Moving with the Changes

The theme of moving from one stage of relationship to the next continues to sing out strong for me these days. Today I went to Malik’s soccer game and sat next to Zadie, the new boyfriend Gio and his Dad. Out of the corner of my eye, just noticing Zadie and Bio holding hands and engaging in small talk was about as sweet as it could be. And for the record, Malik played well and his team did also, though they were paired against a team in a higher division and so lost 5-2. 

 

Of course, Malik wanted a treat and traditionally that has meant ice cream. There was a home-made Mister Softee kind of ice-cream guy selling out of his van in the parking lot, so we went with that. But Zadie has graduated to Starbucks Vente Machiatto with light ice, so we stopped off there and they laughed while I tried to figure out how to order via the drive-in window. Another sign of a change. 

 

When we got home, they both had their own little projects involving room-cleaning, desk-painting and such, so I was free to walk up to Mt. Tabor with its majestic trees and stunning views and sit out looking out at Mt. Hood in sunny 70’s weather and write in my journal. Came back a couple of hours later, cooked them a fine dinner and they listened to Part II of my Jim and Karen Bold in England story (see many previous posts), having told Part I yesterday. They listened attentively and genuinely seemed interested in the story. Imagine that!

 

I tried to entice them to watch a movie all together or play Rummy 500, but they had other plans. And that was just fine with me. Being who I am, I felt obliged their whole lives to share the things that I love—books, movies, songs, the summer cottage in Michigan, bike rides and hikes, favorite foods and dinners, and of course, ice cream— and mostly they’ve happily gone along with it. Some might be accusing me of imposing my favorite things without letting them discover and share theirs, but that’s nonsense. There’s room for both and the one time I tried to swap favorite music with Zadie while driving on a long trip ended with me pulling of the highway threatening to leave her on the side of the road while she yelled at me to shut-up. I believe she was 9 years old and outraged that I couldn’t accept Eminem’s misogynistic message delivered with a constant stream of F bombs. It was a rather stark contrast to Allen Sherman’s Hello Muddah, Hello Fadda.

 

But that aside, Zadie in particular has watched some 25 to 35 of my favorite films, both she and Malik know part of my repertoire of songs, they seem to have enjoyed the various books their mother, grandmother and I have read to them over the years. My last backpacking trip was Zadie’s first backpacking trip, both of us with her Aunt Tita and my daughter Talia (same person). We’ve taken them to plays in San Francisco that they have loved, a magic show, a circus show, a few museums (less successfully) and a couple of jazz concerts. It’s simply part of my shtick as a teacher committed to pass on some semblance of culture, alongside cultivating a love of nature, a taste for quality food, a sense of adventure when traveling. 

 

But on this trip I’m feeling relaxed about the role and willing to let it go. I’ve done what I could and am not finished but am transposing to another level. The first trial run was the 9 days with Zadie in Tokyo and this summer I’m determined to bring them both to Ghana and either Portugal or Spain.  So while I’m not done yet, I’m perfectly content to drive them to their games, cook their dinners, shoot some hoops together, play some board and card games together at their convenience and then let them go on their merry way. Leaving me free to go on my merry way and take the job of educating and entertaining them off my to-do list. Or at least lower down.

 

Tomorrow they’re off to school and I’m free to roam around Portland at will. May the good weather hold!

 

Double Boyfriends

 

Buddhists, philosophers and scientists alike all concur— the only constant is change. The other day, a Facebook memory came up of my 4-year-old granddaughter Zadie singing Skinnamarink a Dinky-Dink to her 4-month-old brother Malik and I defy you to find a more precious clip. (Of course you can, but maybe not— her in-tune singing and exquisite expressive motions singing a lullaby of love is pretty hard to top!). Don’t we want to just wrap kids up in that time-bubble and keep them there forever? That is, until we remember 4-year-olds also throwing tantrums and insisting they have to wear the pink dress or nothing! and spilling milk again all over the table. Then we can’t wait for them to grow up!

 

But here she is now, a 15-year-old in just 2 short months, getting up at 5:30 am so she has two hours to put on make-up and do her hair before bussing to high school and once her birthday hits, signing up for Driver’s Ed. And most remarkable of all, I flew in last night while she was at a homecoming dance and when she got back home and greeted me with a warm hug, she took me by the hand and said, “I want you to meet my boyfriend.”

 

Heavens to Betsy! First off, I was so touched she wanted to introduce us rather than hide me away but was also astonished when she told me they’ve been “together” (whatever that means) since June! He looked me in the eye, gave me a firm handshake and endured my two-minutes of small talk with unfeigned politeness and then had to go, as his ride awaited. Nothing could have prepared me for the moment when that innocent lullaby-singer would cross the line into womanhood, first physically and now emotionally. A moment that would be ritually and communally celebrated in much of the world but we poor “first-worlders” have to figure out on our own how to meet the occasion. What is my role here and what should I say? Remind her about safe-sex? Tell her she’s in for a lot of future heartbreak? Make sure he knows how to cook and wash dishes?

 

The next day, I wisely said nothing except, “Tell me whatever you’re comfortable telling me about him. What does he like to do? When did you meet? When do you get to see each other and what do you do? (in public, of course!)." And she happily offered some of that above information and then off we went to shop together and then go to her double-basketball game. (Her team won both games, she got to play about half the time, scored four baskets, made some good assists and rebounds and generally played well, though she gets exasperated when she misses a shot.)

 

Malik at 11 is still his marvelous self and I DO want to wrap him up and preserve him at this age before his voice changes, his eyes begin to roll, he reaches my height and finally beats me at basketball. He has a 5^th grade teacher he genuinely likes who genuinely likes him, cooks himself a mean eggs/bacon/toast breakfast and cleans up most of it, has a bank account of a few hundred dollars from proactively asking neighbors if they have any work—weeding, car wash, hauling and such. He’s living a fairly free-range childhood, taking off on his bike to his friends' houses in the neighborhood and just giving me an approximate time when he’ll probably come home. Tomorrow is his soccer game, so I’ll keep up my role as “soccer/basketball grandpa” because of course, every game has to be at least ten miles away and he needs a ride.

 

Technically, it’s a new world every day, if not every moment, but it’s these “first” moments that grab our attention and remind us that nothing stands still, all is in flux, each new stage to be celebrated is joined with a parallel loss to be somewhat mourned and that’s just the way things work down here on Planet Earth. With kids, we most lean toward celebrating the steps to more and more independence, with elders like myself, it’s a parade of loss as we have less and less independence, leaning on glasses, hearing aids, pills, canes or wheelchairs and eventually, caretakers. But again, the kids' independence leads to dropping them off at their college dorm and returning to our empty house, so loss is fully present. And with the elders, if we live our lives well, the physical limitations come hand-in-hand, with the enlargement of our souls and completion of our character, so celebration of a different nature is in order. 

 

These my thoughts at the end of my first day up here in Portland caring for the grandkids while my daughter is on a work trip in Savannah, Georgia. Where she will also rendezvous with her new boyfriend. Are she and Zadie sharing their stories with each other and comparing notes? Now that would certainly be a new twist in their ever-shifting mother-daughter relationship! 

 

 

The Gift That Kept on Giving

Of all of life’s mysteries, the passing of time is near the front of the line. Who could have imagined 51 years ago that I’d be back in the sacred space of the SF School music room still so joyfully teaching children? And not just any children, but some of the children of the children I once taught, the grandchildren of the teachers with whom I once taught side-by-side. And now passing in the hall some 12 other current teachers who had once been my students in those same halls. 

 

And equally notable, that some kids would still be playing one of the exact same six Orff instruments that a parent bought for the school in 1975, a generous gift that ended up creating my job. An instrument now a half-century old still helping fire the neurons, coordinate the hands, uplift the heart and connect with other players. 

 

Those six Orff instruments grew to some 50 plus barred instruments that includes professional marimbas and vibraphones, a stand-up bass, the whole family of recorders from bass to garklein, a hundred-plus percussion instruments from all corners of the world and yet more. Each having passed through the hands and hearts of students for decades, playing glorious music so expertly. With that powerful ancestry at their side, the 8^th grade kids I taught yesterday learned Sonny Rollins’ blues Sonnymoon for Two in about five minutes and took blues solos with impressive swing and musical coherence. The 6^thgraders learned a haunting Chinese folk song (Kan Ding Song) in one class, with a soothing, calming and tender accompaniment on the Orff instruments and one student playing the melody on violin. The 5-year-olds worked hard on joining their kinesthetic, visual spatial, musical and social intelligences with a pitch-perfect play-party, Bow Belinda, for their developmental stage. The 5^th graders delighted in a poetry alliteration 2-class unit that had them playing complex body percussion and speaking in canon Whether the Weather and Peter Piper, ending with an impressive Betty Botter (a 6-stanza tongue-twister epic they memorized in two classes!) orchestrated in Ionian mode for the Orff instruments. That gift of six Orff instruments by Carol Kusmierski so many years ago nurtured so many intelligences of so many students for so many years. Who could have imagined? It proved to be the gift that kept on giving and most wonderful of all, keeps on giving!

 

Music teachers, take note. When your request to buy some Orff instruments is denied by the school, ask them how much they spent on computers and how long each lasted? And if they need further convincing, have them listen to my X Is for Xylophone episode on my ABC’s podcast to understand that a xylophone is every bit as an effective tool for genuine education than a computer— if not more so! Meanwhile, off I go for my last of four glorious days subbing in this extraordinary place.  

The Comfort of Numbers

The day this Blog becomes an organ recital, someone needs to make me shut it down. But truth be told, the aging body has not been kind lately. Alongside my off and on chronic dizziness is a mysterious upper right back issue that like many such things, just came out of nowhere. Not like I lifted something too heavy and twisted the wrong way when exercising. It just appeared. A heating pad last night helped a little bit, but not quite enough. 

 

In theory I understand that happiness doesn’t come from what happens to us, but how we react to what happens to us. Still, what happens has a voice in the matter. In my case, diminishing my resilience and ability to accept with grace whatever comes my way. 

 

But I do know that walking tends to help everything. So after a short day subbing in my school and playing things from my kitchen to the rhyme Davy Dumpling with 2^nd graders, I had the good sense to get out walking in the park. Miraculously, the sun was out after a week straight of fog and that certainly helped lift my spirits. As did writing in my journal, putting the details of my pity party on a page where no one has to listen to it, in the hopes that just saying it out loud and recognizing it— “I see you! Now can you leave me alone?”—might help. After writing, I sat on a bench and finished the book The Phoenix Crown, which was not remarkable, but certainly satisfying. Then I walked a bit, played a bit of cornhole by myself in the public set on JFK Drive and came home to deal with some business matters. 

 

In this case, the business was making and sending off invoices for some of my books that three different dealers ordered.  The sun still out, playing on the leaves of the tree outside my window, my back issue and dizziness somehow taking my advice and leaving me alone for a moment, I find myself feeling great comfort in putting numbers in the Excel sheet and with my phone calculator at the other end of the house, actually adding, subtracting and multiplying them with pen and paper! Using my own brain! Imagine that! 

 

For a brief moment, I wondered if I should have been an accountant instead of a music teacher. Whole days just me and numbers and spreadsheets. Numbers with their calm dispassion. No rolling around on the floor like a couple of the 2^nd graders today or refusal to listen to my simple direction from a 6^th grader, no squawks or squeaks of hyper delight or dismay. Just the reliable 25 that reliably becomes 30 when you add 5 or 5 when you divide by 5. The satisfaction of multiplying the number of books ordered by the price of each book, then adding them all together, then multiplying times .60% (my share of the profits) and seeing if the final number matches the one on the Purchase Order and —lo and behold! It does! That’s all it takes to sit back in satisfaction and think, “Life is sweet! Everything works! Everything makes sense!”

 

Perhaps as an accountant, I’d eventually miss a few hugs, the uplift of music grandly played, the funny perceptions of lively kids. But for today, it was just what the doctor ordered. 

Heigh Ho Heigh Ho

 

Today I stepped out the door at the ungodly (for retired folks) hour of 8:15 am singing “Heigh ho, heigh ho, it’s off to work I go.” (You elders might remember it from the Disney Snow White cartoon.) It was true! I was off to work again, back at the old school where I worked for so long. Four days subbing for my colleague James while he was taking care of family matters back East. 

 

The first thing I noticed was the pleasure of planning my classes. Get a general outline in mind and once the wheels are spinning, happily receiving inspiring variations of the plan before I ever stepped foot into the music room. I imagine this is how Bach or Mozart or Charlie Parker or Miles Davis felt as a little musical motif alights in their brain and they start spinning off variations of it. The human act of creation, in any field, gives a different feeling to the day, a different engagement in the mind, a different spring in the body’s step. 

 

Next was the delight of being around children again. I walked through the preschool door and was surprised that the 5-year-olds erupted in their rock-star-sighting “Doug!! It’s Doug!!! Hi Doug!!!” Surprised because though I had done a few classes with them last Spring when they were 4, I didn’t expect them to actually remember me. Not only my name, but they started singing the song to the game that I had played with them and indeed, planned to play again! 

 

Then came the class itself. All well and good, and in fact necessary, to have each detail of the class planned, but the real deal is how you wrap it around each child’s unique and quirky character, how you respond to their response. How quickly I learn who needs immediate re-directing and how, who instantly attracts my attention by the quality of their expression, who I might miss if I didn’t attend more carefully. If the class plan is the bones, the actual class is the living tissue of the muscles and nerve cells and what keeps you as alert as a jazz musician moving through the changes.

 

The 5^th grade was particularly satisfying as I had the challenge of 24 kids for 90 minutes and after some speech pieces in canon highlighting the power of poetry’s alliteration and some equally complex body percussion, I began my plan of having them memorize the whole 12 lines of "Betty Botter" who "bought some butter." The idea of six groups of four kids each memorizing just two lines each was a good one. I intended to move the whole show to the xylophones with some composition in Dorian mode, when listening to the energy of one group practicing their lines, took a sharp left turn to a blues version and each group make up little hip riffs using the B words. Yeah! A bit of chaos and more than the average music teacher can handle, but I’m well practiced in it and they were actually on task. By the end, we tried to join the 6 ideas together and it was a good start! The kind of surprise a teacher comfortable with improvisation and flexible to the impulses of the moment enjoys. 

 

So off I’ll go again tomorrow singing the Seven Dwarf’s song (should I say “vertically challenged?”) and getting to meet the 2^nd graders. Retirement is great!

Our 30th President

On the way to high school in my junior year, I drove past a billboard every day that read: “Calvin Coolidge was our 30^th President.” Huh? I couldn’t figure out what it was about until someone finally enlightened me. Apparently, they were testing to see the impact of billboards— or of that particular placing of a billboard— and would call people up who lived in the area and ask, “Who was our 30^thPresident?” Would never work today with people cheating on their phones, but back then, it was a logical experiment.

 

Of course, no one every called me up and asked me. Sometimes I imagined some mugger assaulting me and me pleading for mercy and my assailant making me a deal. “If you answer my question, I’ll let you go. Who was our 30^th President?” But it never happened and so I just let that factoid lie dormant in the dark recesses of my neural connections for the next 60 years, never once thinking about it again. 

 

Until today. 

 

Continuing my father’s legacy, I was working on my daily Crostic puzzle and clue number T was: The 30^th President. Bam! I didn’t even need to count the 8 spaces. I knew it. Instantly.

 

So a shout-out to those billboard makers. I had to wait six decades, but thanks to you, when the moment came, I was prepared. 

 

PS For you readers, I suggest putting up that fact up on a sign in your office or home or workplace or on a neighborhood bulletin board. One never knows when someone will need it.

Don Juan's Advice

After seven weeks without teaching, it’s time to re-start that slightly rusty engine as I return to my school while my forever colleague is away for a week. That must be why I had a dream about teaching Middle Schoolers, who came into the class and sat apart in two groups and one of them said, “You think you’re going to teach us and bring us together? We hate each other!”

 

I calmly replied, “Did you ever hear of the teachings of Don Juan?”

 

“Yeah!” shouted one of the guys. “He was that cool womanizer who could seduce any woman he wanted! Lord Byron wrote an epic poem about him and Mozart told his story in Don Giovanni! You’re going to share his secrets with us? Cool!!”

 

(Remember, this was a dream. Of course, no American middle schooler on earth would know about Lord Byron and Mozart, never mind Don Juan himself!)

 

“No!” I replied, “Not that Don Juan. This one was a Mexican Yaqui Indian sorcerer and Carlos Castaneda, the author of the book, apprenticed with him to become a shaman.”

 

“Oh yeah! I heard about that! He was going on all these mind-altering trips using peyote and mushrooms and stuff. Did you bring some for us?”

 

“Sorry to disappoint you, but the teaching I’m referring to has nothing to do with drugs or sex. “

 

“Damn!” a few shouted in unison. “We thought this was gonna be fun!”

 

“Well, it will be, but first you have to understood what I felt was one of the most important lessons Don Juan taught. By the way, it later turned out the author made most of this up and it actually never happened and it’s not clear if he ever meet a Yaqui Indian sorcerer. I felt a little ripped off when I heard that years after the book was published. But none of that diminished the power of that sentence I read.”

 

By now, all the kids were on the edge of their chair in anticipation. (Remember, this was a dream. In real life, they’d probably be slumped and murmuring “Whatever.”)

 

“Here it is,” I pressed on. “You can make yourself happy or miserable—the work is the same.”  So you can choose to keep hating each other, thinking that your group is cool and the other are all losers, or you can consider that you all have something valuable to give to the group and each of you has a shining jewel hidden inside of you that can bring light into the room. The amount of energy you spend either dismissing or accepting other people is the same, but the result is quite different. One brings misery, the other happiness. So choose wisely.

 

And keeping in mind once more that this is a dream, all the kids came together into a circle and we started music class.