The Circus Act

When my family made the decision to homeschool our two daughters, I was hesitant at first.  Maybe hesitant is not exactly the correct word I'm looking for...AFRAID.  I was completely paralyzed at the thought I would be in charge of providing the education for my our girls.  I already felt inadequate as a mom, and now I'm going to add to the chaos?

Here we are, over a year later, and I can honestly say that I am still afraid.  But I'm not afraid of not being capable to teach our girls, instead I am afraid I have created a circus act in my home.

I laugh when I read homeschool blogs that depict a "typical day," because in our home the ONLY thing that is guaranteed is chaos at some point in the day.  At any given time I could have a child writing an essay, another doing math, papers scattered around the floor, math manipulatives used to build minecraft houses, a dog running around the living room with a stolen toy from one of the girls, whistling tunes from one daughter, and singing from another.  A fight could break out at anytime between siblings, pets, or one from each.

However, in the chaos is exquisite perfection.  I have seen both girls grow this year; physically, emotionally, and intellectually.  Through teaching them, I have learned more than I could have imagined.  Has it been a challenge?  Of course.  Have I had to make accommodations to put homeschooling a top priority?  Of course.  However, I am actually not upset that I have to rearrange my private teaching schedule, nor am I upset that I am not home all day working on house projects waiting for the girls to come home.

A product of homeschooling, at least in our case, is that at least once or twice a week I am reminded of the continued destruction of our educational system.  A know quite a few teachers who are looking for a new career, and my heart breaks for those educators that have no choice but to persevere through adversity.  I cannot imagine how difficult it must be to get little support from parents and even less from administrators.

For many reasons, we are continuing to educate our daughters at home in the fall.  I'm getting quite fond of the circus, and cannot imagine my life any other way.

Not My Kid - A Year Later

It has almost been a year since I wrote "Not My Kid" and thus began the journey toward a very VERY big choice: homeschooling my ladybugs.  At this one year anniversary I want to muse about how that moment changed my life.

Regrets
They say hindsight is 20/20, and quite often when I make a choice (regardless of the time spent mulling it over) I look back and say, "I should have done things differently."  I'm not perfect, but I do try to make important decisions after much thought and prayer.  The crazy part of 2013 was that the end of 2012 seemed to be so positive: I got a job as a music teacher with the ladybugs' school, and everyone was healthy and happy...so I thought.  When I left said job in December for the Christmas break, I was at an all time career high; the Christmas pageant went amazingly and I was feeling completely loved and reassured that I was in the right place.

However, I had my rose-colored glasses on, again.  The school was on a course to destruction and I do believe there were very ill-fitted people people running the show.  People show their true colors under stressful circumstances, and the bullying that occurred only brought to light who people actually were inside.

Finding out who your true friends are can be difficult at times, but afterwards the grateful knowledge supersedes the pain...eventually.

Results
First of all, we continued to homeschool passed the summer months.  Mainly because it works for us.  The Lutheran school that "everyone" was going, in fact, did see quite a few new students and families this fall.  Of course, that was never an option for us anyway; maybe that was just the way it was always supposed to be.
I am only in contact with a few people from the school, and that's okay.  We have all moved onward down different pathways...maybe we will meet again.  For some though, I sincerely hope not.

Rhetoric
One of the reasons I left the diseased environment of the school was due to the environment itself.  Of course my blog entry Not My Kid did have a bit to do with it.  I was bullied to pull the blog post, and I was encouraged to simply turn my cheek and "make up" with those involved.  When Jim visited the school to get Zoebug's schoolwork, people approached him regarding having conversations between me and "those who hurt me" so that "the air could be cleared," and everything "could return to normal."  Normal.  What in God's name was normal about that environment in the first place?  No thank you.  Bullying is not something I take lightly, and my removing my children was, and will forever be, the best decision I made in 2013.

What a difference a year makes.

Boo

Carefully concealed behind sport coats and neatly pressed pants trying not to accidentally step on the perfectly polished loafers, I wait as quietly as possible.  My heart pounds in my throat and excitement has made my mouth dry with anticipation.  I worry that my shallow breaths will be heard, so I try holding my breath to no avail.  Then I hear muffled voices which reassure me my location will be detected at any moment.  Footsteps creep closer and closer.  The closet door is quickly opened and we both shout, “BOO!”  My Papa is home from work once again.

The Yellow Banana

I was an anxious child.

That is an understatement at best, but the truth is I was super anxious about most situations. One of my biggest dilemmas was going to sleep at night.  And if you think that was an issue, it was only exacerbated by sleeping away from home.  I practically never spent the night away from home, unless we were on vacation as a family.  However, my sister and I did spend the night at my Grandma and Grandpa Riske's about once a month when our parents were working in their band, the Knight Kats.

As bedtime approached, my Grandpa would pull out the bed from the davenport (their terminology) in the red room (it was called red because of the red shag carpet it bestowed for many years of my childhood).  Then my Grandma would put sheets on the bed and get blankets and pillows to make it all comfy.  That bed was so uncomfortable, especially if you laid incorrectly (which was very easy to do).  There were bars that lined the mattress, and they stabbed in my back and side no matter which way I would turn.  Then there were the areas on either side of the bed where the arms of the davenport.  Grandma would shove pillows or other things in them because she was worried that we would fall in the cracks during the night.

One night I was having a particular difficult time falling asleep.  No matter how much Grandma rubbed my back, I couldn't fall asleep.  The figure eight, the three taps, nothing seemed to bring on sleep.  Then my Grandpa brought in a large, stuffed, yellow banana.  It was nothing special, but it seemed huge to me.  Just a simple yellow banana stuffed toy with the Dole label on it.  It was like this one:

And believe it, or not, this was just the thing that worked!  It became the one thing that had to accompany me to bed each night.  I called it - The Yellow Banana.  Not especially creative, but pretty much spot on with the name.

The banana stayed with me throughout my life.  When Zoe was a baby and Evie was on the way, we put her in a big-girl bed.  I found The Yellow Banana in a box and it looked a bit more tattered than it had when I was younger.  I also had to remove the label because it was falling off.  However, it was the perfect solution to stopping Zoe from rolling off the bed.  Years later she still has to have the banana taking up the space between the wall and the mattress.

I did a bit of research today, because of course Evie wants her own banana.  The banana was an advertising promotion from Dole, most likely from the 60s or 70s.  In later years the banana became a character named Bobby and often sported tennis shoes, a cane, and a top hat.

How did my grandparents obtain this little gem?  I have no idea.  But what matters the most is the magic contained in that stuffed toy.  It brought many nights of quick sleep for myself, and now for my Zoe.  When I asked my Grandpa where it came from, he simply said, "The attic."  A mystery for certain.  But I do know that sleep in our family would be quite different without The Yellow Banana.

Pals Forever

Born to German immigrants, Raymond Henry Riske took his first breath on Wednesday, August 21, 1918. He grew up in Detroit, Michigan during the roaring 20s and the depression of the 30s.  His folks rented homes on Joseph Campau and Hendricks Street, however, unfortunately, neither home has stood the test of time.  

His father, Emil, had been a nurse in the Navy during the Spanish American War, and he was a factory man during Ray’s life.  His mother, Anna, loved animals especially dogs.  There were at least four or five dogs who ate dinner outside their home each night.  Bob, who was a German Shepard, eventually became the family dog.  Bob had an amazing temperament.  He would allow the chickens from the house next door to walk on his back, but he would chase the birds away from the garden.  

Ray loved to help his mom with her daily chores, and they would always go to the local theater to see the latest movie.  Ray loved movies and he also built his own radio when he was a boy.  He listened to shows like The Green Hornet and Amos and Andy, and loved the crooning of Bing Crosby.  Years later, Ray would whistle around the house and do a fabulous Bing interpretation as well.  In fact, when I was a little girl I decided I would marry Bing (that is after I found out Popeye and Casper were cartoons and therefore not real) but to my chagrin my grandma informed me that Bing was not a nice husband and that in fact he was also dead.  

Ray attended Cass Technical School, where he makes certain to add was the only high school in Detroit to have an airplane in the top floor.  He also quite often stated, “when I attended all the teachers wrote the textbooks.”  In fact, his Chemistry teacher was Mrs. Lindbergh, the mother of famous aviator Charles A. Lindbergh.  Even though Ray was never very fond of school, he loved to read books about ships and detective adventures.

Ray could tell one story over and over again: his courtship and love of Ardis Sherman.  Even almost twelve years after her passing, Ray would still gets misty-eyed when he heard a favorite song “Every Day of My Life,” by the McGuire Sisters.  Theirs was a marriage of true love and happiness right up until the end.  Only having one child, Cheryl, Ray never felt he needed more.

In fact, Ray was the most positive and optimistic person when it came to his life and his overall health.  He was quick to share with others, “I can’t complain,” when asked about how he was doing. He also was very handy with making contractions and knew how to fix almost anything.  I think the most impressive thing he made was a holder for the Atari remote controllers.  You could sit and use the controller without stress to your hands.  In many cases I believe Ray could have patented his inventions, and helped make the world a more enjoyable place to live.

No matter what Ray was to others, he was my Pal.  I will never forget the first day I called him Pal.  It was his birthday and my grandma and I were getting the cake ready.  She wanted to know what to put on as his name (Ray, dad, grandpa), and I said, “Pal.”  I felt that Pal encompassed all the titles he held.  And Ray was truly my Pal in every sense of the word.  He listened to all my woes, and was always there to share a Coke and eat whatever candy was in the red-room cabinet.  

I remember spending mornings after sleepovers asking him to explain how a light-bulb worked, or how pillows were made, or how the energy got from the plug to the TV.  I also remember asking him about the olden golden day decorations at our favorite restaurant: The Forge.  As we ate crunchy bread sticks waiting for our salads with blue-cheese dressing and our dinners of frog’s legs, Ray shared with me the names and uses of anything I asked about. And honestly, I don’t have a clue whether he knew the real answer or not, but his answers were the truth to me.  I remember washing his car, mowing the lawn, shining shoes, sorting nails in his immaculate garage, tinkering at his workbench and finding things in their basement fruit cellar (which was always overstocked with can goods).  I loved singing with his dog, Misty, while she begged for a cherry from his Manhattan and dressing her up with Ray’s neck ties.  I also remember hiding in the coat closet when he came home from work.  I would yell, “boo,” and he would always pretend to get scared.  

We always had a close relationship from little on.  He even named one of his backyard roses “Michelle” after its name tag got lost. I also remember him patching up boo-boos; especially the one he patched after he let go of the bike when I was just learning to ride.  There was a big bump in the sidewalk that I hit on a bad angle.  I remember him apologizing time and time again, to which I had already forgiven him for letting go.  There was also another time we were all playing with sparklers and my mom had insisted I didn't touch the hot end of the stick.  Of course when my Pal came to retrieve the stick I took the hot end in my hand to give him the cool end, because I didn't want to burn him.  Boy was that a bad choice.

We spent every summer up at Houghton Lake with my grandparents.  Ray used to take a morning walk to get the newspaper, and I would accompany him around the small village.  Once my sister, Kelly, was old enough she came along too.  The best part of the walk was the spooky old house we all decided we would live in one day.  Each summer vacation was not complete without seeing the spooky old house.  It couldn't have been all that spooky, because we decided that we would buy the house and each live in a separate area. On one walk we actually went right up to the house and peered in the windows.  All we saw were boxes and the like, but we sure got each other scared.  The following summer the house was gone; apparently torn down due to the sign that said “CONDEMNED.”   

Ray loved music and taught me some really silly songs when I was a kid.  My favorites were: The Peanut Song (choo choo peanut butter), Show Me the Way to Go Home (think I had a drink about an hour ago), and Bring Them In (which I had to learn how to roll my tongue to sing the song properly). Ray also had the most amazing record collection and oftentimes let me borrow one to listen to at home. My favorite was Evita because I had a huge crush on Mandy Patinkin and there were pictures in the fold-out album cover. Ray also loved Abba, and gave me the Voulez-Vous album when I was four, “To my No.1 Granddaughter,” it said.  He also gave me a 45 of Boy George’s “Mistake Number 3”.  We loved to watch The Lawrence Welk Show together, and we would try to tap dance like Arthur Duncan, which usually ended in a ton of laughter.  Ray also had an affinity for the Puccini opera “Madama Butterfly.”  We watched a video of the Placido Domingo production, which in fact was my first experience with opera.   I know he was so proud of my when I was part of the Michigan Opera Theater’s production of Verdi’s Aida.  

Ray also loved tape recording stuff.  He enjoyed having my sister and I sing or talk into a microphone. Once he decided to tape record himself reading books to my sister and I, because he saw it on a morning show.  I can still hear, “Now, turn the page.”  He always tape recorded Christmas with my family, from the moment we entered the door until all presents were unwrapped.  The laughter, the anticipation, the excitement, and the inevitable bratty selfish behavior from my sister and I that would ensue at some point.   

I had a very difficult time with friends and dealing with daily bullying, but no matter what happened at school I always had a friend in Ray.  He was always there for a Coke and a candybar.  Quite possibly not the healthiest way to deal with sadness, but then again who doesn’t love chocolate?  Inspired by a song sung in school, “Love Sidney,” I wrote a song for Ray called, “Pal’s Forever.”  And Ray was my biggest fan when it came to singing and performing.  

Ray had his own words for things: han-ga-burgers were hamburgers, pis-sketti was spaghetti, and The Corner was the restaurant by his house.  He also never could keep names straight and thus was known to call people “Charlie” or “Guy” so not to embarrass himself.  He also could not spell and would spell things phonetically.  However, since I’m a terrible speller, I hardly seemed to notice.  

I spent many evenings watching TV with my grandparents.  I just sat there and spent time enjoying laughs and tears.  Once I was older and married and once my grandma Ardis passed away, Ray and I continued our life-long friendship. We spent hours shopping at Target and Kmart (two of his favorite stores). However, we would always start with BLT combo lunches at Leons (which included fries and soup) and we would always end the time together with drinks at Starbucks.  In fact, I got him hooked on mocha frappuccinos, while I drank my triple venti soy lattes.  We talked about everything; from “soup to nuts” he would always say.    

In the summer of 2003, Ray took my husband, Jim, and I to Traverse City for a vacation.  We spent the time playing cards, talking, and having fun drinking Manhattans and eating out.  Ray  always woke before us and had the table set for breakfast and had coffee percolating in the background.  I never could believe how young he was for someone in his 80s.  He walked a mile to see the Sleeping Bear Dunes and he made us laugh by joining Jim and I to watch silly reality TV in the recreational room at the campsite.  I will also never forget the wine tasting that left all three of us inebriated, and Ray encouraging me to go in on a case of wine with him.  Not quite certain if I’ll ever be able to enjoy raspberry wine again. 

Once Zoe came, Ray worried our Friday lunches would be over. But we just brought Zoe along for the ride. He relished in spending time with a baby, and I’ll never forget how he ran up and down the aisle-way with Zoe at Foot Locker while I found a good pair of walking shoes. He even babysat Zoe while I went through my clothes closet, and kept her busy for an hour. Thus, naturally once Eva came we both rolled a cart while shopping.  My girls were so lucky to have a relationship with their Papa Ray, who joined us for breakfast and grocery shopping every Friday and enjoyed chocolates and Cokes with us on Wednesday afternoons.  When Ray was in rehab, I brought Eva alone on two separate occasions.  She showed Papa Ray how she could spell (getting ready for her weekly spelling test) and then played a few songs on the piano by ear.  He loved my girls and was so proud of them.  

Everyone who came in contact with my grandpa Ray was an instant friend of his - he was just that charismatic.  He had friends all over the place (restaurants, Kroger, church, etc.), and his heart was willing to accept more. It is not surprising that this only child (his siblings died at birth) bloomed the moment he was in the center of a group of people.  He was fantastic at telling stories about his life - some true and others not so much.  But it never really mattered, because his smile and personality sold people every time. 

Ray also continued my grandma’s charitable donations to a wide variety of organizations.  I had never seen as many gifts as he would receive as thank yous for his donations.  Greeting cards, calendars, notepads, stickers, blankets, address labels and calculators only name a few of the many presents he received.  

Even up to the end of his Earthly life, Ray never lost his positive spirit.  He made certain to let us know he was doing fine and that it was “neat” that we were there to spend time with him.  He shared with me a long journey through a beautiful landscape with beautiful blue flowers and lush foliage only a couple of days before his spirit left the earth.  Being able to hold his hand throughout this journey meant so much to me; however my special friendship with Ray has been one of the greatest joys in my life.  Ray lived each day with gusto, with no regrets, and with the admiration of everyone he met.  I hope to be able to emulate that as much as possible as I enter a new year of my life.  

Ray was a jack-of-all-trades and touched many lives in his 95 years.  However, he is and always will be my Pal Forever.   

The Second Day of Christmas

I happen to feel all holidays are rushed anymore.  Christmas displays in July, Easter in February, Halloween in May.  But I think my biggest pet peeve is who quickly the Christmas season is put away - trees set out for the garbage man, lights boxed up the day after, and Christmas music immediately eliminated once the 25th is complete.

In truth, the season of Christmas is 12 days in the church calendar, which is concluded by the Epiphany.  I always find it annoying the Christmas music is started the day after Halloween, but cutoff once the true Christmas season begins.  Growing up Lutheran, we celebrated the travels of the three kings/wise-men, bringing their gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh to the tiny Christ child.  Even though I am well aware Jesus was not born in winter and that most biblical scholars believe it took a year or more for the kings/wise-men to reach the baby, I still find the tradition of the Christmas season to be very spiritual in nature.

One of the most important traditions my husband and I started was the importance of presence and not presents on and around Christmas.  Our girls get one gift from Santa, and only one or two from us.  We do not encourage greedy gift requests (you know, the long LONG list that is rolled out once the child sits on Santa's lap), nor do I find piles and piles of gifts on Christmas morning to reflect the true meaning.  I am not suggesting I am above those that find enjoyment shopping and wrapping and giving; I am simply stating that I and my family have found greater love and meaning without all the stuff.

This year has been a difficult one - one with job issues, spiritual difficulty, and overall a real soul searching journey.  The most recent emotional and physical challenge has been the declining health of my grandpa and pal, Ray.  He was put into hospice on the 23rd of December and his placement there has actually been quite a gift to us.  Christmas Eve was very low-key and yesterday we had my parents over for a quite and meaningful Christmas dinner.  It was such a breath of fresh air and removed from the years of xanex and whiskey to help the day go along.

In the spirit of the next 11 days, my family will be attending Holiday Nights and Greenfield Village this evening, going to see the lights on Hines Drive tomorrow evening, continuing our Christmas celebrations on Saturday with the Martin clan, and then spending time gathering donations for the Purple Heart.

I'm not suggesting that my reading audience is unaware of the season of Christmas.  However, I want to empower everyone to try to spend time making memories that lengthen the presence of Christmas and not the presents.  God bless you all.

On the Other Side of the Fence

People show us what they wish to show us, no matter how close of a relationship.  What might seem like a perfect life, in fact, can definitely be less than perfect.  A beautiful rustic ranch in the hills, a nack for vintage decoration, and a smile to light a million candles hid a life that I never imagined to be true.

A sweet friend of mine, Jennifer, was murdered by her husband and found early Sunday morning after not coming into work.  Then her husband committed suicide after the murder, and I have read that he may have sat and contemplated his actions for a few hours before killing himself as well.  This amazingly unique and loving woman's life extinguished in a shotgun shell.  Her life was so boldly lived and so quickly ended.

I remember reconnecting with her on Facebook a few years ago.  She was so happy.  Her love of photography and animals transcended into a career with dogs and cats, and a Rockabilly lifestyle.  She spoke fondly of her husband, Matt, to whom she had met on Match.com.  They seemed to have it all - or so it seemed on the surface.

I was never in Jennifer's close circle of friends.  However, I had gone to high school with her and worked with her at the Eagle Tavern in Greenfield Village for a few years.  Our work relationship trickled into the rest of our lives as well.  Her exuberance for life was truly admirable.  A few years later I found out Jennifer moved to California with her then boyfriend, Bob.  I was so jealous of her sense of adventure and courage to make it in another state across the country.  When they broke up, I know Jennifer was very hurt; however, she persevered and reinvented herself in another state: Tennessee.

In the last year our friendship strengthened again, as I was tickled when she invited me to join her Facebook group, Rockabilly Is For Lovers.  I felt so privileged to have a deeper look into her fascinating lifestyle.  I was so jealous of her beautiful tattoos and her gorgeous pin-up pictures.  I also found myself sending her articles to Readers Digest and on one occasion sent her the entire magazine so she could read the article about two of her favorite Hollywood stars: Elvis and Ann-Margret.  What I viewed from this closer look at Jennifer was that she definitely became more beautiful inside and out as the years have passed.

Upon reading the news of her senseless death, I was immediately angry and disgusted that someone could kill such a beautiful creature.  In fact, I had hoped it was a cruel joke.  Two days later, I am still working on inner peace but will continue to be very heartbroken that a light so bright was extinguished so brutally.  However, I am forever grateful to have known such a unique and compassionate person.