Sweet Sweet Myron and his Lost Car

Last night, as I pushed my cart with my two colorful cloth bags of groceries in the cold winter night air, my head down a bit to block the wind, I was feeling the anticipation of being home.  Sliding my feet into my slippers, being in my warm house, putting the groceries away, unwinding from the day.  I picked my head up briefly as I crossed the traffic area and noticed an elderly man shuffling towards the cart return space, which happened to be adjacent to my car.  Under his left arm was a pack of toilet paper and in his right hand was two bags, milk and bread.  He shuffled painfully slow and unsteady.  I took notice of him heading toward the cart return with groceries in his hands, an action opposite of usual.  

We arrived to our destinations at the same time, me to my car and him to the cart return where he promptly set his groceries down in a stranded cart.  I lifted my gate, put my bags in as he turned around to me in a desperate voice, "I can't find my car."  

He was so cold his cheeks were red and his nose was running and he had the look of defeat and panic in his eyes.  

"I can't find my car.  How stupid."  

"Oh!  Well, that sort of thing happens to me all the time.  One time I even told the people at the car wash my car didn't have a neutral.  Can you imagine?  You are talking to the right girl about doing silly things." 

A slight smile. 

"What kind of car do you have?"  

"A silver Impala with license plate ending in 72."  

I scanned the rows in the lot I could see.  No Impala in sight.  

"Are you sure you parked by this door?  Sometimes I forget which door I go in."  

"I know it is in these two rows.  I know it is."  

I was becoming colder and colder by the second as I stood there and shifted from one foot the next, my mind spinning about solutions to this problem because very obviously, his car was not in the rows I could see.  

"How about you just get in my car with me and we'll drive around until we find it.  I can't handle this cold very well and we can put the seat warmers on and visit while we look."  

"No, no.  I'll find it."

But he didn't move.  Just stood there with that look in his eyes, his nose running, and his groceries in the cart.  So I prompted again with a point, "My car is right here.  You really can just ride around with me until we find it."

"You aren't going to try and steal me are you?"  He said with a twinkle and smile.

"I promise I won't.  And you have to promise you won't try and steal me too!"  

And with that our bond was sealed.  

I put his groceries in the back of my car while he shuffled around and slid in my passenger seat.  I jumped in, cranked the heat and seat warmers, and started the voyage to look for the silver Impala, making small talk while I scanned.  We went over about how he has lived here his whole life and how his kids moved away now (to a town about twelve miles from here which I couldn't help but chuckle to myself about) and how he fell in Denver, CO a few weeks ago and that he didn't like that one little bit.  I told him I was from here too and how he reminded me of my grandpa, "Myron, you remind me of my Grandpa Norman.  He's not here with me anymore though so I think maybe it was meant to be for you to ride around in my car for a bit tonight."

His response, "Well I'm damn near ninety."  

Oh yes he was meant to be with me for a brief stint.   

Then he went into the spelling of his last name because he is an -on at the end, not an -en and once I had driven the entire lot twice without finding his car, I really started to wonder what I was going to do with Myron.  And I actually had a vision of bringing him home with me, to have him sit at my table while I put my groceries away and maybe feed him some dinner.  But I realized he probably really would think I was trying to steal him then, so my wheels kept spinning.  Literally.  Around we went.  

There were two silver Impalas in the lot but neither was his because, "My license plates ends in 72 I told you.  Don't you remember?"  Those are not 72."  

Finally, it dawned on me after going back and forth, feeling more and more like I had my Grandpa Norman sitting next to me, "Myron!  Do you have a key clicker?!"  

"Well yeah I have one of those."  Followed by the look of why the hell wouldn't I you young girl you.  Myron made me smile.  The entire time.   

"Then we can click it and see if any lights come on!"  I was starting to get the feeling that 72 might not be the last digits of his plates but didn't want him to know I was doubting him.  

He handed over the clicker to me and I drove to the first silver Impala.  No lights.  

I drove to the second silver impala.  Lights!  

"There it is!  That's it Myron!"  

"That's not my car.  Remember I told you I had 72 at the end, that's a 42."

"But Myron, your keys work on that car."  

"Oh yeah.  Oh yeah.  My daughter's is 72 and mine is 42."  His finger waving at me the whole while.  

"Well all I know is, I'm sure happy we found your car."  

I carried his groceries to his back seat and got him shuffled to the driver's door and he turned to me, put his arm around me and said, "Thank you for helping me and I sure wish some day I can help you the same way.  I think you were my little angel tonight."  

I hugged him back and put my hand on his shoulder and said, "I'm so glad I was here.  Some day, someone will help me.  That's how this life works.  Or at least how it should."

"You got that right."  

He slid into his car and I hopped back into mine to make my way to my house, twenty minutes later than I would have been, to my putting my groceries away, to my unwinding from the day.  But I wouldn't have wanted to spend those twenty minutes any other way than with Myron in my car.  

If I could write Myron a thank you note, I would.  For reminding we are all in this together.  For reminding me people are the most important of all.   

Beating Defeat

I was sitting at my desk this afternoon correcting papers and hitting the afternoon slump and wishing I could be in music with the chicken wings instead of looking over their assessments...feeling those inevitable moments of defeat that always come creeping in when you realize that some still don't get it.  Feeling as if all that I have said and done went right on through without catching.  Feeling like I can't get them to get it.  And, the thing is, they have to get it and they can get it.  It's my job they do and while sitting at my desk, sometimes it would be easier to just have them not get it.  Easier to just give up and throw my hands in the air and say, "It's okay you don't know what action, linking, and helping verbs are or how to use them to effectively communicate, it's okay you don't get it."  

Then, in that exact moment of my feeling of "why do I do this" a student of mine from last year came into my room with a smile on her face and a red construction paper heart card in her hand.  She walked up to me sitting at my desk wallowing in defeat and said, "This is for you."  By giving me that red construction paper heart with a handwritten note, she in essence took my hand and pulled me up and out of that ugly feeling of defeat without even knowing it.  A smile was inevitable as I read her words.   

Happy Valentine's Day!  

Dear Miss E.,

I just want to thank you for a great 4th grade.  I will remember you always.

Love,

Bubbles  

As she walked out of my room, I was reminded that maybe sometimes, I am that hand.  The hand that grabs on and pulls up.  And I might not even know at the time, but I'm taking away defeat.   I might need to trust and keep working and know that at some point, they will all get it.  They will all get it because I truly believe it's unacceptable for them to fail.  It's not okay for my students to not know what linking, helping, and action verbs are or more importantly, to not know how to use them to effectively communicate.  In fact, it's not okay at all.  So, as hard as it may be some days, I keep grabbing hands and pulling.  

Then, as if it had not already been made clear enough, I swiveled around in my chair to grab my orange zebra sticky notepad to write a list of "need a hand" kids based on the assessment and I was faced with another note.  Written in shaky handwriting.  

Thank you for teaching me and the rest of the class.  I hope I can be like you when I grow up.  

{a drawn heart} Punky Brewster

I tacked that note up after Punky gave it to me at Christmas.  One of my main goals - which is equal in  my mind to the academic side of my job - is to teach my students what I refer to as life lessons.  For instance, "Chicken wings, this is life lesson number 157...sometimes it's alright to be last to get the cupcake.  And life lesson number 158...it's alright to be last to get the cupcake because we are all going to wait until everyone has their treat and we've all said a proper thank you before we even think about taking a bite." 

Or "Life lesson number 11...it's fun to be goofy at times and I'm totally all for that when the time is right, but then we have to know how to come back to Earth and find our self control again."  Punky is a kid that has been working really hard on learning the ever tasking art of self control and coming back to Earth all year so when she handed me that note at Christmas, she reminded me life lessons are worth taking the time to not only say with my words, but also model with my actions.    

A short while later, the chicken wings came back from music and I had made my "need a hand" list for tomorrow's English centers.  They were met with a teacher who had kicked the feeling of defeat to the curb and was ready.  All because of their simple reminders.  Reminders to keep on keeping on.  When they all individually did a starjack at the end of today as I sent them on their way to the bus, this popped into my head, "Life lesson number 42...don't be afraid to be ridiculous; none of us are too cool to be ridiculous sometimes."

They all get that.        

Impact

There’s this new twist on New Year’s resolutions going around...it’s called “Word of the Year.” Basically, you pick a word that is going to be your inspiration for the upcoming year.  I’ve always been one that enjoys a twist so instead of doing resolutions for 2010, I picked my word.

SERVE

It’s the first word that popped into my head when I thought about where I wanted to focus my energy.

I want to serve others by lending a helping hand when needed.

I want to serve myself by making wise choices about my own life.

When I think of the word serve, I can not help but think of my Grandma. My family has been missing Grandma since September. I miss her everyday. For real. I had no way of knowing the true magnitude of her presence on my life until her physical presence was no longer.

Grandma was the epitome of the word serve.  She straight up would help anyone before herself. The most impactful set of memories I have involve Grandma and Mrs. Cox. Mrs. Cox was an older lady who lived in our small town when I was growing up. She had a developmentally disabled son who most were afraid of. Mrs. Cox was odd; she lived in what could be considered a shack, she was a hoarder, and her appearance was disheveled.

Mrs. Cox had no vehicle. She and her son were outcasts. They were poor. They were alone. They had no way of getting groceries and other household goods.

Grandma saw this need and grandma filled this need. Grandma took Mrs. Cox and her son to town a couple times a month. She would take them wherever they needed to go and I know she paid for many of their needs out of her own pocket. I know this because Grandma took me with many times on her trips with Mrs. Cox. I was young, probably around five or six, and I vividly remember people staring at us. It never fazed Grandma a bit. She would just say to me when I was scared of Mrs. Cox and her son, “Amy, they are people and they need our help.”

Whenever we would get back to the small town, Mrs. Cox would always invite us in because even though she had her struggles, she was not lacking in gratitude. Grandma would not bat an eye and accept the invitation into her home.

I was sitting on Grandma’s lap, scared and judgmental when Mrs. Cox would ask me questions about how old I was or what I liked to do. I would try to not answer or look down when I answered. Grandma would say, “She can’t hear you, you better say it again.”  I wonder if Grandma knew just how much she was teaching me through her actions.  I sure hope so. 

When Grandma was slipping away from us, all I could keep thinking about was her hands.  Her serving hands.

The last time Grandma held my hand, I captured the moment.  I wanted to treasure it forever. 

I sat down that night at my computer and wrote this for Grandma.

Grandma left the physical world the next day.  As I was driving home from work, this was the sunset.  I knew the beauty and fierceness of it was no coincidence.  It gave me peace to know she was home. 
 

My word of the year for 2010...

SERVE
Because of the impact of this lady.