Homemade

All of the other kids took their cookies and ran outside. But not Joseph. He stood there holding his.

Joseph was born to a drug addict mother. I assumed that was the cause of his physical and cognitive challenges. We never met the mother. I heard that she had eventually OD'd and died. Joseph's dad counted his sobriety in months.

I often think about him and wonder whatever happened to him.

Ours was one of those Kool-Aid houses that always had a collection of kids after school, and I usually offered some type of snack like grapes or watermelon. In fact, we kept a stack of red plastic cups, and the kids all knew to look in the cupboard for the cups with their names on them.

It was no big deal for me to whip up a batch of Toll House cookies. No recipe needed. I could have the dough ready in ten minutes if I didn't need to stop to tie a shoe or mediate a disagreement.

Even though Joseph lived the closest, he didn't come over very often. He was older than the other kids, but he couldn't really keep up. I think he was often home alone after school, and he wouldn't come to my house without permission.

The other kids had gone about their play, and Joseph lingered. Then he looked up at me and said, "I've never had a homemade cookie before."

I don't know the rest of the story. We moved away soon after that.  I hope that somehow it had a happy ending.

Planes, Trains, and Go Karts - Rucksacks and Tiny Spaces

32 days, two rucksacks, 10 countries. We were learning a lot about independence and about ourselves and about each other. For instance, I had learned that precisely 20 minutes after Kelsey first said she was hungry, she would start to get grumpy. I don't know how I'd never noticed that before!!

We'd learned that we could compromise, and we could be flexible. And we'd also learned that good experiences could sometimes happen even when things weren't going our way. Like when a train strike prevented us from going through Italy on our way to Switzerland. We needed to change our plans and travel through Lyon. When we arrived in Lyon, it took us a while and a couple wrong turns to eventually find a hostel. I planted my daughter there while I went off looking for food. We were well past that 20-minute hunger mark, and her foot hurt. And, being vegetarians, it always took a little longer to find meals that would make us both happy in Europe.

When I finally arrived back at the hostel, I found Kelsey waiting for me on the back patio. She was chatting with another tourist. We were on a terrace overlooking the city at dusk. And it was beautiful. I felt grateful with the turn of events that had landed us in this spot on that terrace with the lights of Lyon just starting to come on at sunset. That meal of barely warm spinach crepes was one of my favorite meals of the whole trip.

Our next stay was in Interlaken, Switzerland. Although it was full of young people having all kinds of amazingly sporty adventures, we had to tailor our plans for Kelsey's darned foot. We chose instead to go on a go-kart tour in the alps. And it turned out to be another magically beautiful experience.

And when we left a hostel where we didn't feel comfortable in Salzburg, we ended up at the cutest little cottage in the countryside outside of town.

When we had another bad hostel experience in Copenhagen, we ended up in the tiniest hotel room that I've ever seen. It was clean and comfortable and safe. And it was small. The beds folded down from the wall. The shower head in the minuscule bathroom operated from a diverter on the sink.

Disappointed a few days later that we were too late to see tulips in Holland, we found windmills.

And when she was finally ready to take off that awful walking book and go for a run, it was in Amsterdam.

All in all, it was a great adventure. No, it wasn't always fun, but we made some fantastic memories.

Planes, Trains, and Go Karts - Greg the Dockworker

The white paneled van pulled up alongside us. I needed to make a quick decision.

We were only a few days into our month-long European vacation, and my daughter and I had already experienced a few challenges. For one, we hadn't planned when we booked our plane travel that Kelsey would be spending most of the time in a walking boot due to recent surgery. I had started off our trip by mistakenly checking us out of our hostel late at night in a jet-lagged daze. And now, on our third day of the trip, we were having trouble finding the port where we were supposed to catch our ferry.

We had taken a municipal bus to what we thought would be close to the port. But after walking for quite a ways in each direction, we realized that it was getting late. We were worried that we weren't going to catch the ferry that we'd booked to get us on our way to Great Britain. As we huddled together, the dreary Irish mist turned to drizzle.

When I saw the van pull up alongside us, I realized that this was the same van that I'd just seen leaving the shipyards. The driver must have done a U-turn and driven back to us.

"Do you ladies need help?" the driver asked. I remember all the times my mom told me not to talk to strangers. All those times I'd been admonished never to get into a strange car. And, especially, to avoid white-paneled vans.

And so we got in.

I told the driver the name of the ferry line that we were seeking. He thought for a moment and then said, "I think I know where that is." Then he looked around nervously. "I could get in so much f***in' trouble if anyone saw you get in my van," he said.

I'd learned by this time, not to be offended by the expletive. In Ireland, or at least in Dublin, it is an obligatory element of nearly every sentence.

Greg the Dockworker cheerfully got us to our port in plenty of time to board.

Planes, Trains, and Go Karts - Wide Awake

I opened my eyes and looked at the clock on my PDA. 10:45. OH NO!!! We'd overslept! How did that happen?

My teenaged daughter Kelsey had spent two years talking me into this trip. Just the two of us. 32 days. Backpacks. No schedule. My only lifeline home would be my trusty little HP Jornada PDA with wifi.

This was not a good way to begin.

Because she was paying her own way, we were on a tight budget. That would mean staying in hostels, riding trains, and using public transportation.

We started in Dublin. We arrived after a long overnight flight and spent the day wandering around the crowded,  drunken city. Then, using our guidebook for recommendations, we checked ourselves into our very first hostel. I felt so out of place. It was a little scary but exciting at the same time. Checkout time was 11 a.m. the next morning.

When I saw that we'd overslept, I woke Kelsey up, and we quickly threw our packs together and headed past a perplexed-looking clerk and out the door into the dreary Irish daylight.

I didn't know much about the customs of Ireland. I expected that most kids would be in school this time of day. But we didn't see any children at all. Not even babies in strollers.

And the stores were closed. Only the bars were open. I remembered that when I was a kid, it was fairly common for stores to be closed on Mondays. Was that what was going on?

Kelsey and I wandered for a couple blocks charting our plans, still in a sleepy,  jet-lagged fog. This dreary city seemed to be getting drearier. It was almost as if ... no ...

I pulled my Jornada out of my bag and looked again at the clock. Just after 11 o'clock.

11 o'clock p.m.

11 o'clock p.m. on Sunday night!! Could that be true? But it wasn't dark. Were we that far north?

Yes. I realized now that it was true. Somehow, I'd slept for only an hour and had misread the clock. The dreariness was, in face, twilight. And why, then, would there be anything but bars open on a Sunday night?

Sheepishly, we headed back to the hostel. I explained my folly to the clerk and asked if we could please have our beds back.

He very politely didn't laugh at us. At least until we were out of sight.

Although Kelsey was a good sport about my blunder, this was a story that she will never, ever let me live down. She keeps reminding me. And, as further penance,  it was her idea that I share it here with you.

So this is for you, Kelsey.

Great Expectations

When teenager Rachel Canning sued her parents for financial support and college tuition, it made the news.

When a boy named Anthony had his own relatives turn against him, it did not.

I don't know Rachel. I know only what I've read or heard on the news reports. It is a very sad story about a family that has fallen apart, and, apparently of a young women who is not willing or able to fend for herself. It is difficult and scary for someone who is only 18 years old to be suddenly on her own to have her life take this unexpected turn.

Anthony rarely knew anything besides turmoil.

Anthony was born into foster care. He ended up with a grand-aunt who was abusive and neglectful. She died of cancer when Anthony was 14 years old. Then another aunt, Joan, stepped in to raise Anthony. She tried to undo the damage caused by her sister, but she died of a heart attack when Anthony was just 17 years old. She died right in front of him.

Like Rachel, there were lawyers and legal battles, but it wasn’t about private school. His remaining relatives tried to cheat Anthony out of the small amount of money that his Aunt Joan had wanted to be left to him.

After Rachel left home, she moved in with friends.

Anthony didn’t have that option.  When his beloved aunt died, he didn’t have a network of friends who were able to step in.

Rachel is 18 years old. She is legally emancipated.

For a foster kid, emancipation is a scary thing. For Anthony’s remaining year before emancipation, he was sent to another foster home and then to a group home. He was feeling depressed and suicidal, but there were no friends or loving relatives to help him.

Rachel goes to private school.

By the time Anthony was emancipated he had gone to six different high schools. He never did graduate.

Emancipation for a foster kid, even one who is being housed in an unhappy home, is not a time of parties and freedom and celebration. It is an unceremonious slamming of the door. There is no more money. No college tuition. No emotional support.

Anthony turned to public speaking as a way of healing. He caught the attention of assembly representative, Fiona Ma, who offered him a job in her capitol office. While working there full time, Anthony started taking classes at the community college.

It hasn't always been easy for Anthony. He's never had that built-in support network that even people from humble backgrounds have. But he's persevered. And he has built an impressive resume.  He’s completed study abroad programs at Oxford University and in Israel. He is President Emeritus, Lambda Chapter, Alpha Delta Gamma National Fraternity.

And now, in just a few months, he'll complete his bachelor's degree. This isn't the end of Anthony's story. It's scary to graduate from college. Who knows what he'll find to do next?

Although he doesn't have that traditional group of people applauding for him. I'll be cheering.

The latest news is that Rachel Canning has reconciled with her family, although she hasn't dropped her lawsuit, or her expectation of what is owed to her. I wish her well.

Currently, Anthony is interviewing for graduate school programs, and, in fact, has recently had a second interview. I know that when we read about him in the news, it’s going to be a story of his own accomplishment.

____

Hear more of Anthony’s story. 338: The Spokesman, August 10. 2007

A Missed Friendship

This couldn't be happening.

I wanted to yell it out loud.

I was sitting in a cafe with some friends from class. We were chatting about class. Films. Projects. Across the table from me sat my friend. But this couldn't be. He had recently passed away. I knew that I had to be in some type of time warp or something. And there he was, laughing and talking.

My friend had warm, soulful eyes and a beautiful smile. He was kind. He seemed interested in people, and he had a way of connecting that made you feel is if he knew what you were all about.

I regretted that I'd never gotten to know him better. Who was he besides this man from class? Who were his wife and children? Did he have a dog?

So here we were sitting in a cafe. I wanted to yell, "Stop! I want to get to know you better." I felt as if I'd been given a second chance to get to know him, and all they wanted to do was talk about class. I could see now that he already showed signs of the disease. Did he know?

And then I woke up.

I was angry that my dream had ended so abruptly. I wanted so badly to get back inside of it. I wanted to have just five more minutes to get to know my friend from class so that I would feel as if I truly deserved to be called a friend.

---

Roderick, I wish I'd had a chance to get to know you better.

A Piano, a Saxophone, and a Didgeridoo

There's always been music. I never knew anything else. I'm not talking about what you hear on the radio, I'm talking about music that you make.

My relatives were concert and studio musicians. My own home had a steady stream of my mom's piano students. And when I was young, I spent many nights falling asleep to the sound of the neighbor boy, Mark, playing the trumpet in his upstairs bedroom. Then his brother, Paul, got a set of drums.

That was my normal.

It was a surprise to me as I grew up to realize how many people didn't have music. It made me sad.

I never fooled myself into thinking that I'd make a career in music.To me, it was a sense of belonging. As I drifted to percussion as my preferred instruments, I found that I enjoyed my place in the back of the band, the variety of instruments we had, especially the timpani, and how our parts felt like the spine of the music.

As a music minor in college, I savored the solitude of the practice rooms in Ives Hall where I could play the piano for hours.

I  bought a piano when my children were young and taught them the basics. I never pushed. I let them decide where they wanted to go with music.

When our family settled into a neighborhood that had an excellent school music program, my kids naturally joined in. It was a fantastic way for the kids of all abilities to be part of a group. During the next nine years, we gladly hosted fundraisers, practice sessions, spontaneous get-togethers. Even during ordinary homework sessions, kids would end up at the piano or the drums.

They were happy.

The collection of instruments at my house grew and fluctuated: a saxophone, a clarinet, an oboe, an erhu. I was thrilled when my younger daughter came home from Australia with a didgeridoo, a beautifully painted aboriginal work of art.

They are all gone now. My husband and I are empty-nesters. But my children are close by and can come to visit.

I pull my car into the garage. I open the door. I hear the sound of the piano inside my home.

I feel ... joy.

Whose Letter Is it, Anyway?

We still get the newspaper delivered to our house every day.

Over the past few months, I've written a few letters to the editor. That's what retired people are supposed to do, right? A couple weeks ago, I was thrilled when I saw my name listed as the author of a letter. My glee turned to disappointment, however, when I started to read. My letter had been altered.

I understand the need to edit the occasional letter for spelling, grammar, or clarity, but this was much more than that. My content and the tone of my letter had been neutered.

I called The Bee and left a message for the page editor expressing my unhappiness. He called back with an apologetic voice mail stating that he felt my letter was too much of a personal attack, and that he regretted editing my letter without first discussing it with me. Had he called with that concern, I would not have given him permission to sign my name to his version of my letter.

I still read the letters to the editor. But now when I do, I wonder how closely they match the author's original intention.

------

This is what I wrote: George Sheridan’s letter to the editor on Feb. 3 makes the statement, “Our students need the best education we can provide.” I cannot think of anyone who would disagree. Certainly those “wealthy individuals” he lambasts want the same thing.

I am neither an educator nor a lawmaker. I am just a parent who has had many, many years to observe public education. I’ve seen those teachers who no longer had the skills or desire to teach. I’ve also seen a new and promising teacher dismissed because the principal was on the fence about getting into a tenured commitment. 

Although George Sheridan did not identify himself as the union representative for the Black Oak Mine Teacher’s Association, it was very obvious in his letter that his objective is to spout union propaganda. It is not to assure that our children have the best possible teachers.

This is what The Bee printed: Re "Experienced teachers add value" (Letters, Feb. 3): George Sheridan's letter makes the statement, "Our students need the best education we can provide." I cannot think of anyone who would disagree.

I am neither an educator nor a lawmaker. I am a parent who has had many, many years to observe public education. I've seen those teachers who no longer had the skills or desire to teach. I've also seen a new and promising teacher dismissed because the principal was on the fence about getting into a tenured commitment.

George Sheridan did not identify himself as a representative for the Black Oak Mine Teachers. The objective of the letter was to state the union perspective. It was not to assure that our children have the best possible teachers.

-- Deborah Adair, Sacramento

The Wisdom of My Dog

If you are passionate about something, wag your tail.
If you don't have one of those, just wiggle or smile.

A leash means something good is about to happen.
Well ... usually.

Sniff strangers.
You can learn a lot about people by the way they smell.

If you make a mistake, look really, really sorry.
It's amazing how far a sincere apology will go.

Be empathetic.
Our furry friends are often the first to notice when we are feeling down.

If it looks yucky or smells funny, eat it.
You never know. It could be delicious.

If there is a party, stick close to Grandpa. He's usually good for a handout.

Be loyal to your pack.
They protect us, and we protect them.

Take naps.
We should all learn to do that.

Don't bark too much.
Again, something we should all learn.

Get lots of exercise.
Lots and lots and lots and lots.

Do not pass up an opportunity to have fun.
Really, just don't.

photo by Samantha Adair