Urban wildlife in December

Cormorant on the Merrimack River

It wasn't quite 30 degrees when I started on my walk this morning. The sun streaming in through the window tricked me into thinking I was dressed right, but the frigid air seeped right through my jeans by the time I hit the mile mark.
I'm on winter break from school so of course my thoughts during the walk were mostly about school. As I passed a cormorant sitting on a log poking up from the swelled river, I thought about the spring life sciences unit and started imagining how I could get my students looking carefully at the habitat that is our city. I heard some ducks squawking back and forth then passed a small flock of geese in the shallows, but when I saw the little muskrat chewing something near the edge of the river, I knew I had to record this for them.

Can you make out the little fur ball at the water's edge? He seemed to be a muskrat.

There's a lot to like about Lowell.
#UrbanWildlife

my crazy

I don’t know why the things that stress me out are so stressful. Everyday things that don’t bother most people send me right over the edge. And I can’t explain to you why. I’ve only recently been able to express that they do put a strain on me. It was so hard for the last 40 years to admit that the idea of bringing my car in for service or planning an event for someone or making particular phone calls  inspired days of hand-wringing anxiety.

Perhaps I can’t tell you why because there is no good reason. What I have been coming to grips with is that there doesn’t have to be a good reason. I feel the anxiety and I have to work through it.And sometimes, I just can’t. The anxiety exists, good reason or not.

The stress of driving a car that should have work done is somehow less than making

arrangements to have the work done. It doesn’t make sense. But does anxiety have to be somehow justified?

Doesn’t that, then, make it something other than anxiety?

And, what people don’t understand is that I can thrive in certain stressful situations and still falter in these mundane ones.

I go to a stressful job every day, often with a positive sense of anticipation. I prepare by reading, talking, assessing student work, and writing lesson plans, but I know going in that nothing will ever completely match my plan. I try to anticipate who will struggle with a certain concept or activity, I plan alternatives and “what ifs”, and still have to think on my feet to address my students’ needs in the moment. Several researchers have talked about the stress in professions where we have to make hundreds of little decisions every day, constantly assessing, choosing, and then reassessing.

But, that I am able to work in this stressful environment and make decisions doesn’t make buying, or not buying, Christmas presents any easier (Should I buy for this person? Oh no, how did I forget to buy for them? Will they like it? I’m not going to give it to them, they won’t like it. Am I overstepping my bounds? Did I misread the signals? I hate Christmas.)

But someone loves my crazy.

I know that loves comes with its own frustrations, and I won’t lie to myself that it’s easy living with me. Nor do I think that it gets me off the hook to try to work through my anxiety and participate as much as I can in our life of servicing cars and planning parties.

But it feels good to be accepted, warts and all.

Snow Day

On a normal day, the students would be filing off buses about now.

But today is not a normal day.

Today is one of those joyful treats of being a teacher.

Today is a snow day.

It's the 6th snow day of the year. Of course, the first two days off had nothing to do with snow but were the result of dangerous winds in October that knocked power out for most of our schools and for most of our families and staff as well. We just don't have anything else to call them. Severe weather days? Unexpected-stay-in-your-pajamas days?

I know the argument against snow days. It means we'll stay in school until the end of June. True. Because of today's call, our last day of school has been bumped to June 20. And we haven't even entered February, traditionally the snowiest month in New England. But our contract states that we can't stay in school past June 30th, so I can still make summer vacation plans. (Family trip to Spain, hopefully.)

I was at class last night, a class for teachers who want to become specialists in reading, and we were all talking about the coming storm. "Has your district called it yet?" Everyone of us was talking about it, though some with dread.

"I just hope they call it in time so I can turn off my alarm and sleep in." said one young teacher who clearly didn't have children at home who would wake up anyway. "Oh, I want to get up. I hate to miss any of my snow day." I answered. That earned me some odd looks. That's OK, I'm used to odd looks.

But I know I'm not alone. A snow day is a special gift that I do not want to squander. Sure, I stay in my pajamas well into the day, sometimes even ALL day. For me, a snow day is an opportunity to read, to write, to make plans for that lesson I wasn't sure how to figure out, to read student work, to look at the big picture of the upcoming unit and get a clear idea of where I want students to end up. A snow day means listening to the radio longer, putting on a second pot of coffee, cleaning out a drawer or a closet that I've been meaning to get to. On snow days I put the kettle on after shaking the snow off when I come in from shoveling so we can all have hot chocolate. I eat a hot lunch, a rare luxury on a school day.

It's time for school to start and on a normal day I would have rushed through getting showered and dressed, making my lunch, helping my teenager get to the bus stop on time, packing my bag and making sure my coffee thermos was filled. Instead, I have read a chapter for my class, written a review on my 4th grade website for a book I just finished (and started a new book), put a load of clothes into the washing machine, celebrated the day off with my teenager (who just now got out of bed), and started the assignment due for my next class.
Oh, and put on a second pot of coffee.

Happy snow day everyone.

Fat and healthy

Is fat a bad thing? Inherently? Always?

I carry around a few extra pounds. Yeah, more than a few. The report from my annual physical includes the word obese and has for years now. I shop more reliably in the plus size section, though I can still often find some good pieces in the regular clothes (though it upsets me that I felt compelled to say that last part). I shy away from certain styles.

But am I unhealthy? Less healthy than thinner people?

This school year, as other teachers have fallen to the germs so generously shared by elementary students, I have barely had a sniffle (until the Christmas break, of course). I climbed a mountain in 90 degree heat with less trouble than my “more fit” peer. Though I’ve hit a slow down because of the cold and early setting sun, I usually walk 2 miles a day at a pace to increase my heart rate and usually meet both the standard FitBit 10,000 steps and my Apple Watch 600 burned calories benchmark.

But, I am fat. And I know that my choices and habits over the past 20 years are the cause. I eat too much sugar, I’m inconsistent with exercise, my muscles are weak and so my metabolism is slowed. I make regularly renewed efforts to get more healthy, without sacrificing chocolate.

At the milestones of the year - the start of spriong, the start of the new school year, and now the new year - I review and reflect and set goals for improving my health. I try not to make my goals about weight, or at least not about weight alone. I want strength to keep up with my husband on hikes and bike rides. I want to be strong enough to haul my future grandchildren around, earning the moniker of the fun grandparent. I want to live independently into old age. So, I pay closer attention to what I eat and resolve to decrease the sugar and increase the vegetables. I look at my schedule to see where I can dedicate time to exercise. I eye sleeveless dresses and pick up the hand weights to build some fashionable muscles.

Fat is a symptom of some health problems, but is not itself my health problem. I may make big improvements to my physical health by increasing my exercise consistency and decreasing my sugar intake and still not decrease my clothing size by much at all.

I’m fat, and I’m healthy. My New Year’s goal is to make more healthy choices, eve if I still shop in the plus size section.

same face through generations

Pauline, Albert, and Florence

I've been browsing through old photographs and am struck once again by how the same faces keep popping up through the generations. 

This black and white photo is my Mom with her brother Albert and sister Florence (my Mom called her "Sister"  or "Sis" for her whole life, and we called her "Aunt Sister" - it never seemed weird until I had to explain it to someone). 

It is so easy to see my siblings and I in all of those faces. 

That high forehead on my Mom, the littlest one on the left, she gave to me. I spent much of my life pushing my hair over that forehead, trying to deny it. As I approach 50 I'm finally willing to push my hair back, but you can see my bangs in the photo below (center). 

Wanda, Laura, and Wayne with Dad

That little boy in maroon pants, my brother Wayne, looks a lot like my Uncle Albert. 
And, depending on when I look at the photograph, in Aunt Sis I see my sister Wanda, my sister Brenda or my brother Lenny.

 And then there are my own little girls. Their round faces and high foreheads are certainly from my Mom, from me. In different pictures when you look fast you might think a photo is any number of cousins only to find out it's a photo of an aunt or uncle, a generation or more apart. 

My childhood was remarkably different from my Mom's, and my girls' quite different from my own, but we share these faces. 

Anya and Thea

Where is home?

Unexpected questions can be difficult, even when we have an answer. I have stumbled more than hurtled in my life-time of answering questions. One that often gets me is "where are you from?" While out at a community event the other day, a local reporter asked my husband a version of this question. After Greg described Lowell as his home, even though we don't currently live there, the reporter asked him why. Greg stumbled in his answer as well.

Each time I stumble over an unexpected question, I spend days afterwards thinking of my best answer. Greg's stumble has given me the opportunity to reflect and prepare, should anyone confront me with the same question.

Why do I call Lowell home?

The easy answer is because I was born here, this is where my story started. My parents and my siblings were born here.

I grew up on the outer edges of the city, in South Lowell, near the towns of Tewksbury and North Billerica. The variety store where I bought cigarettes for my sister and Hershey bars for myself was actually in Tewksbury, though close enough for me to walk to on my own even in elementary school. I didn’t have to cross Woburn Street, so it was a safe walk. When we were very young it was called Ray’s and run by an Archie Bunker looking guy who always wore a white buttoned-up shirt and a black belt. He was gruff, and kept a close eye on us as we surveyed the candy counter, as if we would ever have considered taking a Charleston Chew without paying the coins for it. Later, Pete bought the place and he was much more welcoming and trusting. His bearded smile greeted us most days and he had no problem handing over the pack of Marlboro Lights my sister sent me in buy. It was clear I was not smoking them myself as I was always so absorbed in making the decision between something chocolate or something more sugary. (Lick-em sticks and candy cigarettes were cheaper than Hershey Bars so you could get twice as much, but some days, chocolate is what you need.)

The Variety Store on Woburn Street is completely different now. Truth be told, I’m not even sure its still there. But the mostly packed dirt sidewalk between my house and the store is a part of my home. That walk and those interactions with Ray and Pete helped to shape me. Ray’s suspicion confirmed the lessons of church and family that I should strive to be honest as I didn’t like being thought otherwise. Pete’s daily smile showed me the importance of such simple kindness as I could not continue to be mad at my brother in the face of such happiness. When Pete was in a sour mood, we all suffered.

Lowell is my home because we lived in a neighborhood with a variety store where people knew my name, or at least who my parents were. That straight path is mapped into my memory.

For some in Lowell, the city is divided into parishes. My parish was a bit mixed. In proximity, Saint Marie’s was our parish. The church was right down the street, an easy walk from the house in the opposite direction down Woburn Street from Pete’s. It was a walk I couldn’t make alone as early as I was allowed to wander down to Pete’s though. To go to St. Marie’s you had to walk across Christman Avenue where the 495 on-ramp is, under the highway bridges where sometimes teenagers hung out, and past the off-ramp. Even before the Dunkin Donuts opened at the gas station, this could be a busy road of drivers unconcerned with a nine-year-old’s spiritual journey. I didn’t walk to St. Marie’s much though, because we belonged to Sacred Heart.

Sacred Heart Church, and the accompanying school where I attended from grades 1 through 8, was on Gorham Street. It was walkable and my brothers and sister and I walked home from school plenty of times, but going to church at Sacred Heart meant we were with Dad, so we always went in the car. We passed that spot on Lawrence Street where for years the chain-linked fence was bent in where my brother drove his motorcycle nearly into the Concord River. It was kind of sad when they finally fixed that fence, but I still think of Bobby every time I cross that bridge. Most Sundays we went to the 9:00 mass which usually had the children’s choir since Dad liked the children’s choir better than the operatic voices of the adult choir. I even joined the choir for a little while, despite my Lamarre voice. Dad always loved to sing but he would never join the choir himself.

So much of my life was celebrated in that church. We were all baptized there, though of course I have no memory of any of that. I do have pictures of just about all of my sisters in white dresses my mother made for each of them, standing in front of the statue of Mary with the priest or the head nun or a grandmother after making First Communion. A few of my sisters were married there. Every Christmas and Easter and just about every Sunday of my life until college included church attendance. The priest knew us. The old ladies complimented our behavior in the pews, unattended when Dad was on the alter as a Eucharistic minister.

We buried my brother from that church, with Father Madigan calling him “Bob” and me wanting to stand up and shout at him that my brother was Bobby, my Dad is Bob so stop making it sound as if my father has died.

Lowell is my home because, even though the school building has been torn down and the church turned into condos I grew in spirit there. I journeyed from blind acceptance to determined adherence to angry rejection of the Catholic Church, landing now in a place without anger or acceptance (though I do like the tone of the current pope).

Lowell is my home because I sat at the counter in Woolworth’s to have lunch with my grandmother.

Lowell is my home because I took the city bus downtown to shop at Jordan Marsh.

Lowell is my home because I could tell the difference between the Aiken Street bridge and the Bridge Street bridge with my eyes shut because of the weird noise the metal grating of Aiken St made when you drove over it.

Lowell is my home because I know that you shopped at Saint Joseph’s shrine when you needed a first communion cross and that you could get a mass card for a funeral at the rectory at Sacred Heart, perhaps from my mother or my aunt if one of them was working there at the time.

Lowell is my home because I graduated from Lowell High School and can still sing the fight song, and so could my Dad right up to the day he died even though he didn’t graduate with his class but earned his GED there in 1978.

Lowell is my home because my grandparents and aunts and uncles and sister and niece are buried in St. Patrick’s Cemetery and my brother and parents are in the Lowell Cemetery just down from the lion who my daughters and I named Ezra.

Lowell is my home because I know where things are and how to get there and even though I have lived in Westford for over 10 years, I still don’t know the best route to take.

Lowell is my home because I spent my teenage years traveling by LRTA and gratefully accepted some change to pay for my bus ride home when a stranger saw me crying at the public phone after realizing I had spent my bus fare calling my Mom to let her know I was running late.

Lowell is my home because I went to the teen health clinic that was run out of an old mill building where they would leave a message that “Susan called” so your parents wouldn’t know you were getting birth control pills.

Lowell is my home because that is what I instinctively answer every time someone asks me where I’m from.

senior discounts for busy days

The nice young lady at Dunkin Donuts gave me the Senior Discount today. And, I’m being honest when I tell you that my first reaction was not sadness or anger at being mistaken for someone eligible for AARP benefits, or even surprise. The first thing I felt was guilt. I’m not supposed to get the senior discount. I’m supposed to pay full price. Will this young person get in trouble for giving a senior discount without checking first? If I take it won’t I be cheating the company, and ultimately the workers?

After grabbing the pastry (that I ordered for my daughter, in case you’re reading the earlier post on how I want to build strength and health) she half winked and said she knew I didn’t get the senior discount, but she gave it to me. Phew, guilt trip over. She hadn’t made a mistake that was going to get her in trouble, she made a choice of her own free will.

I know what you’re thinking (because I thought it too). Another employee probably said something to her, or she noticed me smiling at the note on the cash register, and she didn’t want me to feel bad. I don’t feel bad. I don’t color the white and grey out of my hair, I have lots of wrinkles around my eyes from smiling, and I was wearing one of those Monday morning teacher blouses that gives a comfortable professionalism to my outfit. Young people don’t know how to judge age for anyone more than 5 years older than themselves. My students guess my age at anywhere between 25 and 60 and to them, that’s all the same – old. I’m 47. Some days I feel 27, some days 67, most days I don’t feel an age at all. But I digress.

When I got into my car and felt my whole body begin to give in to exhaustion, I started to wonder if I looked older this afternoon than usual, prompting the 5% savings. I got to work early this morning to prepare a few things but spent all my time trying to get the technology I needed for my first group to work. I finally got it to work, only to have it crap out on my again once the students where there, forcing me to rework my entire lesson plan on the spot. Then I had to give a standardized test to my 4^th graders, on the computers (which did work, for the most part.) And then I supervised a pair of student teachers while they taught their first science lesson to elementary students. And throughout the day I comforted Lila who’s stomach hurt, I tried to help Junior find his calm and be able to stay in one place long enough to get some work done, I got help for Michael who was too upset to talk to me and too out of control to stay in class, I cleaned stray books and paper from the floor so the mouse that I’ve been seeing lately wouldn’t nibble holes in them, I searched everywhere for the master of the Math test I need to copy, I read through my notes to make sure I was ready for an Education Justice meeting tomorrow, I made a list of al the things I need to get done that I didn’t get done today, and I texted back and forth with my teenager who did not get the trip to Germany that she interviewed for over the weekend.

I was exhausted and I must have looked it.

Some days, it feels like I run all day and get nothing accomplished. Today was one of those days. But, once home I helped my daughters get ready to go to band practice and cooked a small dinner for my husband who had to run right out to a meeting, and I hopped on the treadmill for 20 minutes, and threw in some laundry, and got the dishwasher started. I was still running, but I decided to notice my accomplishments.

The on the fly lesson went well and gave the kids a foundation of knowledge I wanted them to have today. I gave the student teachers some helpful feedback. Lila felt better after some kind attention. Junior found his calm for most of the day. Michael returned to class ready to learn. There was no new evidence of visits by the mouse. My daughter knows she has much to be proud of to even have earned eligibility for that German trip. My husband was able to eat and rest before driving off. And I exercised.

I probably still look old. But I feel great.

no Michelle Obama arms here - but a little of her moxie

I'm a few years from my 50th birthday, but I can see and feel my body aging. Yesterday morning I was shocked to see the fat in my forearms. I have always wished to have Michelle Obama arms, though I’ve never worked for them. I walk (sometimes I’m up to a jog) on the treadmill 3 - 5 times a week unless I get to walk outside. I even own a few light hand weights and have been known to do some calisthenics. But, I am not an athlete and often choose other ways to spend my time than exercise.

Still, those forearms kind of took me by surprise. And I won’t lie, I started immediately to beat myself up about them.

But part of my goal this year, still a few away from 50, is to take action. I can’t travel back in time and not eat the Moosetracks frozen yogurt with chocolate jimmies, nor would I likely make that choice should Mr. Peabody’s Way-Back Machine become available to me. Heck, keeping on this trend of honesty, I’ll likely have a cup of Moosetacks this weekend.

My one little word isn’t about completely changing who I am or drastically altering my habits. Action for me is thinking about what I do each day and want to do each day and am hesitant or afraid to do each day and take an action regarding it. While I would like better looking arms, when I stop to really reflect on it what I really want is strength. My flabby arms are not very strong and I want to be able tote around grandchildren one day, to be able to haul my bags through the airport when my husband and I tour Europe for out 50^th anniversary.

I wonder if I can focus on strength without chastising myself for all my past bad choices.

I wonder if my focus on strength can help guide me to better choices in food and activity.

I wonder if I can really accept that, while I might gain strength I probably won’t lose all the flab.

I wonder if I can ever completely see myself the way I think my dear husband does.

I was tired today, so walked at a slow pace on the treadmill. I stopped after only 20 minutes because I wanted to make sure I could get some supper on the table in time for the family to eat together before we each got to evening activities. But since stepping off that treadmill I have taken action to do things in line with the life I want to live. I read for my book club, I planned mini-lessons for my struggling students, I wrote to hone my skills. 

My arms are still flabby, but my resolve is firm.