Beep Beep Toot Toot Yeah!

So, what is it about a car? Clearly, it is a window-filled world through which anyone can peak. And yet, people inside act like there is a brick wall between their boogar-probing finger and the viewing public.

I have seen people behind the wheel who treat their rear view like a bathroom mirror, applying mascara and lipstick, picking food from their teeth, checking to see if the bleeding has ebbed on their chin. I have seen people treat their car like a kitchen table, spreading out the paper on the steering wheel, propping their feet through an opened window while they chat on the phone.

I am absolutely certain that I have done appalling things in my car, confident that I have not been seen. Or heard. Or smelled.

Take tonight, for example. Allison had just finished cheering at a volleyball game and needed a ride home. I hopped in and headed her way. Earlier today, I'd had half a runza and some chicken tikka madres and, so, I was taking advantage of the cushy injection chamber that is a car's seat, farting furiously all the way down Randolph.

By the time I'd reached the last light before Lincoln High, it dawned on me that one of Allison's friends just might need a ride home. In the gas chamber.

Had I been able to flap the doors and still stay on the road, I'm pretty sure I would have. Instead, I activated every electronic window device at my disposal, all the while, encouraging Hobbes the Hobo dog to breathe extra heavily, that I might shift some of the blame.

As I pulled up to the dark lot, spotted with lively teens sharing laughs, I eased up on the pedal, taking a bit longer than usual to pull up to the school. Just in case. Sure enough, Allison leaned her head into the window and asked if her friend Rachel could have a ride. When she didn't renig, I figured the coast--I mean the air--was clear.

I was still a little gassy on the ride home, but I pinched, like a good parent should do. Like my own parents did for the 19 years I lived with them, God love 'em.

Jam Don't Shake Like Jelly

My Grandpa Shepard took me to two movies as a kid—“1776” and “Oliver.” I’ve already written about the “1776” fiasco—when he showed up without his wallet and proceeded to beg strangers for enough money to take his granddaughter to the movies. “Oliver” was a quieter affair, thank goodness, and a more enjoyable film to watch. Yes, people still broke out in song, but at least not over a preamble or gunshot wound.

One line from “Oliver” still sticks with me today. It’s from the scene in which the boy asks the headmaster for seconds.

“More soup, please.” And then, all hell breaks loose.

These days, I’m begging the headmaster for less soup, not more. And still, it feels like all hell is about to break loose.

My response? Start pumping iron. No, really.

Apparently, when one part of my life starts to careen a bit, my reaction is to take control of another part of it. This time, it’s the abs. Or the “flabs,” as I call them.

So, twice a week, I’m putting on what I’m pretty sure are pajama bottoms, swapping sandals for Vans, and heading to the school’s weight room to pump up my jam, pump it up!

I am not delusional. I do not expect my abs to be mistaken for steel any more than I expect lifting weights in a gym will help me lift the professional weights that are heaped on my shoulders.

I still have too much soup in my bowl these days. And a bit of a muffin top, too. But there is something to be said for taking control of things—even things that may not matter much. Turns out, a few reps on the Nautilus helps steady me outside the gym, as well. And for that, I am grateful.

In fact, I could almost burst out in song. . .

Naming Names

I woke up feeling a tad guilty about yesterday's post. Specifically, the part about my job. Like most people, my first reaction to change is to resist it. Like many teachers, I can grow weary of the latest transformations and standardizations in our field. All this testing makes all of us a little testy.

But I would be lying if I said that nothing good has come from these changes. Asking me to be thoughtful about what I do before I even do it--and expecting it to fit into a grander scheme--is hardly an outrageous request. And, to be honest, these added expectations have led me to be a better planner at school.

I've always enjoyed finding the "hook" in something. I like the challenge of creating a sturdy, compelling framework on which to hang my teachings. And, without the added layers that have been placed upon me at work this year, it's possible I never would have found a compelling framework on which to hang the dreaded task of creating citations.

There are certain, unavoidable lessons that teachers must teach. For a school librarian, nothing is more dreaded than teaching students how to create accurate, MLA-style citations for their research papers.

Want to watch all the air leave a room? Mention citations. Want to see how quickly glaze can move from one end of an eyeball to another? Talk about MLA style. Want to perpetuate every rotten "Marian the Librarian" stereotype that has ever been uttered about those of us in the school library? Ask me to teach citations.

On Friday, my friend Shelly, who is teaching the Literature of the Holocaust class at East, asked if I would work with her students next week so that they'd know how to correctly cite their sources. In the past--before all this reform came a'knocking at my professional door--a little part of me would die when teaching citations. It was one of those dreaded lessons that made me hate me.

Now, though, because the expectation is that my lessons will tie into their lives, and that my intent and connections are clear, I find myself looking at even the most dreaded of lessons differently.

And so, tomorrow, when I meet with the Holocaust class, for the first time ever, I will be excited to teach students about creating citations. For the first time since I've been a school librarian, I've got a hook for this one.

See, creating MLA-style citations is more than a mind-numbing requirement of research. It's actually (here's the hook) the important work of naming names.

What did Hitler do to convince so many people that it was okay to kill so many of their neighbors? He took away their names and tattooed them with numbers instead.

Closer to home, just south of the Lincoln Regional Center, tucked away between a grove of trees, stands an odd, sad little cemetery. There, not so long ago, they buried Regional Center patients, marking their graves not with names but with numbers.

Sure, a hobbled works-cited page isn't as devastating as numbering people, but it's just possible that caring about our sources and crediting them with accuracy is one way to name names.

And that is important work, indeed.

Evaluating My Half-Century 21 Real Estate

"50-and-up group."

That's the crossword clue from yesterday that nearly made me drive my car off the road.

Is it really possible that, in a mere three months, I'll start getting mail from AARP? How can it be that the youngest child of Jim and Sally Raglin's happy union will be (gulp) half a century old?!

I don't think I can bring myself to tell my mom the news. . .

I've never fretted the age thing much in my life, but that cursed crossword got me thinking. And then, for some weird reason, the term "owner occupied" entered my brain. Maybe it's because we're refinancing. Or maybe there's really no explanation for the bizarre connection I made between turning 50 and occupying myself.

You would think that someone who is on the brink of 50 should live an owner-occupied life. For the most part, I think I do. I think I have a pretty good idea of who I am and what my abilities and shortcomings are. I look at my house and my family and I feel owner-occupied, knowing that each is a source of stability and comfort for me.

In my 24th year as a teacher, I probably should feel owner-occupied in my profession, as well. But this year, I'm not so sure.

It's not that I've changed my approach to teaching so much as the profession has changed its approach to teachers.

More and more, I feel the omnipresence of some unidentified "other," who keeps insisting on more data, more results, more automation. Not surprisingly, it leaves a less-than-owner-occupied taste in my mouth. Maybe, if I were younger, I would be more open to these new procedures. Maybe, if I had more energy, I would see the silver lining in all these changes in the teaching field.

Or maybe, because I'm on the brink of 50, I just want experience to trump external influences, both in my personal and my professional lives.

Maybe 50 will be the year that I stand up and politely grow some professional cajones. Heaven knows I'm already working on the beard. Perhaps this will be the year when I set out to own and occupy not just my classroom but my profession, as well.

Sing a Song

I suppose it's possible that Kiki Dee really did have the music in her, but that was almost 40 years ago, people, and I'm pretty sure the music has moved on.

And by "on" I mean "into Allison Shepard Holt." Take the other morning, when all of the Holts were up far too early. It was a few minutes after 6, and I suspect our next door neighbors were awakened by Allison's piano rendition of Coldplay's "Clocks."

This morning? The piano took a back seat to Allison's crisp voice, which was belting out some vaguely religious sounding song, while she was soaking her tootsies in the tub. For someone who seems so shy in public, Allison is a musical ham of epic proportions.

I've always been a morning person, but Allison makes me want to be a morning person 24 hours a day. For whatever reason, she simply can't quit singing before she heads off to school. Her repertoire runs from the operatic to disco-infested. One minute, she's kicking a leg like Michael, while telling me to "Beat It!" and the next, she's established a holier-than-thou stance, looking skyward for her musical incantation.

As much as I'd like to stay home and enjoy it all, on school days I am usually out the door by a few minutes before 7. Even then, though, I know I'll be treated to Allison's musical pipes, as the notes squeeze themselves out of the the bathroom window, landing happily at my feet.

It's like a joy shower and it leaves me singing, even in the rain.

One Anniversary I'd Rather Forget

Maybe I'm in denial. Maybe I don't have the stomach for it.

Or maybe it's because Mark is on a plane as I type this.

Whatever the reason, I have all but avoided the hubbub surrounding the 10th anniversary of 9/11.

The other day, for the first time in weeks, I caught the national evening news, and I was overwhelmed by its focus on what had been and what looked almost certain to be once again. At one point in the newscast, a former national-security expert was warning people to be on the lookout for strangers on the roofs of malls.

Strangers on the roofs of malls.

There is a definite downside to never hitting the "off" button. For the news business, it means that everything--from conjecture to fluff to outright lies--becomes news, sometimes for no better reason than the fear that some other journalist might tell the story first.

Even this morning, the anniversary of that most awful day, I have tuned out my faithful Sunday companion, NPR, which is focusing exclusively on today's events and remembrances.

Outside, the birds and squirrels do battle over the handful of seeds in the feeder, oblivious to the day's significance. I can hear the honking of a lone goose, as it skirts the neighborhood trees in search of its friends. Upstairs, Allison draws a bath.

For some reason, these are the sounds I crave today, absent of commentary or clips or conjecture. These will be my companions through an anniversary I can't quite muster the courage for.

No Place Like Home

Mark left for Massachusetts this morning, where he, his mother and siblings will deliver his grandmother's ashes to their final resting place next to her husband Harry. He has not been simply "son and brother" since we got married 22 years ago.

His trip marks the final leg of the Holt's "Four Solo Vacations" Summer Tour, a lonely tour, to be sure.

Still, I'm glad Mark gets to focus on those old roles for a few days, even if it makes me feel a bit discombobulated. I may pretend to be an adventurer, but what I really like to do is be home with my family. And the rest of the Holts generally follow suit.

Time will tell if this "steady-Eddy, close-to-home" approach will serve our children well. But two things happened tonight that made me think that, at the very least, we probably haven't done permanent harm to them.

First, Allison told me about a middle-school friend who switched schools this year, coming to Lincoln High from a cross-town rival. Her friend is happy at the High, Allison said. "Doesn't that make you feel good about where you go to school?" I asked her.

"If I made a list of the best decisions I've ever made in my life, going to Lincoln High would be on that list," she said. I almost drove off the road.

An hour later, Eric called, in need of a phone number. We chatted a bit, me trying hard not to ask too many questions or sound too excited that we were talking. It was a nice conversation. A short one, too. And, as it wrapped up, Eric uttered something he's said to Mark and me more and more these days.

"Love you."

Neither of these, I know, is a scientific measuring stick of current or future success, yet each left me feeling grateful for the steadiness that is my children. It's good to know that, even after the Summer of Four Solo Vacations, we still are like salmon, patiently swimming our way back upstream, to this place we call "home."

My Groupon: Deep-Tissue Issues

Did you know a masseuse is always a woman?

I found that out this afternoon when I asked the guy, a 250-pound side of beef, how long he'd been one.

"Massuer. I'm a masseur. A masseuse is a woman."

Oh, god, please don't hurt me, I thought to myself, realizing I was in his hands--literally--for the next 75 minutes.

I don't know what I was expecting, but I didn't expect my masseur (see, I can learn) to look like a retired All-Star wrestler.

Hey, when you live by the Groupon, I suppose you occasionally die by the Groupon, too. And, heck, beyond first impressions, I had 75 minutes of what I hoped was pure muscle-melting glory waiting for me...and all for a lousy $30!

And melt they did.

Apparently, this guy takes his deep-tissue massages seriously.

At times, he was Cato to my Clousseau, beating the ever-loving heck out of my tissue which, apparently, had been very VERY bad! Yet, I remained stoically silent. It wasn't that I didn't want him to hear me whimper. I just wanted to take it all in as a mostly silent observer.

I have to admit that I found it a bit fascinating.

Halfway through, he had worked out every knot my shoulders had ever recalled having, plus a few extras, just for good measure. By then, despite the methodical drubbing I'd taken, I was growing a bit fond of him.

Perhaps I'd developed a massage-induced case of Stockholm Syndrome.

The guy eased up for the rest of the massage, and he proved himself a bit of a gentleman as well, barely batting an eye as his big hands passed over my rough-hewn heels and half-shaved legs.

When it was all over, he told me a bit about himself, while I tried to sit up without vomiting. He turned out to be a rather decent guy, having fallen in love with his new career, following a lifetime of cement work. I am always glad to give my money to someone who does his work with such passion.

And, by golly, the guy really knows his muscles.

My Prairie Eden

Mark and I spent the morning on the prairie outside of the Nature Center at Pioneers Park. It is an old land, ever changing and always enchanting.

It also is one of my favorite places in the world, hands down. Even if I were to travel to the far corners of the earth, this would remain my sacred place.

You cannot walk its trails without feeling the history of this place. It undulates, this virgin prairie, having never known plow or foundation. It knows only the constant cycles of nature--wind, rain, snow, drought.

We are shushed by an orange-and-black cicada, impossibly big, looking more like a B2 bomber than an insect that can fly. He reminds us that we are in his place, traveling through only because he allows it.

Mark flushes a young snake from its grassy hiding place as we make our way to the water's edge. Everywhere, crickets and birds chirp and chortle, sending secret messages or lovelorn songs into the wind. Along a tree line, we startle a deer from its grazing spot, and we watch its shadowy outline move through the trees, listening to the dried limbs crunch under its hooves.

This is the place I want to be when I am no more. Scatter my ashes to the winds and let me fall among the goldenrod, hitching a ride upon their swaying greens. Let me cling to the wing of a bluebird as it sits atop its wooden home. I would be eternally content to sit upon the gentle slopes, watching snapping turtles and raccoons vie for a sunny spot on the bank of the creek.

I can still feel the warmth of that place against my skin. I take a handful and put it in my pocket for another day.

Routine Procedures

The other morning, a few minutes after the first cardinal had found its voice, I was dialing (yes, I still dial, even though I'm pushing buttons) the Journal-Star's circulation desk to ask where our newspaper was.

See, we have the world's greatest paper carrier, which is a thing of beauty for a household that wakes up much too early each day. In fact, as I type this--at 5:20 a.m. on a Saturday--I hear the familiar grumble of our carrier's car ambling slowly down our street. Soon, it will be followed by the lovely "thunk" of another novella delivered tidily to my front door.

After entering my mild complaint with the circulation operator, I decided, at first light, to look again for our paper, which I found this time, tucked into the corner of our front steps, rather than atop the "welcome" mat, where it usually is.

Is it possible that everyone is a bit obsessive compulsive, hungry for the routines that we've established for ourselves?

At least to some degree, the benefit of our routines depends upon how we take apart that word "routine." For some, it comes from the word "route," indicating the road map we use to move through our days and lives. At other times, though, the word seems more akin to "rut" than "route."

And we've all been stuck there before.

Most days, my routines are like well-worn blankets to me, offering me both comfort and familiarity. Yes, they can get a little threadbare, especially in the middle of a long, gray winter, which is usually when I pull out my proverbial sewing kit and reinforce the edges a bit. But it is worth the extra effort, given what a dependable routine offers me in return.

My propensity towards routine has always made me a little googly-eyed in the presence of a true adventurer. I can get a bit uncomfortable around these people, who seemingly move through the world on the wings of a hang glider or dangling precariously from a nylon cord threaded through a much-too-small carabiner. They make me feel small and boring.

What is it about glitz and glamour and gorgeous sunsets that can pop the air right out of routine's "o" and make the rest of us feel like we're in a rut?

I wonder, though, how I make those people feel. Is it possible that the splashy daredevil secretly hankers for the steadiness of my own life? Is it possible that, mid-air, they're simply looking for the perspective that I've already found on the ground, three thousand feet below them?

I suspect that, like the rest of us, the daredevil utters his or her own confessions and doubts in a hushed, vulnerable tone, behind the comfort of a velvet screen, looking not so much for answers as for a bit of acceptance.