to attend. I kept a close eye on them, both to ensure their safety and because I didn't know how the other kids would treat them.
I was proud of the other 8th graders. They were kind to Carlos and Rachel and went out of their way to include them in the tour group activities. Carlos and Rachel both seemed a little overwhelmed, but kept up well with all we did that morning.
Our scheduled lunch was a picnic near the river in a scenic spot canopied with enormous oak and elm trees. The other students grabbed their lunches and gobbled them down, eager to toss a football and explore our area. I sat at a picnic table with Carlos and Rachel.
They shyly and quietly ate their lunches. Rachel giggled a few times as I tried to engage them in conversation, but Carlos kept his grave expression as he finished his sandwich. He stole a few glances at Rachel and his hands began fluttering.
He turned on the bench and faced her. She had her eyes on her food, still smiling, oblivious to his attention to her.
"Rachel," Carlos murmured softly. She continued to look at her food.
"Rachel," he said louder. This time, she swung her head towards him.
His hands fluttered rapidly.
"Rachel, you are my heartbeat," he said clearly, without cutting his eyes from her. Although his syllables were truncated, his voice was steady.
"Huh?" she asked, uncomprehendingly.
"You are the air I breathe, Rachel," Carlos said with fervor.
No one had ever heard this boy say more than two words together. I felt like I was intruding on a sacred moment. I held my breath.
Rachel moved her head slightly towards Carlos.
"What it mean, Carlos?" she asked.
"I love you, Rachel. I love you," Carlos replied. His hands finally stilled themselves, his gaze intently fixed on her.
"Aw, I wuv you, too, Carlos," Rachel answered. She giggled and pulled open a bag of chips, crunching one loudly.
His expression softened and he exhaled a long, satisfied sigh. A small smile curled up at the corners of his mouth. The other teachers and kids loudly jumbled back to where we were and it was time to load the bus.
They did not sit in the same seat on the bus, but he looked back every now and then and grinned at her. She giggled back at him. His whole frame relaxed into the seat and his hands rested calmly in his lap.
As we unloaded back at school, they still did not walk close to each other, but each time he looked at her, she smiled and laughed shyly and he crinkled his eyes and beamed tenderly as they made their way back to class.
And love still conquers all.
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
She Speaks...And How to Enter This Giveaway
Yes, I do speak but you'll probably have to turn your volume up a little to hear me. I hope this link works, because if you listen to it, it will tell you how to enter a giveaway I am hosting. (Leave your comment/answer to my question on this post, not on the Sound Cloud page the link will take you to.) My Texas accent comes through a little bit, and the mike I was using isn't very good, but it is me, sounding bullfroggish.
https://soundcloud.com/shellysm/blog4-recording-on-wednesday
Once you get to the page, you have to click on the play button on the upper left side. Then, when you're done, you can hit your back arrow to get back to this page. Leave your comment on this blog post, not on the Sound Cloud page. It is much easier!
And thank you to all who left those wonderful stories and comments on my last post about teachers. I am indebted to you!
Thursday, April 18, 2013
A Question and a Favor
I'm pre-empting my own blog today to ask you a question and a favor. I'm preparing a special presentation for our teachers on Teacher Appreciation Day, and since it will be my last, I want to make it unforgettable.
The question: Has a teacher ever shown you a special kindness that helped or motivated you? If so, what was it?
The favor: Please let me know about it in the comments. This can be any teacher you've had, or maybe it's a teacher someone in your family has had, or any one that you know about. I know there are teachers out there who shouldn't be in the profession at all, but I also know there are many more who bring unsung grace into the lives of kids every day. I truly hope you had at least one of these special people in your life.
Please don't be shy. It doesn't have to be long, and if you won't judge my grammar and punctuation, I won't judge yours. :)
You all are THE BEST! I have to have this completed by the end of next week, so thank you for your help!
The question: Has a teacher ever shown you a special kindness that helped or motivated you? If so, what was it?
The favor: Please let me know about it in the comments. This can be any teacher you've had, or maybe it's a teacher someone in your family has had, or any one that you know about. I know there are teachers out there who shouldn't be in the profession at all, but I also know there are many more who bring unsung grace into the lives of kids every day. I truly hope you had at least one of these special people in your life.
Please don't be shy. It doesn't have to be long, and if you won't judge my grammar and punctuation, I won't judge yours. :)
You all are THE BEST! I have to have this completed by the end of next week, so thank you for your help!
Thursday, April 11, 2013
Confiscated Items in My Desk Drawer
As I count down the final weeks of my teaching career before my retirement, I am going through my posts on teaching. This is a repost with some updates from my early days of blogging.
Almost every teacher has one; a drawer to store things that have been confiscated from students and/or items abandoned and left unclaimed in the classroom. I saw my little stash from last year hidden away in the back of a bottom drawer. Probably nowhere else on earth except another teacher's drawer does this combination of items exist.
1. A giant Mickey Mouse pencil. Nothing wrong with having a large pencil except when you are shoving it up alternating nostrils for the amusement of your friends. FYI- I handled it only with a paper towel and disinfected it with my trusty Germ-x before stashing it.
2. A Mexican wrestler's mask and cape. The story of how I acquired that would take too long to relate here, but suffice to say it's not cool to sneak up behind your teacher while wearing it and yell, "Arriba!".
3. A neon pink condom. Still in wrapper. (Thankfully). It was left under a table and has a boy's name written in ink on it, but I suspect it was a joke sprung on him.
4. A latex glove blown up like a balloon with the letters YOLO written on the fingers. The owner found that while you may only live once, you can also spend what seems like a lifetime in detention if you throw it from the window of the bus when the principal walks past.
5. A People magazine with Heidi Montag in a swimsuit on the cover, detailing her many plastic surgeries and her huge breast implants. It's always suspicious when a group of boys is huddled around a table, staring down at something hidden from view, and then they immediately jump up when the teacher nears, smile and (poorly) pretend nothing is happening. I think the pictures of Heidi might still have traces of their drool on them.
6. A plastic wind-up penis that hops madly when fully wound, complete with a smiley face on it.
7. A laser pointer that was being directed at girls' chests one day on the way in from lunch. The owner assured me he had no idea it was on or that it had accidentally been aimed at the girls, but that he would never THINK of doing such a thing on purpose, ever.
8. An old book of prayers in Spanish. I guess the prayers were learned/ answered and so the book wasn't needed anymore and thus left behind in my room.
9. A pair of false eyelashes that extend at least 3/4" from the eyes. The poor girl who had them didn't know how to properly apply them and they continually fell off. She kept trying to stick them back on until the whole class was wrapped up in her drama instead of their work.
One thing I confiscated but didn't keep very long was the item in a small brown paper bag a quiet girl brought to school one day. She called me over before class and asked if I wanted to see what was in her bag. I assumed she had an interesting item for lunch, so I dutifully peeked in. The girl had been hunting with her family over the weekend and gotten her first deer. Inside was a fresh deer's tail. The principal's horror at seeing it equaled my own as she and I debated what to do with it. The girl's dad eventually came up to get it that morning.
So there it is; the good, the bad, and the just plain weird of what is in that drawer. Time to clean it out.
Almost every teacher has one; a drawer to store things that have been confiscated from students and/or items abandoned and left unclaimed in the classroom. I saw my little stash from last year hidden away in the back of a bottom drawer. Probably nowhere else on earth except another teacher's drawer does this combination of items exist.
1. A giant Mickey Mouse pencil. Nothing wrong with having a large pencil except when you are shoving it up alternating nostrils for the amusement of your friends. FYI- I handled it only with a paper towel and disinfected it with my trusty Germ-x before stashing it.
2. A Mexican wrestler's mask and cape. The story of how I acquired that would take too long to relate here, but suffice to say it's not cool to sneak up behind your teacher while wearing it and yell, "Arriba!".
3. A neon pink condom. Still in wrapper. (Thankfully). It was left under a table and has a boy's name written in ink on it, but I suspect it was a joke sprung on him.
4. A latex glove blown up like a balloon with the letters YOLO written on the fingers. The owner found that while you may only live once, you can also spend what seems like a lifetime in detention if you throw it from the window of the bus when the principal walks past.
5. A People magazine with Heidi Montag in a swimsuit on the cover, detailing her many plastic surgeries and her huge breast implants. It's always suspicious when a group of boys is huddled around a table, staring down at something hidden from view, and then they immediately jump up when the teacher nears, smile and (poorly) pretend nothing is happening. I think the pictures of Heidi might still have traces of their drool on them.
6. A plastic wind-up penis that hops madly when fully wound, complete with a smiley face on it.
7. A laser pointer that was being directed at girls' chests one day on the way in from lunch. The owner assured me he had no idea it was on or that it had accidentally been aimed at the girls, but that he would never THINK of doing such a thing on purpose, ever.
8. An old book of prayers in Spanish. I guess the prayers were learned/ answered and so the book wasn't needed anymore and thus left behind in my room.
9. A pair of false eyelashes that extend at least 3/4" from the eyes. The poor girl who had them didn't know how to properly apply them and they continually fell off. She kept trying to stick them back on until the whole class was wrapped up in her drama instead of their work.
One thing I confiscated but didn't keep very long was the item in a small brown paper bag a quiet girl brought to school one day. She called me over before class and asked if I wanted to see what was in her bag. I assumed she had an interesting item for lunch, so I dutifully peeked in. The girl had been hunting with her family over the weekend and gotten her first deer. Inside was a fresh deer's tail. The principal's horror at seeing it equaled my own as she and I debated what to do with it. The girl's dad eventually came up to get it that morning.
So there it is; the good, the bad, and the just plain weird of what is in that drawer. Time to clean it out.
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
The Plant Whisperer
"Hello, ma'am," he greeted me as he shyly peeked his head through my classroom door. He continued in heavily accented English. "I clean your room, yes? I come back later if you busy." I assured him it was fine and he pulled his long-handled push broom and a custodial cart up to the first row of desks.
His shy smile revealed a few missing teeth and crinkled his sun-weathered face as he removed his gimme cap. He ducked his head as he introduced himself as Mr. Silva. He lightly took my offered hand as I told him my name before he heartily tackled my trash cans and floors.
He was over 60 and I was a 22 year old first year teacher, but he always treated me with deferential respect. It took a while, but my talkativeness finally broke through his reserve and he shared a little more each afternoon when he came to clean.
He'd been employed by a local, massive ranch that was known for cradle to grave employment. Most employees were born on the ranch and lived in ranch provided housing in a worker's colony there. They were informally apprenticed in a branch of ranching arts when they were still very young, and worked their entire lives on that ranch, eventually retiring and living out their days in the same ranch provided homes, eating at a ranch cafeteria if they desired, and buying discounted groceries and other supplies at a ranch commissary. Many of them saw no need to finish school or to even become fluent in English, as Spanish was the de facto language of the workers.
The oil bust of the 1980's evaporated any familial ties the ranch felt towards the workers and when the budgetary belt needed tightening, many long time workers took the brunt. The were turned out of not only their jobs, but their homes, as well.
Mr. Silva and his disabled wife had no children and no experience outside the ranch, but he found them a small apartment in town and landed a job as a custodian at my school.
Fastidious in his appearance, he wore immaculate workshirts tucked into sharply pressed khaki pants, complete with vintage ranch workboots on his feet.
Our conversations continued into the next school year and I looked forward to his visits and stories, even when he gently chided me for not taking good care of the plants in my room. Every now and then he'd take one of the bedraggled, brown things home, nurse it back to health, and return it to me, robust and green. He explained the plants could hear, they had feelings, and I needed to not only water them regularly, but I needed to speak to them softly and lovingly, like I would to a baby.
He confided one day his regret was not finishing even elementary school. It embarrassed him to share neither he nor his wife could read. He wanted to learn, almost more than anything, but didn't know where to start.
It was easy fix on my part. I shared a few simple lessons with him after school and he took it from there. He practiced for hours at home until he could not only read, but devoured books. His tastes ranged from John Donne to Louis L'Amour. He was always reticent in discussing anything with me but books, and to that end we carried on spirited, lively conversations about author styles, literary devices, and what an author REALLY meant when he wrote that.
When I had my first child and returned from maternity leave, a brilliantly colored lantana plant awaited me in my classroom, a gift from Mr. and Mrs. Silva; one he'd grown from a cutting.
It wasn't long afterwards a stroke took him, and not long after that, his wife was gone, too.
The lantana has grown into a healthy, four foot tall shrub with sturdy branches, bedecked in vibrant flowers of yellow, orange, and pink in our back yard.
And every now and then, I go out to that lantana and speak softly and lovingly to it of English poets, western authors, and book lovers.
His shy smile revealed a few missing teeth and crinkled his sun-weathered face as he removed his gimme cap. He ducked his head as he introduced himself as Mr. Silva. He lightly took my offered hand as I told him my name before he heartily tackled my trash cans and floors.
He was over 60 and I was a 22 year old first year teacher, but he always treated me with deferential respect. It took a while, but my talkativeness finally broke through his reserve and he shared a little more each afternoon when he came to clean.
He'd been employed by a local, massive ranch that was known for cradle to grave employment. Most employees were born on the ranch and lived in ranch provided housing in a worker's colony there. They were informally apprenticed in a branch of ranching arts when they were still very young, and worked their entire lives on that ranch, eventually retiring and living out their days in the same ranch provided homes, eating at a ranch cafeteria if they desired, and buying discounted groceries and other supplies at a ranch commissary. Many of them saw no need to finish school or to even become fluent in English, as Spanish was the de facto language of the workers.
The oil bust of the 1980's evaporated any familial ties the ranch felt towards the workers and when the budgetary belt needed tightening, many long time workers took the brunt. The were turned out of not only their jobs, but their homes, as well.
Mr. Silva and his disabled wife had no children and no experience outside the ranch, but he found them a small apartment in town and landed a job as a custodian at my school.
Fastidious in his appearance, he wore immaculate workshirts tucked into sharply pressed khaki pants, complete with vintage ranch workboots on his feet.
Our conversations continued into the next school year and I looked forward to his visits and stories, even when he gently chided me for not taking good care of the plants in my room. Every now and then he'd take one of the bedraggled, brown things home, nurse it back to health, and return it to me, robust and green. He explained the plants could hear, they had feelings, and I needed to not only water them regularly, but I needed to speak to them softly and lovingly, like I would to a baby.
He confided one day his regret was not finishing even elementary school. It embarrassed him to share neither he nor his wife could read. He wanted to learn, almost more than anything, but didn't know where to start.
It was easy fix on my part. I shared a few simple lessons with him after school and he took it from there. He practiced for hours at home until he could not only read, but devoured books. His tastes ranged from John Donne to Louis L'Amour. He was always reticent in discussing anything with me but books, and to that end we carried on spirited, lively conversations about author styles, literary devices, and what an author REALLY meant when he wrote that.
When I had my first child and returned from maternity leave, a brilliantly colored lantana plant awaited me in my classroom, a gift from Mr. and Mrs. Silva; one he'd grown from a cutting.
It wasn't long afterwards a stroke took him, and not long after that, his wife was gone, too.
The lantana has grown into a healthy, four foot tall shrub with sturdy branches, bedecked in vibrant flowers of yellow, orange, and pink in our back yard.
And every now and then, I go out to that lantana and speak softly and lovingly to it of English poets, western authors, and book lovers.
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