Out to Pasture

I am retired from a profession where I never made much money, but for over 30 years, felt like I was being a productive member of society by educating children, promoting love of obscure grammar rules, and hiding Shakespearean insults in the district website I maintained. 

But now that I live life on a more relaxed plane, volunteering in places that make me smile, going to the gym whenever I want, and spending more than 22 minutes on lunch, I sometimes wonder if I am slacking, not pulling my weight in the cosmic load.

Recent incidents confirm to me that I still have a place in the stuff of life, albeit to a different, smaller, and simpler tune.

Incident #1: Fresh out of the nail salon with a new set of my favorite French tipped acrylics, I hurried through the grocery store before the bulk of the Friday crowd hit. I spotted a friend I hadn’t seen in a while, her 20 year old son in tow. In the year or so since I’d seen him, nonverbal, severely autistic and struggling with violent outbursts, he’d grown even more, dwarfing his petite mom. I felt a new wave of admiration for my friend and her husband for their sacrifices in keeping him at home.

She smiled and hugged me. “Shelly, it’s good to see you. We’re so wrapped up in all that we have,” she glanced at her son, “that we don’t get out much anymore.” She continued sharing that it was more and more difficult for her to calm him when he became agitated because he was now so much stronger than her. Her son, uninterested in our conversation, circled slowly behind me, making me a little nervous. He emerged within my field of vision and knelt beside my arm, staring intently at my hand. My friend stopped talking and we both became wary.

Her son rose slowly and grasped my hand, never taking his eyes from it. He turned awkwardly and put my hand on his shoulders. Not sure what to do, I held it there, waiting for him to make the next move.

He moved his shoulders up and down and back and forth, wiggling. He looked back at me, smiled, and shimmied his shoulders again, making sounds of encouragement. A look of understanding flashed onto his mom’s face. “It’s your nails! He wants you to scratch his back with your nails!” He clapped his hands as I obliged, gently dragging my nails back and forth over his back. He closed his eyes and lapsed into a peaceful stillness for the next five minutes while we continued our conversation. Later that day, she texted me for the number to my nail salon. “We’ve never seen him so calm. A regular backscratcher doesn’t do it, either. It has to be nails. I’ve never had long nails, but this is working so well for him I’m headed down to get a set.”

Incident #2: At the close of a college football game, I wandered down out of the bleachers while my husband caught up with a hunting buddy in the stands. The school mascot, a six foot tall blue javelina (think something like a wild hog) with large tusks ambled near, greeting children and adults alike who wanted a quick picture with him. A man with two little curly headed girls, perhaps four and five years old, pulled them close to the mascot. “Look! I can take your picture with him,” he said excitedly to the girls as he pulled his phone from his pocket. The older girl, eyes wide, smiled in silent awe as the mascot reached his hand/ hoof out to her.

The younger girl, though, dug her heels in, pulled back on the man’s hand and whimpered, “No, Daddy, no!” Terror drained her face even as her sister crowded close.

The man said nothing but pried the little fingers off his hand and turned his back to her to take pictures. The younger girl, now without any island of safety and with her sister firmly in the clutches of the mascot, screamed chillingly. The man paid no attention as he continued to snap pictures. Quickly, the tiny girl bolted straight for me, ran behind and grabbed my leg in a death grip. Her curls bobbed at my waist as she buried her head in my thigh and sobbed, “No! No!”

I dropped my purse to the ground and knelt as best I could with her clamped onto me and put my arms around her. I told her the mascot was actually a silly fellow inside of a costume and that he would never hurt her and that she was safe. The whole time, the man never looked back, never took his eyes off taking his pictures. By the time they finished, a weak smile broke through my charge’s teary face, and she laughed as I told her funny stories of times I had been afraid and then found out I didn’t need to be.

As her father made his way over to us, pumping his fist in triumph at all the pictures he’d taken of the mascot and the older girl, I whispered to the little sister. “Remember, Honey, you are a brave girl. You are going to help so many people in your life because you are full of courage and you are going to help them not feel afraid.” She nodded her head, sighed and let out one last sob as her father reached for her hand.

“You were such a little chicken, weren’t you?” he laughed as she put her head down.

“Actually, she is very brave, and I think you should be quite proud of her and her sister, " I told him quietly. I patted her on the head. “You remember, you are brave, Honey. You don't have to be afraid because it's right there inside of you for whenever you need it. You are going to do such wonderful things. All your life, you remember that.” She nodded her head as other family members joined them. They walked towards the parking lot and I could hear the father laughing and recounting, “She just took off and ran behind this lady and wouldn’t let go of her…”

The little girl, tightly clutching her father’s hand, looked back one last time and shyly waved goodbye.

I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was the mascot. He held his arms open wide and pulled me in for a tight hug.

I may be out to pasture, but there's still plenty to do in that pasture.

Fairy Wings

"Your word is TREBLE," I enunciated as clearly as I could. "TREBLE."

The tiny girl with the fuchsia bow perched atop hair the color of nutmeg pensively stood with the tip of her finger in her mouth. The audience sat attentively in fold down bleachers in the ancient, high-ceilinged gym.

"Um, could you pwease use it in a sent-tence?" she asked shyly, wiping her finger on her floral dress.

I read the sentence from my spelling bee pronouncer's list. The two judges next to me waited.

"T...AWW...E...B...B...E...L," she spelled into the microphone.

The judges' bell dinged, signifying a misspell. She sighed, put her head down and headed to the seats with the eliminated spellers.

I gave her a little smile as she passed our table, whispering, "Good try! ",  although I don't think she heard it.

This was the Baby Bee for children in first through fourth grades and immediately followed the very competitive bee for the older students. But my mind was far from spelling bees that day. I had a community wide 5K run the next morning I was in charge of, a grant proposal I needed to finish writing, and I was still a little shaken from the first ever car accident I'd been in the day before in my two week old car. To boot, I had a meeting and a play practice that night. It felt like a stormy little cloud had suspended itself over my head the whole week.

Still, I felt for this petite first grader. I didn't know her name, but since we are a small district and share one cafeteria, I'd seen her at various times with her class, sometimes wearing a wispy, wee set of fairy wings on her back.

The Baby Bee ended and parents and students thronged around the winner and runner up. I gathered my materials from my table and felt a timid tug on my sleeve. The Treble girl stood at my side. Her chin quivered even as her eyes welled with tears.

"I know how to spell it, weally, I do!" she pleaded.

I knelt down to speak to her face to face. "Oh, honey, I know you do. You did very well today. I'm so proud of you because you made it all the way to the finals!"

"I just fowgot this time. I studied it and I know it, but I just messed up," she said urgently.

I pulled a Kleenex from my purse and dabbed her cheeks.

"Would you like to spell it for me, right now?"

A smile creased her face for the first time. She nodded furiously. She moved back in front of my table and I moved back into my chair. I cleared my throat. "Your word is TREBLE. TREBLE."

I smiled at her and nodded my head. She picked up the cue.

"T...AWW...E...B...L...E...Tweble," she recited.

I clapped my hands and congratulated her. She smiled and clenched her fists over her head. She skipped to the doors to join her class, but stopped, spoke something to her teacher, and headed back to me.

Her finger hooked in the corner of her mouth as I knelt down again.

"Um, I have faiwy wings I like to put on sometimes."

I nodded. "I've seen you wearing them. They are beautiful."

"My mom says only special people can have faiwy wings. They have to be good and kind to weaw them."

She smiled shyly. " I want to ask my mom if I can bwing them because I want you to weaw them."

As so often happens when guileless kindness is given to me, a knot of emotion filled my throat.

She leaned her head in close. "But you have to give them back to me at the end of the day. They awe the only ones I have."

Although I hadn't thought of it before, fairy wings are the perfect tonic.

And I'm going to find a way to strap them on.

Wishing you all some fairy wings today, my friends~

Unspeakable Sadness

This is going to be difficult to write because my heart is so heavy and broken this morning.

Each morning when I walk in, I have a chipper 6th grade girl from my first period class, Adela, who meets me at the door, chatters all the way in, and immediately sets about passing out folders, changing the date, anything she can do to help.

Adela is 11 years old and a foster child. She and her 12 year old sister, Sarah, have been through much abuse and heartache in their lives. Their mother ultimately decided several months ago she didn't want the girls in her life anymore because they'd crimp her lifestyle. She had them too young, she told the judge, and she wanted to enjoy life a little before she had to settle down. She voluntarily severed her rights to them and told them she didn't want to see them anymore. They have never known their father.

The girls, despite all this, have not been outwardly mopey or depressed. They love to talk and have friends here at school.

Adela told me last week she thought maybe her mother had died. I asked her why, and she said, "I just feel inside me she may have died. It feels like it." The social worker told me as far as they knew, the mother was alive and partying hard. We all assured Adela and Sarah their mom was indeed alive, though just not able to be a part of their lives right now.

Last night, Sarah hung herself. Adela is in the hospital on suicide watch. Their pain had reached a tipping point and at 11 and 12 years of age they decided there was no hope anymore for them. Period.

I can't even write this without tears coming again. When I found out, I had to lock myself in a bathroom and weep for a long time. I keep examining things, wondering if there were signs we should have spotted. Really, there weren't. They'd been dealt some horrific blows, but their counselors, social workers and foster family felt they were dealing with things in a resilient way.

The only thing I can come away from this with is to talk to the kids in your life often. They become very good at covering up what's inside. You can't ever tell them too often you love them. That prickly teen of yours? Wrap them up in a big bear hug and whisper to them how your life is so much grander because they are in it. That niece or nephew who's silly and immature? Smile and let them know how they bless your life. Those grandchildren? Cup their sweet faces in your hands and tell them you'll always love them just because they are who they are.

And this morning when I get to my classroom, I know I will be passing out folders by myself. I will have a time of chatter free quiet before the tardy bell rings. Yesterday's date will still be on the board in Adela's handwriting. I'm going to leave it unchanged for a while. It will be a good reminder that life is precious.