All in All, You’re Just Another Brick in the Wall

All in all you’re just another brick in the wall …

I have pretty silent over the course of the past few days although I am sure the links I share and the posts I like on social media are indication of my beliefs.  Time to break my silence …

The media and political worlds have been caught up in a whirlwind of talk about who to keep in … who to keep out … build a wall … those on the “right side” – in  … those on the “wrong side” – out …

Since the election, there has been a constant battle on this topic.  While we wait for rational thought and rational minds to prevail through various check and balances, I can’t help to think about my status of being a grandchild of immigrants — on both sides of my family.  My dad’s family immigrated from what was then Czechoslovakia and my mom’s maternal lineage came from Norway.  If oral tradition holds true, my dad’s family is here because someone stole a cow from the Czar to feed his family and sought refuge in the United States to escape imprisonment or death.  A few years later, his wife came with the rest of his children and was left off of the train in a town called “Wilmington” – several miles away from her actual destination to be reunited with her husband in “South Wilmington”.  With children in tow, she went up and down the streets of “Wilmington”, calling out her husband’s name, using the only language that would be recognizable in this new, foreign place.  Miraculously, someone recognized the name and took her and her children to “South Wilmington” and the rest is history!  From Kosice, Czechoslovakia (now Slovakia) to South Wilmington, IL – in many ways, refugees of their time.  As the story has been told over and over, romanticized, it seems a bit like the story of Robin Hood … take from the rich, give to the poor … however, many would see it as a thief who made his escape in the thick of the night to escape persecution.

I don’t know the story as to how my maternal grandmother and her sisters and parents ended up in the United States; however, I do know that they came from Stavanger, Norway.  She had passed away before I was born so I never had the chance to hear the story. However, I am certain that the story involved new beginnings and new opportunities in America.

I was always taught to be proud of our family roots.  I remember, being the youngest grandchild (and I am sure slightly spoiled), learning and speaking Slovak with my Grandma.  We would watch Sesame Street together and I told her that I would learn Spanish from that TV show (well at least how to count to ten!) and we would have another language to speak.  The languages, the accents of relatives and neighbors … was always something to cherish … never admonish.

I heard the stories … relished the foods and traditions … lefsa, kringla, haluski, roshky,  … even wearing a babushka to keep the wind out of my ears and protect my head!  And, I know others had similar stories to tell … the language, culture, and traditions may have been different, but the sentiment and thought that America offered a place for a new beginning … hope … refuge … was the common theme.

Now … fast forward  some thirty to forty years … how have we ended up in such a place?  So quick to judge?  So quick to close off our borders and the same opportunity for refuge, hope, and a new beginning that those before us were allowed?

My past experience and the stories I heard over and over again has made me personally and professionally an advocate for immigrants and rights.  As an educator – in and out of the classroom – I have known families both here legally and illegally  … and many times … the actual status was unknown … as that is not what is important.  I have seen in the faces of the parents of students I have served over the years, the faces of my parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, etc.  People who work hard, love even harder, and only what something better for their children and their children’s children.

How did we as a nation lose sight of this … so quickly … so readily?  How did we just become another brick in the wall … and not stand up for those who do not yet have a voice, or the language to speak up, and be heard?

As it states on the script in the Statue of Liberty’s hands: Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year!!!

Growing up, my favorite time of the year was not a particular season but rather a time period: the fourth week of November through the 22^nd of January.  In my eyes, it was a holiday trifecta plus one.  Starting with Thanksgiving, we moved onto to Christmas, then New Year’s Eve, followed by the pièce de résistance – my birthday.  At the centerpiece of all of these special days was one key ingredient – family.

My earliest recollections, I remember family celebrations for each of these days.  While my grandmother on my father’s side (I only grew up knowing one of my four possible grandparents.) was alive, I remember all of us – uncles, aunts, great aunts, great uncles, cousins, cousins, and more cousins, piling into the house she shared with my Uncle Bob – a house that was built for her by all of her sons and grandsons.  I remember food – lots of it – and lots of laughter and talking.  I spent hours playing with my cousins – a welcomed treat for someone who was an only child.  One special memory I recall is playing “Charlie’s Angels” with a group of my female cousins.  At the time and being the youngest, I did not have much of a choice or say in the roles that were given – a small taste of what it was like to actually have siblings.  I was assigned to play “Sabrina” which at the time was not appealing as the Kate Jackson character from my small child perspective was not as glamorous as the other two roles.  I distinctly remember one holiday where my older cousins developed this story plot of a wicked milkman nemesis who left green milk bottles for his victims.  They all started to believe their narrative so much that it became real and “Sabrina” (aka Carol) had to go outside the door where the milkman was waiting to see if he was really there.  Wait … what??!!!  Yes, of course, the youngest was made the sacrificial, red shirt wearing, lamb. To this day I still remember slowing peering out from the bedroom door and tiptoeing outside and being greeted by several puzzled glances from the adults in the room in regards to my strange behavior.  However, I calmly went back into the bedroom and announced bravely, “He’s not there!”.

Once my grandmother passed away, many of my dad’s brothers’ families started to have their own celebrations.  However, a smaller sect of us still got together.  Thanksgiving was celebrated at my Uncle Ed and Aunt Lucille’s.  I remember the car ride to Kankakee, IL – following all sorts of curves and country roads.  The most special of those memories of those time – while looking out of the car window – was seeing the signs of a first snow and snow flurries lightly bouncing in the wind.  I loved my Uncle Ed’s house because they had two things: an organ and a fireplace.  Those two things occupied most of my time during the adult conversation, football, and food that filled the entire day.

Christmas was not just one day but an entire season, in and of itself.  I remember the cookie baking, delivering cookies to all the neighbors, and lots of family.  Christmas Eve was usually spent with my mom’s side of the family – with lots of cousins who were my age – and Christmas Day with my dad’s side.  While gifts were nice, I remember more fondly the laughter, the fun, and the love that enveloped us.  I do remember the magic of Christmas morning and seeing all the treasures that “Santa” had brought.  It was a miracle; miracles really did exist!  I had lots of trauma growing up – and the sordid details are not important – but these “miracles” made me believe that things could be and would get better.

New Year’s Eve brought together a different kind of family – our neighbors.  While growing up in the country on a farm (yes, you read that right – this now city girl grew up on a farm), neighbors weren’t exactly next door but our hearts were connected as we were.  Each New Year’s Eve, my parents hosted a party and invited our neighbors.  I remember more laughter and conversation and hours and hours of playing Uno, waiting in anticipation of the countdown with Dick Clark to a new year and new possibilities.

And finally, my birthday!  Many years, it was a “snow day” and that meant a holiday off of school and mounds of snow to play in.  But most importantly, once the snow had been cleared, I remember the family dinners where all of those near and dear to my heart came to my house to celebrate with me.  And again … lots of laughter and lots of love.

Then, two major changes occurred: I made the move to California for a teaching job in 1990 and the avalanche of loss began.  Loss – so much loss!  The distance made these losses both easier and yet harder to bear.  Several aunts and uncles passed away … my parents … dear friends and neighbors. A close friend of mine, here, in California, was brutally taken away.  For about a decade, it was like the cartoon that depicts a small snow ball rolling down the side of a mountain, picking up speed in its descent and picking up small items and cartoon characters as well – whatever fell into its path.  So much loss has left me numb.  And, I say this not for pity but just for a check of reality.  Going into this life, it was the cards that I was dealt.  I knew that having older parents and being an only child, being alone at some point in my life would become my destiny. I would not be an orphan but become one.  The reality is that I was never going to be ready when it actually happened.

When I was first married and the kids were young, I had sparks that some of these bruises and bumps would be forgotten – but then divorce stepped in and the kids grew up.  And sadly, reality of split holidays and time had to step in.

And now today … these holidays have become bittersweet.  I have had many wonderful opportunities and invites to join friends in these celebrations; I celebrate with my kids on different days and in different places.  And, I do appreciate all of this – I truly do.  However, there is a piece of me that misses the trifecta plus one of the past. And, nothing can really replace it. I wish for a time machine that could transport me back – even for just a few hours – to one of those special memories.  I’d even agree to play “Sabrina” again or even lose at a few rounds of Uno.  But, alas, time stops for no one.

So, yes this is the “Most Wonderful Time of the Year” but I dearly miss many of those who have passed on helped define my “wonderful”.

Be True to Your School! (Subtitle: Blackburn, Blackburn, my Alma Mater)

Last weekend, my graduating class from Blackburn College celebrated 25 years since we walked across the stage and accepted our diplomas at our alma mater’s annual homecoming celebration.  I had the best of intentions to make it back “home” for this particular homecoming but … alas … once again “best laid plans” syndrome struck!

I have reflected, a lot, however, on how my four years at Blackburn  really shaped the path I have been on the past 25 years since graduation.

To begin, it is a toss up to say whether I chose Blackburn or Blackburn chose me.  I was always a good student; I was always touted as being “super smart”. And, I think college was always something that I knew I would do in some shape or form.  However, my parents never attended college so that trail was a huge unknown for all of us and what appeared to be ahead was just a fog on the horizon with lots of potential rocks and boulders ahead.  My parents were pretty lacking in financial resources as well.  I think they did a good job of “covering” to most friends, neighbors, and even family; however, my dad was a tenant farmer – the 19 century version of such model – meaning that it was crystal clear who owned the land where we live and where he farmed.  Half of everything was surrendered to our “landlord”.  At one point, for college financial aid, I saw that my family’s annual income was approximately $7000.  I now know why we worked so hard to garden in the summer and freeze and preserve those things for the winter as well as live off an entire, slaughtered animal, enduring through all the choice parts such as “tongue” and “tail”.  (ugggh!)   So, fast forward to my junior and senior year of high school – to the degree that he assisted, I will never know; however, the pastor at our church somehow guided and directed me as well as my mother to apply for a scholarship from the Presbyterian Church, USA.  Each state was give one grantee (or something approximate to that), and I was fortunately chosen.  The main caveat for this full-ride scholarship for all four years was that I had to choose a college that was affiliated with the Presbyterian Church.

For those of you who attended Blackburn, you now know “the rest of the story” as Paul Harvey used to say.  Blackburn College was one of the few universities in IL that was affiliated with the Presbyterian Church.  In the fall of my senior year, I remember touring the campus with Isabel Millard who was a student as well as the supervisor for Administrative Services.  Isabel did an excellent job “selling” although Blackburn, itself, had a lot of strong selling points for this very “small town girl”.  It was a very small campus, located in the midst of rural America, – a scene I was very familiar with.  It also had a unique program that assisted students with a reduction in tuition through its work program. In essence, every student was required to work approximately 15 hours (I think!) a week.  So, I signed on the dotted line and moved in the fall of 1986.

To begin, I will say that the Work Program at Blackburn really gave me a secondary education that I should have paid more for.  I did win the lottery as a freshman with my first job assignment.  While many incoming freshman were assigned jobs in janitorial or the kitchen, I was tapped to join Administrative Services and work in the Admissions office.  This team was part of a larger group that included records, switchboard, and Xerox services.  One skill set that I did not have that was pretty crucial to this department was typing.  While I am now pretty quick when it comes to keyboarding, back then I only had a semester of typing in high school, so I was pretty limited.  Therefore, I became the premier tour guide, phone answerer and envelope stuffer.  After freshman year, I became a faculty assistant to Dr. Pat Kowal who was over freshman studies and the Learning Center.  I was assigned to tutor all the students who were coming to us from foreign countries (essentially their ESL tutor) as well as tutor some incoming students who may have struggled with general English/reading skills or writing.  For those of you who have only known me professionally the past few years, a little light bulb may have just came on as you realize my passion for English learners began to formalize very early in my adult life.  Pat was (and still is) on of the best bosses I have ever had.  She provided me direction and parameters while giving me plenty of freedom to test the waters and either succeed and celebrate or fail in order to learn and do better the next time.

I believe that the education I received while at Blackburn from the professors – both inside and outside of the classroom experiences – would stack up in comparison to any elite, or perceived to be elite, education.  The small class sizes and personalized education we received because of that fact allowed our professors to assist us to reach just to our limits or capacities and more often, beyond.  I had many hands on learning experiences as an education major that I would not trade for the world.  For example, while we complained immensely during the experience of reading a 100 plus books for “Intro to Children’s Literature” (or Kiddie Lit as we affectionately – and not so affectionately – called it) has stuck with me throughout my professional career.  I read titles that I had not touched as a youth, myself, but I am now so glad I did at that time, for it opened my mind to literature experiences that I realize now are just steps away from being considered “magical” and because I had my mind opened to these books, I have had the opportunity to share them with children (and some adults) of all ages.  Outside of my education classes, while preparing to be a PGC (Peer Group Counselor), I took some additional psychology classes, including an introduction to counseling.  I probably use that knowledge on a daily basis in my current line of work as a district administrator.  :o)  And, I can never watch the movie Ordinary People without thinking how the psychiatrist is applying the Gestalt method to his patient and the key moment in the movie when transference occurs. (Pretty impressive, I know! 25 years later I remember all of that!)

Finally, I would be remiss to not mention my study abroad experience.  Through the specific and supportive guidance I received from one of Blackburn’s own faculty members, Dr. Gem Reid, I worked with the university to create a one-time program that allowed me to complete my final student teaching abroad, in my dream destination, England.  Growing up, I had an uncle who I was close to who had been stationed in England during WWII.  He frequently regaled long stories about his time there and in spite of the entire world being split in two, found beauty and inspiration in the lands of Shakespeare, Wordsworth and others.  Speaking of Wordsworth, I landed in the prime spot (again, thanks all goes to Gem!) to the land of daffodils – the Lake District – in Cumbria, England.  My perspective on education was forever changed.  I am the educator today because of that experience.  Additionally, I had the opportunity to explore castles and history, all the while immersed in all that is wet and rainy and green.  I even got the opportunity to meet a real Prince – an opportunity that often affords me an instant “win” when playing the icebreaker “two truths and one lie”!

25 years later and where am I?  I have had at least 350 elementary-aged students call me “teacher” at some point … I have taught college classes numerous times for at least three different universities to prepare educators as Blackburn prepared me … I have served as an administrator for two school districts – one being the largest elementary district in CA – and two different county offices … I have raised three children, all of them who attended UC’s and one successfully graduate and two will do so within the year.

Whether I chose Blackburn or Blackburn chose me, it appears that the right choice was made!  I have many fond memories of my four, short years there and the connections I made with many whom may currently be far from me geographically, will always remain close in both my heart and my memory.

Dec 1986 – Stoddard First Floor Christmas Card Photo credit: Carla Zimowsk (Yes, I stole from Facebook!)

Raindrops on Roses and Whiskers on Kittens …

When I played the piano regularly – and used to provide accompaniment to singers and choirs – there were a few songs that were on my short list of favorites.  Most of the songs from The Sound of Music were at the top of this list because they were relatively easy to play and the accompaniments were kind of fun, using different variations of the 88 keys.  One of my favorites, of course, was “My Favorite Things”.  “Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens … bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens …”  You know the rest.

Tonight, on my mind, are not only a few of “My Favorite Things” but more specifically … “Things that I Greatly Miss” (Dear Rogers and Hammerstein, Please allow me to take a few liberties with your tried and true tune with a dash of creative license!):

1. Cool fall evenings and walking along a path full of vibrant, colorful, dry, crunchy leaves – CA does not even come close to IL/Midwestern autumns
2. Along those same lines, wearing sweaters or sweatshirts for the first time in fall
3. The first snow of winter. I. Miss. Snow.  (yes, I just said that – the November/December variety, anyway)
4. After experiencing said snow, sitting by a forced-air heater to warm up while the rest of the room and outside was bitter cold
5. The sound of the laughter and giggles and the low rumble of talk – both from loud booming voices to low, discrete whispers of my three children (when they were small, of course, although hearing the adult version of their voices still puts a smile on my face)
6. The security I felt when all three of my children were asleep at the same time under the same roof and the feeling of serenity I experienced when I would check on them one final time before going to bed
7. The feeling of life growing, expanding, and moving inside of me when I was pregnant
8. The smells of candles and incense at church during the quite moments before service – I have many fond memories of Masses at St. Francis and Our Lady of Perpetual Help in Bakersfield
9. The smell of bright lavender lilacs in the spring
10. Seeing fireflies dart and hover around the horizon at dusk during late spring and summer
11. Feeding baby calves from a bottle
12. The feeling one has the first few moments after mounting a horse and taking the initial first, few steps
13. The comfort I felt to be surrounded by extended family; the security and warmth that would overwhelm with the sense of loving and being loved and cared for
14. The feeling of running ones fingers over the keys of a piano when playing “Fur Elise”
15. Innocence … mine was lost way too soon and I have never recovered
16. Almost anything cooked or baked by my Grandma – kolache, bismarks, hotdogs wrapped in dough … you name it
17. Teaching a small child to sound out a word for the first time and the look on his/her face when he/she realizes that a word was just “read”
18. The sound of Slovak being spoken… from those I loved and who have been long gone
19. The feeling of loving and being loved and not every thinking that it could end – someone would leave – or it could be taken away
20. The sensation you feel when your own small child falls asleep while sitting in your lap
21. The joy of reading anything by Roald Dahl out loud to students
22. Seeing famous awe-inspiring sites for the first time: The view from Sacre Cour in Paris; Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament; swans along the River Thames; the majestic Redwoods; the deep purple Rocky Mountains. The list can go on and on …

Apparently, it is a good thing that my ambitions are not to be a famous lyricist as I would have failed miserably with this rather long, wordy list of “Things that I Greatly Miss”!  While there may not be any “cream colored ponies” or “schnitzel with noodles” on my list, these are all things that I remember dearly and fondly.

Just a Small Town Girl …

Yesterday, while driving to work, two different songs came on the radio that resonated with me: Small Town by John Mellencamp and Don’t Stop Believin’ by Journey.  “Well I was born in a small town …” and “Just a small town girl – Livin’ in a lonely world” resonated with me.  Both of those lines are me … however … when I looked onto the horizon I saw one of my favorite views of my commute on the 134 East (aka Ventura Freeway/Highway – now another song can be running through your head!) – the Colorado Street Bridge and ravine.  Something old – a bridge built in the early 1900’s – with something new – miles and lanes of cars sporting the latest in chrome and steel.  In my rearview mirror, I saw the LA skyline – somewhat in a haze due to some nice city-living smog. At that moment, I had a bit of a “world’s collide” moment as I realized that as much as I felt like that “small town girl” that Steve Perry crooned about, I am definitely not in her zip code anymore!

Growing up in Small Town, USA (Gardner, IL – at time, population 1400), my concept of “city” was Chicago.  As I had many relatives who lived there, I was not a stranger to riding The El or  walking along State Street – especially at Christmas time.  I always enjoyed my visits; I have fond memories of The Brookfield Zoo and watching the Cubs play.  However, after each visit and well before the sunset, we always got back into the car and headed back to the farm.  Interestingly enough, I never really dreamed of living in a city while I was a child.  I always had small town aspirations.  I thought my life would be in common with John Mellencamp’s musings – “I would live and die in a small town.”  And then fate stepped in!  When I graduated college, I could not find a teaching job in a small town or a big city in Illinois so I ventured West, landing in my first taste of “city living” in Bakersfield.  I experienced, for the first time, living in close proximity to a neighbor – mere feet between us instead of miles.  On the upside, I learned many conveniences came with city living that included supermarkets instead of grocery stores … stores open 24 hours or until very late in the evening …more restaurants serving foods of all types of creations and concoctions … City life does bring easy access to almost everything under the sun!  There is a price for this convenience; however, that comes in the form of traffic, pollution, and crowding.

While living in a city, I still found times and places that definitely felt “small town”.  Working in small school districts, living in older neighborhoods, forming bonds with friends and coworkers – just to name a few.  After a while, Bakersfield actually started to feel like a small town – perhaps because of these aforementioned reasons. And then fate stepped in once again and  I decided to make the move to LA.

I am approaching two years in living in the LA area.  Our moving truck pulled in mid December 2013, and here we still are (minus one move from one part of the city to another).  When I was that “small town girl”, I never in a million years would have imagined myself living and working in LA.  From what I had seen on TV growing up, there did not seem to be anything but freeways, concrete, and pollution (which yes, there is some of all of that!).  In high school, I remember I had a classmate who had dreamed of going to LA and she and her mother actually vacationed over here during one of our breaks.  As she retold her stories about her mom driving in LA and the people’s reaction, I remember being slightly horrified – although I never said out loud – and wondered who would choose to live there?!  Well, 30 years later, I have the answer – ME!

I must admit – I love LA! (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MtDhtadoeUk – yes … yes … now that song is running through your head!) My own children think I am crazy for the move here!  I am minutes away from Hollywood and there are several evenings that we have had dinner or gone to an event somewhere near Hollywood and Vine and we walked along the stars, each time discovering someone’s star that we didn’t remember seeing before. We have walked along beaches many times, sampling the food and shopping in Venice or Santa Monica.  Speaking of shopping – why yes … there is plenty of that to be had here as well.  Currently, we are four blocks away from the Galleria and the Americana.

Yes, there are times I still feel like a “small town girl” … maybe I always will because small town living was all I knew growing up.  I just am not looking for any midnight trains going anywhere from city life anytime soon!

Venice Beach – Photo credit goes to Thomas G. Robinson

LA Skyline from Mulholland Drive – Photo Credit: Thomas G. Robinson

You’re so vain … I bet you think this song is about you …

I have had a long-standing love/hate relationship with my first name, Carol.  I know I am not alone in this struggle.  I have a bit more contentious and more-on-the-hate-end-of-the-equation relationship with my middle name – but that is a discussion for another time.  (Those of you who know me well or grew up with me know it and I will leave things there!)

As a child, I wanted to change my name.  I remember even saving up money in my Snoopy bank to go to the county courthouse to change it officially.  I was all ready to do so – as I had been saving money in response to asking my mother, “How does a person change his/her name?”.  And her quick, frustrated reply was, “It costs a lot of money and you have to go to the courthouse to do it.” At early elementary school age, “a lot of money” was translated into my Snoopy bank being full, so all I needed was a ride 20 some miles to Morris, IL – our county seat – to do so once I could no longer stuff anymore change into Snoopy’s back.  Needless to say, since my name is still officially “Carol”, I did not make that fateful trip to Morris and my mother – given that she was the one to give me said name – was none-to-pleased with my request for a ride to the courthouse.

An additional struggle I had with my name was that there was hard to find a song that called out a Carol by name.  With the exception of Neil Sedaka’s 1950’s song, “Oh, Carol”, there is nothing else out there.  And, if Wikipedia is correct, the Carol he is singing about is Carole King and is in regards to her dumping him.  While at Bakersfield City, I had a boss, Al Capilla, who chose to sing that song (with his own made up verses that were pertinent to whatever we were dealing with at the time) every time I walked into the room.  Frequently, the verse started “Oh, Carol … why are you so mean?”. Of course, in jest, however, it proved the point that having a song with my name was going to be a challenge.

If I had that fateful trip to Morris, IL, one of the names that was a strong contender was “Caroline”.  Very close to my original name but much more palatable (in my humble opinion, anyway).  Perhaps I was influenced by this name choice from “Little House on the Prarie” as the mother’s name was Caroline.  So, speaking of songs … of course, “Caroline” gets her own song! What comes to mind almost immediately? Neil Diamond’s, “Sweet Caroline”.  Every time I hear that song, I claim it.  I know … I know … it’s sweet Caroline, not sweet (or even sour) Carol.  Additionally, there is James Taylor’s, “Carolina on My Mind”, which is about a state and not a person; however, I have also tried to claim that song as well.

So, Jesse’s girl has a song created for her … Gloria … Michelle (my belle) … Lucille (as in you picked a fine time to leave me) … Rosanna … the list goes on and on.  Since the advent of Thomas in my life – Thomas, who is singer, songwriter extraordinaire, I have asked for a song.  A song – to which Thomas’ reply – is that it doesn’t quite work that easily. He starts with inspiration and a creative idea first.  As a substitute, anytime he has sang at karaoke, I have suggested either “Sweet Caroline” or “Carolina on My Mind”; to which he has indulged me once, however, usually a Prince or Stevie Wonder song ends up being the selection.

When Thomas is in song writing mode, it is unlike anything I’ve seen before.  My first glimpse of him in this mode was when I went with him to his family’s home in Paso Robles a few years ago.  During the entire drive from Bakersfield to Paso, he worked on a song that he had co-written with his brother several years prior.  Armed with his iPhone and GarageBand, he worked and worked on vocals and background instruments, extending the process throughout the weekend.  It’s almost as if he is struck by some type of creative lightning.

Usually, once Thomas has completed a new song, he comes downstairs and is proudly ready to play “show and tell”.  It’s always amazing to hear his hard work come to fruition.  This morning was no different than many others.  He came down the stairs, slightly disheveled, as I laid on the couch watching a very sappy Hallmark movie.  He announced, “So I worked on a new song; do you want to hear it?”  “Sure,” I replied, turning down the TV.  After the introduction and a few lines in, I realized the song was about us.  I finally had my song!  Now, in good company with Julian Lennon, Jesse’s Girl, and Jenny who can be reached at 867-5309, I no longer have to pretend my name is Caroline or Carolina – I have my very own song written for me!

Here is a link directly to his recording on SoundCloud: https://soundcloud.com/thomas-g-robinson/toma-s-adventuretime-carols

M is for the Many Things She Gave Me …

It’s amazing what thoughts run rampant through one’s mind while sitting and waiting on a LA freeway during peak rush hour traffic. Many times, my mind movie flips through the day’s events and I assign it a proverbial “good” or “bad” based on this reflection. However, today was different. An ad came on the radio, reminding everyone that this Sunday marks the annual day we honor and celebrate our mothers. In particular, this ad boasted that if you are looking for a last minute gift for mom while en route to see her on the day, drive on up to a Fresh and Easy and they have a list of Mothers’ Day Items that can be hand delivered to your car. No need to even exit your vehicle! Hardly any thought has to be put forth to complete what some may view as just another thing on a “to do” list.

This ad led me to think of my own mother and the last Mothers’ Day that I acknowledged her via some token sent across the miles; doing the math, I quickly calculated that is has been 20 years since the last time I wished my mom “Happy Mothers’ Day” on this Earth. 20 years … where has the time gone?!

I started to make a mental list of some of major happenings that she has missed since her last Mothers’ Day in 1995:

• First on the list, of course, my mom has missed seeing her grandchildren grow from toddler, to small child, to adolescent, to young adult. I was pregnant with Dane when she passed away so she never even had the chance to meet him. They all successfully made the transition from high school to college and her oldest grandchild, Laura, actually having graduated college at this point – 20 years later. My mom would have been so proud!
• My mom missed witnessing my ex-husband, Phil, and I serve each other several volleys of pain and hurt that could best be summarized by the Carpenters’ song “Hurting Each Other”. Eventually our relationship crumbled into tiny, unsolvable pieces and we divorced.
• Since Phil, I have fallen in love at least 5 other times; each time I usually find myself to be the one who has loved or cared more than the other person.
• I completed my Masters’ in Education; she would have been proud of that accomplishment!
• At the time of her death, I was a third grade, bilingual teacher in McFarland, CA. Since then, I have been a mentor teacher, a technology coordinator, an administrator in two different CA county offices of education, and have been a director, serving as an advocate for the underserved students and their families.
• I have stood in awe of the stained glass in the Cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris, walked along the shores of the Pacific Ocean hundreds of times, and watched 4^th of July fireworks with the Seattle Space Needle in the backdrop.
• I went from being “Lombardo” to returning to “Mehochko”.
• I have had my share of grey hairs and wrinkles and occasionally have been known to groan in pain when getting up too quickly.

And the list could go on and on …

It has been a long time since I have had someone to call “mom”. In fact, I have been an “orphan” since 1999 as my dad passed away five years later and I have no brothers or sisters. Most days, I don’t think about it; however, when sappy Hallmark commercials play on the TV during prime holiday seasons, I face the harsh reality that I am alone. Don’t get me wrong, I have much to be grateful for! I have three wonderful kids and many great friends, so “alone” is a pretty strong adjective. Yet, I can’t help feeling this empty place in the pit of my stomach when I look around me and see what appears every other person in the world spending time with their parents and siblings.

It is often said that you do not appreciate what you have until it’s gone. I believe that assertion is true. Sadly, I now view almost any relationship that I am in as a ticking time bomb, waiting for that moment when it will explode and that person will disappear from my life. I think losing one’s parents or family at an early age is some form of lost innocence; the reality is that people do leave and death makes that exit permanent.

If my mom were still alive, I am not sure what our relationship would be like today. I am not sure what she would think of the choices I have made these past 20 years.   I have made some good ones … and I definitely made some bad ones. And still … I have persevered.

So, this Sunday, if you still have your mother with you, please remember to take some time to let her know how much you care and how lucky you are to still have her in your life. And, please, avoid acknowledging her by a generic Mothers’ Day gift acquired from fast pick up at the Fresh and Easy market!

Where are you going my little one, little one …

Recently, I read in my Facebook feed a quote Robert Downey, Jr. made in reference to his mother’s death. “If anyone out there has a mother, and she’s not perfect, please call her and say you love her anyway …”

Last weekend, I helped my baby boy – my 18-year-old, Dane, specifically,  move into his apartment at the University of California – Santa Barbara. On the way to Santa Barbara, I picked up my oldest daughter, Laura. We both had our share of nervous, mother hens’ energy. Would Dane have roommates that fell into the “nice” category? Will he be able to find his way around campus? Is he going to know how to forage for food?  And, we arrived and our fears (most of them, anyway) were aleviated. As I said goodbye to him and said one last, in person, “I love you!”, I felt some tears well up in my eyes. My nest was now officially empty. In reality, since I moved from Bakersfield to LA, is has been virtually empty. Finishing up junior college, Dane was in Bakersfield, living with his dad, and every couple of weeks, I would do my best to go and see him. Although usually through food bribery, I’d catch up with him and he still seemed to be my little boy. Granted, with full beard (yes, a beard) and height much taller than I, his exterior said otherwise, however, inside … still a little boy. Leaving him on his own at college seemed to fast forward the child he seemed to be to the young man he is.

The weekend before, I drove Sammie off to her house in Davis, CA as she begins her junior year. We shared lots of laughter and several rounds of “Name that Disney Song”. During those times, I saw glimpses of the little Sammie who had a big smile, loads of curls, and chubby cheeks. More frequently, I saw the young lady she has become with talk of studying abroad in Costa Rica and all the big plans she has for the school year and beyond.

While visiting Sammie, I found a picture of my trio, coloring Easter eggs. A moment in time captured in a snapshot. While not the best picture to immortalize Laura, my oldest and first, official college grad, the photo captures a time when they were little, carefree, and innocent. Dane, a nonconformist even back then, as he colored Easter eggs while donned in a jack-o-lantern sweatshirt. I am sure at the time I was hurried and frantic as they colored eggs and I busied myself with one thing or another. When I look at that photo, I want to reinsert myself at the table and take the time to enjoy the moment with them.

I am the imperfect mom that Robert Downey, Jr. spoke of. While my desire to be a mom was always strong – and almost potentially lost after years of anorexia – I often fell short. Fell short on time, patience, consumed with selfishness … In the mix, of course, are also many happy, loving moments and memories that bring smiles (and a few tears).

I am incredibly proud of my three children and the outstanding young people they have become. I have been so blessed and can’t wait to see what is next around the corner for them.
And, I do miss my three baby birds! While my nest maybe empty, my heart is quite full!

Turn around and you’re two, turn around and you’re four – Turn around you’re a young girl going out of my door …

If Everybody Had an Ocean …

The word “beach” as in the phrase “let’s go to the beach” has changed in meaning for me over the years. Growing up, in small town IL, USA, my original context for a beach was an empty, coalmine area that was filled with water to make a man-made type of lake. This “beach” was a place that I could only go to via an invite – for example, once, we went for a family reunion – as my parents did not belong to the “club”, or have passes to enter the gates. Many years later I realized that our lack of belonging to this “club” was mostly due to my family’s economic status; even back then I think I realized that being able to go to this “beach” was the result of being sorted between categories of the “have’s” and the “have not’s”. I remember that original body of water seemed quite daunting to my previous experiences which were limited to mud puddles after a heavy rain and water accumulated in a kiddie pool – water that quickly turned from clear and cold to warm, dirty, and stale.

I did not see a body of water larger than that “beach” until my brush as an early teenager when I saw Lake Michigan while visiting relatives. This was my first experience in seeing a body of water that seemed to extend to the horizon, gracefully meeting where the sky seemed to begin … or end … depending on your perspective. I remember standing along the rocky shore and seeing the light waves lap along the edges. “This must be what the ocean looks like,” I thought.

At 16 I caught my first glimpse of a body of water that could be considered an “ocean” – or close to it. I spent the summer visiting my aunt and uncle who lived on the gulf side of Florida, not far from Tampa. This was a summer of many firsts I had only dreamed of as a child – my first trip to a Disney property … my first experience at a real “beach”, located on the Gulf of Mexico. I was in awe of what I viewed to be powerful waves that lapped, hit, and smacked along the sandy shore. The water was warm and the sand squished between my toes. I remember walking along the beach with my Uncle Ernie, both of us barefoot, and sharing conversation and laughter as both of those things seemed to ebb and flow as did the waves beneath our feet.

A year or so from that visit, I caught my first glimpse of a real ocean – the Pacific Ocean. I had made friends with a pen pal who lived near Eugene, OR and after years of writing back and forth through the good ol’ US mail as that was all we had at the time, we decided to meet. I got on a plane and flew to Oregon and soon realized that I had won the pen pal lottery as Maria and her family took me everywhere and anywhere, up and down the Oregon coast. My first view of the Pacific Ocean took my breath away. My imagination could not fathom the reality of the power and intensity of the huge waves that crashed along the rocky shores — or, how freezing cold the water is in the Pacific. Her parents rented a condominium along the water and I remember getting up in the middle of the night and just standing in front of the sliding glass door, watching the moon light kissed waves beat against the shore over and over again. I was mesmerized.

Since that point, I have seen the ocean from other points along the East Coast of the US as well as England and France. The ocean was a huge motivating factor for my initial move to California although from Bakersfield that meant a car trip of up to three hours to actually reach the coast.

From my current home, I can get to a “beach” in twenty minutes if the traffic gods are in my favor. I was up early today and decided, with coffee in tow, that I would go to the beach before the crowds of families and sun worshippers staked their claims. Even with my attempts at being “early” there still several who hurried with space claiming – almost like a seen out of the Tom Cruise/Nicole Kidman movie, Far and Away, when the families were claiming farm plots in Oklahoma by placing a flag on the desired plot of land. It only took me a few minutes of having my blanket, coffee, and book spread out on the sand that I headed to the water.

The first wave hit me with the normal shock to my system – “Wow, that’s cold!”. And then the water receded and my toes were left to sink and bury in the wet sand. The next wave came with greater vengeance and while still cold, not quite as shockingly so. I looked down at my feet and saw the frothy water billow around my toes and dissipate much like a cloud in the sky. Now a bit more acclimated to the cold water, I went further in, letting the water flow to my knees. On the horizon, I could see a huge wave gathering momentum, ready to assault those of us who dared with its powerful force and momentum. However, once arriving to the shore, there was nothing more than some frothing and lapping, and the water receded once again. Then, there are those waves that just sort of sneak up on you – you aren’t prepared – either because you think it is not going to be a huge wave or your back is turned. Boom! The shock of the impact almost takes your breath away. Still, after the assault, the water recedes and calm prevails once again. I watched a small group of birds, traveling in a pack along the shore, playing a similar game with the ocean waves although their main motivation was not enjoyment but was to search for food. Their timing with the play with waves seemed to be in sync with mine. And then eventually they all scurried along the sand in search of a different spot on the beach.

My time in the water and at the beach tops my list of favorites. I spent the rest of the day playing tag with the waves in the ocean, reading, and reapplying sunscreen. Although surrounded by many, I enjoyed the quite, reflective thought time I had with just myself. I cannot think of a better way to spend a lazy Sunday morning

.

We’ve Only Just Begun …

Today, for me, has been tinged with a bit of melancholy. If I had remained married, this would have been my ex-husband and I’s twenty-third wedding anniversary. I still remember that day vividly – almost as if it were just a few weeks ago. We had married in upstate New York where Phil was born and raised. The day was warm and muggy, with threats of rain here and there. We had a small, simple service, with mostly family. In fact, our reception was help at Phil’s parents house just a few blocks from the church.

I remember such a feeling of hope – of endless possibilities – and of course a lot of euphoria as we were in “love” and wrapped up in the those emotions. After conversation and laughter with those we cared for the most, we said our “goodbyes”. We packed up Phil’s Volkswagen GTI, filled almost to the roof with all his belongings with just enough space for our summer kitten acquisition, Igor, to make his way from the front to the back. We headed down the freeway, with family and friends in the rearview and nothing but open space and bright future on the horizon. I remember hour upon hour of conversation in the car as we drove cross-country and not having a single care or worry in the world.

Fast forward to twelve years, three kids, numerous pets, and a couple of houses later, we moved from the Carpenters’ song about white lace and promises to their other top ten hit, “Hurting Each Other”. No longer was I hopeful – quite the opposite, and the road ahead was full of worries, preoccupations and uncertainty. And I was alone.

Alone – seems to be a common state of being for myself. Often, I wonder how I end up by myself. Phil is not the first man to break my heart or the last. There have been quite a few. I have had way more failed relationships than successful ones. And, sadly I realize that the one common denominator in all these scenarios has been myself. Quite humbling … I have experienced great success in so many other facets of my life; even found myself under a few lucky stars. However, this is one area of my life where I feel I fall short; my Achilles’ heel. To love and be loved … sounds so simple and yet … it has not been my experience.  And after all the bumps, bruises and false starts, I am no longer that eager to try or start over again. “Till now I always got by on my own.”