Just in case you didn't hear me screaming yesterday afternoon, I am thrilled to announce that I have a new position for next year -- School Library Media Specialist at Frank Allis Elementary school! Like many of the best things in life, this is bittersweet. I've had this as a goal for over a decade, I am very ready for a change from classroom teaching, it is a position that will fit me well … but as it turns out, it means I have to leave my community at Emerson Elementary School, something that I have really resisted. After my initial elation, I sat down in my classroom and wept. Leaving my friends, the families with whom I've bonded, the children I've nurtured -- that's a big big deal. Emerson holds a large chunk of my heart.
I don't have a crystal ball to see how this adventure will turn out. My dear family and friends tell me that I will be a swell LMS. I'm a little daunted by the learning curve, but I think I am going to love it. I feel like I've finally been granted membership into a prestigious club, decoder ring, secret handshake, and all.
I've long declared that when I got a job I would buy myself a Bunny Rabbit puppet, like the one on Captain Kangaroo. I found a nice vintage one on Etsy today, and it's on its way. I also subscribed to School Library Journal. I think I might have to buy an iPad as well, so I can preview all the cool new learning apps. I'm so excited! (Ridiculous big grin on my face as I write this.)
Social dancing -- it's one of my soapbox topics. As in, we as a society don't do enough dancing just for fun, as a way to socialize with our fellow human beings, anymore. Oh yeah, "young people" go out to clubs and dance, and sometimes "women of a certain age" might drag their spouses to a mini course on ballroom dancing. But just to go to a dance for fun doesn't seem to happen all that often.
So, when I got an email from some listserv or other that I am on, announcing a square dance with a visiting caller and LIVE MUSIC on Friday night at our wonderfully funky WilMar Neighborhood Center, I had to go. (And I dragged my spouse, though it wasn't really much of a drag. He feels much like I do about social dancing. We were even joined by our 16 year old daughter later on in the evening.)
My main experiences with square dancing were, first in elementary school gym class in 6th grade ( a surprisingly happy memory, actually) and then at my alternative high school, where the only dances we had were square dances with a caller named Vern Weisensel from Sun Prairie. (I often wonder what he thought of calling square dances for a bunch of stoned wannabe-hippie kids in thrift shop finery … Who knows? Maybe he wasn't nearly so straight-laced as I remember him.) It was a great way to dance and socialize … you could be flirtatious, touch the other lust-filled adolescents, maybe even snuggle a bit, and then "Cab driver, once more round the block …" and you'd move on to the next person.
The caller last night was T-Claw from Nashville, TN. He takes the tradition of calling dances seriously, but he was anything but straight-laced. I knew I was going to like him when I opened up a copy of his square dance calling 'zine (!) Dare To Be Squareand found this variation on the Virginia Reel:
All join hands, up and back
Let's get our troops out of Iraq
Allemande right if it takes all night
Allemande left, this war is theft …
As the evening progressed he was lounging back in his chair, a microphone in one hand and a beer in the other, calling out "Same old gent with a brand new girl, down the center and divide the world!" He was clearly having a good time. He seems passionate about getting people to participate. (Isn't that one of our great societal ills in the U.S.? People will pay big money to be consumers of lots of things, but it's harder to get them to participate -- not just in the arts, but in things like VOTING, for instance. But I digress.)
He was accompanied by Can I Get An Amen!, a really rocking quartet of old timey musicians (but definitely not old!) out of Chicago. I urge you to check them out. Not only did they play a good reel, but they threw in a couple of achingly beautiful waltzes (the most romantic of dances, in my opinion) and sang in glorious Louvin Brothers-type harmonies. Sigh.
Which leads me to another point. In recent years when I have attended folk events, it's been disconcerting to look around at the audience and realize that I am the youngest person there. (Although I still regard myself as 27 or 28, I'm nearly 53 years old, hardly qualified to be called "young", for Pete's sake.) I have frequently wondered what the future is of a lot of traditions which I hold dear, if the card-carrying young people aren't carrying them on. Well I'm happy (sort of) to report that at last night's dance Ed and I were maybe not the oldest, but among the oldest people there and there were an awful lot of youngsters ("dirty hipsters," my daughter informed me, and that's a good thing) dancing away. It did my heart good, it really did. Even when the sweet young man I was talking to asked me if I was retired.
So … meet your partner, pat 'em on the head, if they don't like biscuits, feed 'em cornbread, promenade across the floor, that's all there is, there ain't no more.
T-Claw "Breaking Up Winter" w/ the Georgia Crackers
I went to a memorial service this week for a long-time family friend, Louise Uphoff. She was an ardent progressive Democrat (with Socialist leanings). My parents were married on her in-law's farm 65 years ago, I used to babysit her firstborn child, and our paths crossed many times over the years, though as usual, not as often as I would have liked. At the service I learned that she was a passionate knitter who took her knitting to every meeting (including the Democratic National Convention, where she was a delegate); I never knew that we had that in common. I also learned that she loved Broadway show tunes (not me) and was an employee and proud member of the state teachers' union.
With the recall elections of 6 Republican state senators just days away, it was no surprise that amidst the tears and the funny stories, the service was really a rallying of We the People to renew our commitment to Democracy, to not give up the struggle because in the end, we on the Left are on the right side. Louise's husband, Charlie, wore a "Stand With Wisconsin" t-shirt to the service. The final eulogy was delivered by John Nichols, our Wisconsin-grown, progressive, Socialist journalist, and I don't think I was the only one to walk out feeling inspired and heartened.
When I was younger I avoided going to funerals. That was something the grown-ups -- i.e. my parents -- did. My parents have been gone a good many years now, and somehow I have become the person who goes to the funerals and memorial services of my parents' friends and associates, the representative of our family. (My oldest brother always goes too; the oldest and the youngest kids in the family -- I wonder if that fits some pattern in family psychology.) I started to do it because it felt like I should, to honor the interwoven threads that made up my parents', and thus, my history.
Along the way something funny happened. I started to like, no, love going to these services. Not in a Harold and Maude kind of way; funerals of strangers hold no attraction. I am a person who savors connections, and funerals are great places to reconnect, even for just a short time. When I see old friends of my parents I often feel like I've gotten in touch with a little piece of my parents whom I miss so much. And they're cathartic; a good cry is a good thing.
Maybe it's an age thing, but I have come to like funerals more than weddings. At the recent weddings I've attended, I often feel as if I have little in common with the bride and groom or their friends. In fact, it's often as if we middle-agéd people are invisible to them. (I suspect that will be different at my own kids' weddings, should they choose a state-sanctioned route.) Besides, 3 out of 4 weddings are destined to end in divorce. Call me cynical, but sometimes that pops into my head when I see all of the money being spent on wedding celebrations!
So I've become a fan of the well-thought-out goodbye.
After months of deliberating back and forth, should I or shouldn't I? -- I registered for a weekend-long songwriting workshop at the end of this month. I realized that the only thing holding me back (except for the money, and what's money anyway? After all of the shit ScottWalkerCo is pulling in our state, I've developed something of a devil-may-care attitude toward my hard-earned, easily-stolen pay) was my inhibitions. But the thing is -- as I get better on the guitar, I really don't want to just play other people's great songs. I want to write my own, possibly mediocre, songs.
What is the worst case scenario? As with my guitar playing, I fear that I will channel the couple from A Mighty Wind. I will write verses not even worthy of a Hallmark™ card, be like Rod McKuen's younger and much less talented sister, be defined as part of the Sylvia Plath group (that's a high school reference.) And the best case? I will learn and grow, just as I have with my playing. I am much more comfortable on my instrument than I was even 6 months ago. The lesson is, old dogs can learn new tricks.
I preach to my student teachers what a good thing it is for us teachers to put ourselves in the role of being a beginner at something. It really makes you think about what we're asking our young students to do, how they go out on a limb every single day …
So I mailed my registration in and I'll be trucking off to Dodgeville, Wisconsin in a couple of weeks, notebook and guitar in hand, ready to learn songwriting. Breathe in. Breathe out.
I have a recurring dream where I look at one of my rings and realize that a gemstone has fallen out. I think it is a cousin of the teeth-falling-out dream. But I was dismayed last night to realize that I had indeed lost the diamond from my engagement/wedding set. What is strange is that the stone didn't just fall out. The entire setting broke off of the ring! You would have thought that I would be aware of it catching on something for that to happen.
I am not a woman who pines for fancy jewelry. In fact, I know enough about the exploitation of workers and the environment in pursuit of the Earth's treasures, that I hesitate to buy any precious metals or gems new (as opposed to pre-owned) these days. When we had our wedding rings made, we found a goldsmith who was willing to use a combination of old rings and dental gold from both of our grandparents. My diamond was from a ring that had belonged to Ed's great aunt Mandy. I wanted to cry when I discovered that it was gone.
Then I started telling myself that it's just a diamond, expensive to replace, yes, but a small thing in light of so many other things in the world. It has no bearing on our marriage, which is strong and loving. Yeah, well … I'm still sad.
Our 23rd wedding anniversary is this Sunday. Ed's wedding band hasn't fit him for several years; perhaps my loss is the kick in the butt needed to rectify that situation. Most goldsmiths seem unwilling to make rings out of old gold that may contain impurities (or so I've been told,) but I wonder if someone would be willing to remake our old bands into two new bands for us.
One of my happy pastimes is going to events that mark passages in the lives of old family friends, people who I am connected to through my parents mostly. I generally go with my oldest brother Dave, though sometimes by myself. I love it -- even the funerals, sad though they may be. They connect me with my parents, who have both been gone for some time now, and with my past which, seen through the lens of 50 years is actually looking and feeling pretty happy for the most part. Attending these events, being the steward of these connections is a role I have taken on, and one that I love.
Today was no funeral, however.
This afternoon I had the honor and pleasure of going to a party to honor 40 years of marriage for old friends of my family, Charlie and Louise Uphoff. The Uphoffs and the Grindrods go way back, back to my parents' youth and their days as young Socialists. My parents frequented a place called Fellowship Farm, that was overseen by Walter and Mary Jo Uphoff, the ad hoc "parents" I guess, being a few years older. In fact, my parents were married at Fellowship Farm, under the auspices of Walt and Mary Jo (and a radical minister named Shorty Collins.) Many years later, their son Charlie brought his wife Louise to live at Fellowship Farm. It was the late sixties/early seventies. I was on the cusp of adolescence and I thought they were one of the coolest, hippest couples I had ever met. They lived in a ramshackle farmhouse with tattered peace posters on the wall. They had a chair in their living room made out of the hood of a VW Bug -- how cool is that? I'll answer for you -- REALLY cool! And then they did something even cooler -- they had a baby, and I got to babysit for her!
So now 40 years have passed and I was reflecting on all of that. We're coming up on our 23rd anniversary. I hope that we can celebrate our 40th in such style, surrounded by loving family and friends, children and grandchildren. And I hope we inspire some other young person, show them a model of a happy marriage.
And I will keep maintaining these connections as long as I can.
My program for Friends General Conference Annual Gathering arrived in the mail a couple of days ago. For the uninitiated, that is the annual gathering of one of the branches of Quakers. It is held every July at a different college campus, almost always in the continental United States. A few years ago it was held in Wisconsin, and with the benefit of a very generous scholarship from FGC and my home Meeting, my daughters and I attended.
There is something very appealing about the idea of it: an entire week of hanging out with Quakers can be a heady thing. Week-long workshops are offered; there are many opportunities to explore one's spirituality or to connect with others like-minded …
… And I didn't like it! I was reminded of that once again as I perused this year's invitation. I start to wonder, is there something wrong with me? It should be fun. It's like summer camp! Do I have a serious character flaw?
What I remember was that it was a lonely experience. The only thing worse than being lonely by yourself is being lonely in the midst of a thousand people. I would feel somewhat connected in my workshop (it was about right relationship with money and I discovered that it is an easier topic to explore when you have a little extra money to begin with … and you certainly need to commit a chunk of money to attend Gathering, so maybe that was part of the problem) but then the workshop time would end and I felt at loose ends. Not connected enough with anyone to seek them out -- except my friend Poodle Doc, and I didn't want to be a nuisance to him -- I would walk into the enormous cafeteria at mealtimes and it was full of tables of people, longtime friends and new acquaintances eating and chatting, and it didn't seem as if there was any room for me anywhere.
That was compounded by the fact that my younger daughter was having a hard time in her workshop -- a theatrical production of an African folk tale using giant puppets that the kids constructed. She wasn't really connecting either. (Oh no, is my social malady something I've passed down to my children?) And I still have some deep concerns about how the adults in charge of her workshop ran the week, but that's water under the bridge.
All around me everybody else seemed to be having a great time. I have friends who plan their summers around Gathering, they go back year after year. I guess I'm just not that person. What I find myself yearning for is some kind of a hermitage -- maybe a hermitage with regular conjugal visits -- but no demands. No workshops, no graduate school projects due, no work come Monday, no expectations. A gathering of one -- me. Now that idea speaks to me. I could knit, read, play my guitar, walk my dog. See my family some (because I would miss them pretty quickly.)
I'm waiting for that brochure to arrive in the mail.
I woke up this morning to find the tiny corpse of a mouse lying in our upstairs hallway, right outside the bedrooms. A few feet away was one of the cats, wearing a "Who, me?" look. The other cat appeared shortly after I had picked up the deceased in a body baggie to carry outside. She went right to the bag and sniffed it, then went to the place where the victim was first found and gave that a sniff as well. With a shrug of her kitty shoulders (or so I imagined), she too gave me a look of innocence. I see how it is; neither one will admit to being the murderer.
The thing is, I cannot imagine either of these pampered, clutzy, indoor cats having the wherewithal to catch, much less kill a mouse. Perhaps all of those hours sitting on the back of the couch watching "birdie TV" out the window are paying off. They have honed their skills, like an armchair big game hunter watching Marlon Perkins every Sunday evening.
I hope this isn't a harbinger of things to come, because I walk around barefoot in the dark most mornings. I might be in for some nasty surprises.
Best wishes to everyone this Christmas morning. The stockings are hung by the chimney (but actually by the windows because we don't have a fireplace) with care, and just waiting for the [not-so-small] humans to wake up. The Hogfather needed hip-waders to get here last night instead of a sleigh. Rain, rain, rain. It looks like sledding is not on the horizon for today. (And my first ever annual Christmas Eve wienie roast in the backyard was rained out too.) The dog has been up, out, fed, and has gone back to bed -- probably curled up in my spot with her head on my pillow. I am making cinnamon rolls for breakfast in a fit of Martha Stewartage, but I fear my yeasty-beasties may be too old as the dough doesn't seem to be rising very fast. Determined to be cheerful today if not happy, come what may.
When you are a new parent and holding that sweet, beautiful child for the first time, that's all there is … and that's a good thing, a wonderful thing. But you are not prepared for the many small heartbreaks that come later: the hurt feelings, the pulling away, the arguments, the first time leaving home, and now, witnessing my beautiful daughter's heartbreak. I want to protect her from everything, just like I did when she was a baby, and I know that I can't, and furthermore, that I shouldn't. All I can do is all we really have the power to do ever, which is to love her.
Well, emotionally anyway. Yesterday one of my Facebook friends (a "friend" only on Facebook, but that's OK -- he seems a decent enough guy) posted a link to an article about the recovery of the Bush White House emails. I made a comment about having little faith that the Obama White House will prosecute, and was berated by another commenter for having "low expectations." He ended by saying, "Who did you vote for? John or Ron?" and he said I was no different than the teabaggers. I responded that I did indeed vote for Obama, and that, while I was aware I was not voting for a progressive, I have been disappointed in things like the escalation of the war in Afghanistan. The same commenter belittled that, saying that Obama is NOT escalating the war in Afghanistan. When I replied that I thought sending in 30,000 additional troops did amount to escalation, and as a Quaker I am opposed to all war, he called my opinions "uninformed". He also said that if I am going to comment in a public forum, I am open to insults and criticism. At that point, another commenter jumped in saying that if I am a Quaker I shouldn't have voted for Obama because he said he would escalate the war in Afghanistan. I responded (should have stopped there, but oh well) that a) many Quakers voted for Obama for many reasons, and b) just because he said he was going to do it doesn't mean I have to like that it is happening. Anyway, 2nd commenter got the final word when he wrote, "Oh just take your bat and ball and go home! If you're going to comment then grow a thicker skin!"
O-kaaaay. I'm just going to say that I felt like I was in an old boys' club and these two guys were hell-bent on proving that they were right and I was wrong. They were going to belittle me until I ran home to my mommy. The crux of it seemed to be that I said I was disappointed in Obama so far. During the Bush years, some wags in the blogosphere coined the term "sheeple" for the people who mindlessly followed Bush just because he was the president. Is it any different to mindlessly follow Obama? I find it alarming that so many people seem to think so.
Commenter One told me that my ideals were unrealistic. He said I was a "fringe element." If people like me (and I think I'm in very good company with folks like Howard Zinn, Amy Goodman, Dennis Kucinich and so many more) are painted as extreme in our ideals, then the center is pushed farther to the right and the so-called "centrists" look an awful lot like Republicans. Like Bill Clinton. Or Barack Obama.
For the record, I have to agree with Ralph Nader, who said that it wasn't Obama's intelligence he questioned; there is no doubt that he is a smart man. It is his integrity. He is not a progressive president. I knew that when I voted for him, but it still saddens and disappoints me. I wish I could really and truly vote for a peace president. I wish I could have voted for Dennis Kucinich. I wish there were viable parties outside of the big 2. (Or as Gore Vidal said, there is one political party in the U.S. with 2 right wings.)
I'll bounce back. I spent the night thinking of many people who have taken a stand and been berated and worse for it. It's part of standing up for what you believe in. However, I wish that people in the relatively anonymous world of the internets didn't feel like they had to be insulting in order to get their point across.
As I was chopping onions for dinner tonight, I suddenly realized that I've been taking guitar lessons for 5 years!! I began my lessons shortly after November 2, 2004, and they carried me (just barely) through the despair of BushCo's second term. Although sometimes I am crippled by an overwhelming sense of "I'll never be any good!", I am still plugging away. When I tally up the things that bring me joy in my life, playing guitar is in the top 5. When I play regularly, miraculously, I can hear myself improving. (I need a post-it note on my computer that says, "Before you log in, have you played your guitar today?")
The guitar that I play was a Christmas gift from my dear husband a few years ago. He blindfolded me and drove me to the guitar store. Silly man, he should have remembered that I can read his mind, so I actually had a very good inkling of where we were heading and why. I love the guitar, but even more I loved (and continue to love) the affirmation of me as a musician.
If you have any inclination to learn an instrument, to pick up an instrument that you once played, or to make music of any sort (such as singing) I urge you to do so. Music should be participatory.
Out at recess this morning with all of the Kinders and First Graders. My colleague came over to inform me that she had just called the office to report some inappropriate graffiti on the climbing structure. "Guess what it says," she said. "Um, f*ck something?" was my guess. (We are right down the street from the high school, after all, and often find interesting, um er, artifacts on our playground.) "No, worse!" she said. "It says Santa doesn't exist."
The bastards! They're targeting an elementary school population … does that qualify as a hate crime?
I haven't had much energy or inspiration for a blog post recently. The school year has taken off like a runaway train and I'm holding on for dear life. I'm bummed out about health care, bummed out about the "surge" in Afghanistan, bummed out that this presidential administration is as beholden to the banks and corporations as all the others that came before (but did I expect any different?)
Oh yeah, and especially bummed out that my state legislature is buying into Obama's carrot & stick approach to education reform -- particularly because in Wisconsin the government has not paid its fair share of special education costs in at least 25 years and for the past 16 years we have suffered under horribly regressive revenue caps that limited what a district could raise through property taxes. (The taxes of homeowners have gone up astronomically, while businesses carry an infinitesimal percentage of the tax burden. And whose fault is that? You got it -- THE DAMNED TEACHERS!!)
We've finally gotten an Assembly controlled by Democrats (not to mention our national Congress and President) and the solution is … punish the damned teachers!!! It is extremely disheartening when I know how hard I -- and my colleagues -- work and how much we make due with so little. I'm kind of sick of being cast in the role of pariah, the blight on public education.
Okay, I know that this administration has big fish to fry what with mopping up the mess left by their predecessors (nice mixed metaphors, eh?) but it gets my goat that they are taking the politically expedient, blame teachers route when it comes to education. It's the path of least resistance, and requires no work, no imagination, and best of all … no money. Business as usual here in Education-land.
Maybe we could have a little accountability for our elected officials, hmmm? Sorry, Mr. Obama, you haven't met AYP in keeping your campaign promises. Nor you, Governor "I'm married to a teacher" Doyle. (Sleeps with one, screws the rest.) I think it's time to impose sanctions.
Sigh. But hey, it's Wednesday and we're over the hump! Thanksgiving approaches, maybe a chance to have a blogger meet-up next week. That will be fun. So from my house to yours, have a good rest of the week.
Enduring much snark and eye-rolling from my teen-aged daughter -- who thinks her mother has gone way over the top when it comes to food-related things -- I went to hear the farmer/poet/essayist/novelist Wendell Berry speak on Sunday afternoon. Here is something that was truly mind-blowing: After so many free tickets were distributed that his presentation had to be moved to a larger venue, he ended up speaking to a capacity crowd of 2000! Let me repeat -- Berry is a farmer/poet/essayist/novelist from rural Kentucky, not a rock star! I think he was a little blown away by the crowd as well.
I had no idea what to expect from his talk. I guess I had it in my mind that he might address the politics of agriculture, perhaps because he writes about that sometimes and he was here on the heels of Michael Pollan. That would have been great. What he did though, was to read aloud one of his short stories -- Making It Home from the collection entitled That Distant Land. It was enthralling. One of my all-time favorite novels is Berry's Hannah Coulter, and hearing him read aloud his own words reminded me of why I love that book so much. The language of his writing is luminous.
He also took questions from the audience. The thing that he said that has stayed with me is that we Americans keep thinking that the big problems should have big, global solutions, which in some ways absolves us as individuals of taking responsibility. However, in reality, big problems are solved by many, many people finding small, localized solutions, and in most cases individual contributions will go unrecognized and unrewarded by the larger world. But each of us must still work on solutions in our own way. It reminds me of this passage from Britain Yearly Meeting Faith & Practice, or of Margaret Mead's famous quote: Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful people could change the world. Indeed, it's the only thing that ever has.
I did purchase a copy of Hannah Coulter, but I didn't wait in line to have it signed, because the line was too long. (Rock star …) If you haven't read any Wendell Berry, he kind of has something for everyone. I recommend giving his writing a try.
As a 23-year veteran kindergarten teacher I have developed the skill of waiting … waiting for the stragglers to come to the rug, sit criss-cross applesauce (kindergarten language for sit down and shut up,) clean up the playdough, get in line, etc. I have a whole repertoire of waiting songs. So on Friday the entire class but one is in line to go to art class. The one is putting on his shoes. It is taking a long, long time. I start singing this song (you know, so the others don't get restless and start some insurgent activity) that has movements for the kids to copy. We're singing, and gosh, the kid is taking a long time, and I'm running out of ideas for hand motions, so I start to do this bastardized rock-and-roll thingy, moving my fists up and down, and this little girl pipes up from the back of the line: "Teacher! Are you squeezing a cow's boobs?"
seeing Brandi Carlile in concert this Monday. Gratitude to David for introducing me to her music!
going to hear author/local food advocate Michael Pollan speak on Thursday. (No, he's not local; he passionately advocates for the buying and eating of locally grown food.) He is also speaking at a $200/plate fundraiser for my daughter's middle school, which is just so cool.
going to hear author/poet/farmer Wendell Berry speak on October 11. (He is the author of one of my favorite novels ever, Hannah Coulter.)
Alright, alright ... Madison doesn't really have parking spaces reserved for octopi. It's the name of a business, silly. Octopus Carwash. Apparently it is a franchise, and I believe it's been in Madison at least as long as I have (46 years.) When our eldest daughter was a toddler, our route home from her day care took us past a number of landmarks: the giant octopus, the big black clock, the big green fish, the other giant octopus, the horses ... It was a highlight of her young life when her aunt actually took her to the car wash once. (No one has ever been able to accuse me of going to a car wash! And it shows ...) The big green fish is gone (along with the neon cockroach and dead rat sign -- landmarks from my childhood, so sad) but I am so glad that we still have the giant octopi and that we provide parking for them.
In what is possibly a first, Mr. Ether (a.k.a. Enriched Geranium) beat me to a blog post about our wedding anniversary. Over the years -- and particularly in the struggle for marriage equality for all people -- I've thought deep philosophical thoughts about the meaning of having the State sanction one's relationship with another person. Having it all to do over again, perhaps we would have chosen otherwise, BUT (and you know there's always a big but) even had we not gone through all of the legal mumbo-jumbo and the ceremony and the celebration (which I am sure is the only wedding in history to include a Gumby pinata and a seeing eye dog,) it would not have changed the wanting to spend my life with Ed.
To get to the point, I married my best friend and it was the best thing I ever did. Happy anniversary, Ed. I love you.
Proud to be a public school teacher for 26 years, I see teaching as a radical act. Practitioner of Neo-schoolmarmism. School Library Media Specialist. I am a convinced Quaker, born again agnostic, mother of 3 daughters, passionate about issues of peace and social justice. My mom was a "red diaper baby", my dad was a conscientious objector during WW2, and I grew up in the thick of anti-war protests in Madison, Wisconsin in the sixties. Not a Republican bone in my body and not many Democratic ones either.
