“Trust me, Wilbur. People are very gullible. They’ll believe anything they see in print.”
― E.B. White, Charlotte’s Web

Remember the message written by Charlotte in her spider web that said, “Some Pig” and because it appeared in print it became a truth? She wrote this about Wilbur the pig, the runt of the litter. We have all thought a lot this year about what is true and how we know it to be so. I’m happy that Wilbur the pig lived, thanks to Charlotte’s well-placed note that he was “Some Pig”. He became noticed, and aimed to live up to all the words that Charlotte wrote about him, including “Brilliant” and “Terrific”. It is important at this time to note that Wilbur was not making these claims himself, but making every effort to live up to them, even performing a back flip

Charlotte ends her web notes with a word that seems of have been forgotten of late, and that is the word “humble”. E.B.White realized as a writer, the power of the written word, putting out a message could make it so. Of course because we fell in love with Wilbur we believed the messages, we wanted them to be true. Was Wilbur truly special, or did the woven words make it so?

In the spirit of E.B. White, I wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New year

“To all skaters on small natural ponds, at the edge of the woods, toward the end of the afternoon”

“Merry Christmas skaters.”

As I made my way down  County Line Road in northwest Wisconsin, I had to be alert, and not even sip my coffee in case a deer decided to pop out of the trees growing right up to the blacktop. This commute was in stark contrast to the 8 lanes of traffic heading in and out of Chicago that I was used to.

One morning, the sun barely up, what I thought was a clump of dirt in the road turned out to be a stubborn duck, who scolded me with loud quacking as I swerved for a near miss.

In my first period class I mentioned the duck to my students and their recommendation was I should have hit it, brought it to school and taken it to the Small Animals class who would have prepared it for me to cook for  dinner. This was when I realized I had much to learn and what a remarkable opportunity this teaching experience was going to be. I had accepted a long-term substitute job at Spooner High School.  Spooner is a former railroad town, a hub of the Chicago and North Western lines, and currently has a population of about 3,000 people or roughly the size of my entire former school. The high school  in Spooner has about 300 students that travel by school bus, some up to 30 miles.

Happily, teenagers everywhere share a common love of cell phones, lattes and ripped jeans, so I felt right at home. This group of teens was more reserved than the kids I knew in Chicago. They greeted me with a polite, friendly, wariness.

I loved the chance to tweak some of my favorite projects and to develop some new curricula that was a better fit for my new students. I learned a new schedule, found the gym,  the custodian, and figured out how to reload the paper towel machine. I asked questions and learned about hunting, cutting wood and ATVing. The smaller world I found myself in made me realize how “fitting in” took on a whole new meaning.

The teen world can only really be experienced by its members, and so my observations about cliques, friends and fashions remain on the surface. Overall these kids were really cute, and had universal teen traits of making unnecessary trips to the bathroom, an obsession with their phones and a love of gym shoes. But they also had a tremendous work ethic, an understanding of the outdoors and a feeling of family.

I will consider my time as a Spooner Rail a rare chance to be teacher and a student once more.

Thank you Spooner!

At an amazing spa on the shores of Playa de la Concha in San Sebastian, Spain is where we first experienced the waters of contrast. We were visiting our daughter Emma on her college study abroad.  In the 19^th century Queen Isabella II came to the beach for the healing properties of the water. The Belle Époque spa called La Perla was a treat for our afternoon.  The serene pools looked out over the bay and there were whispering voices and people having therapeutic massages.  This serenity changed slightly when Emma saw her dad appear from the men’s changing room wearing a speedo bathing suit. After slight drowning, choking and muffled laughter we composed ourselves and tried out the various pools.  I stayed in a narrow lap pool while Emma and Kevin walked into a tiled tunnel called “aguas de contraste”.   The serenity of the spa was broken once again by echoing screams and laughter and Kevin and Emma emerged from the tunnel and related that alternating jets of hot and cold water had just sprayed them at full force.

The phrase “waters of contrast” has been so useful for me in many of life’s events. I recently parked at the grocery store in Rice Lake, WI and noticed the horse and buggy near the gas pumps.  The contrast was sudden and healthy. A jolt.  We are in our own norm and it is a gift when something comes along to show us another way to prompt us to be questioning and curious.

As I mentally prepare to leave the woods and the lake, we will make our trip back to Chicago and our apartment.   It is the contrast that I love. It can be shocking, almost painful,  yet invigorating.  On my walk through the woods today I hear distant gun shots from duck hunters, my recent walks have taken me past men wearing camo that aren’t making a fashion statement.  My students in Spooner are skilled hunters and their families have meat all winter.  Meanwhile back in Chicago we curse the guns and the conditions that create gangs and violence.  My feelings about weapons are born of a life in the city, but rural life brings a different perspective and purpose. Any other gun has the feeling of Anton Chekov’s dramatic principle. One must never place a loaded rifle on the stage if it isn’t going to go off.

I have never left high school. Oh, there was a brief period when I was in college, but I went right back to high school, this time as a teacher.   My reflections of high school life, the awkward moments, boring classes, gym suits and homework, have happily blurred and left the more vivid memories of fun, friends, and lots of fooling around. I have retired from teaching, but I remember the faces of my former students and how I tried to see myself in one of them. Where was that girl with braces, long bangs, and a short paisley mini-skirt? In today’s teenage lexis, which kind of girl was she? Was she the girl wearing bright green flip flops, a cotton skirt, and long swingy hair, or was she the girl in all black with safety pins strategically placed up her long black sleeves, or was she perhaps the girl asking to go to the bathroom, with a pack of smokes peeking out of a tiny purse, who may not come back to class? Working in a high school as an adult is a vivid reminder of my teenage life and the time spent in high school.

I have a special fondness for the 20 years I spent at Oak Park and River Forest High School but I know in my heart I can’t go back at least not to that same time, it is gone. Or will reappear like Brigadoon? We did have a magical time, an art department of 5 talented colleagues, and a beautiful school within which to work. There was a potter, a photographer, a jeweler, a printmaker, a painter and a muralist. These were the people I worked with and we considered our teaching a part of our art making, we were better together, it was our gestalt.

Across this large school building were 200 teachers who each had a specialty and were experts in their field. I felt that lunch in the faculty dining room could have been a meeting of the minds. Often lofty discussions, but equal parts jokes, politics and the tedium of a large bureaucracy. We could cling to each other when the harsh winds of adolescence blew and also celebrate together, for we saw in each student a life of possibility.

If I wanted to teach about color from a scientific perspective I could seek out one of many science teachers. I loved to see what books English teachers had chosen for their class and longed to study James Joyce along with them. I admired the math teacher who instilled a love of numbers in his students and the P.E teacher who taught girls self-defense and modeled for the young women and men in our school that they had the power to be themselves and to speak out. Philosophy, Spoken Word, Shakespeare, Economics, Clothing Construction, TV Production and Metalsmithing were just some of the many classes that were offered to our students. Have I romanticized my time as teacher? Perhaps, but not that time, and not those people.

Arched windows frame prairie style rooftops

Blonde wood floors that make shoes sound special

stepping carefully around and through people’s lives

movement, teeming halls, the f- bomb

Then suddenly quiet shiny floors and silence.

Doors fling open spilling ideas into space

Beats drip from headphones

Backpacks split open at the seams

Click, lock, slam, go.

There is a family growing up before our eyes on top of our front porch light fixture. They chose an attractive mission-style, hanging lamp on which to build their home.

“Influential American architect Philip Johnson once mused, “All architecture is shelter; all great architecture is the design of space that contains, cuddles, exalts, or stimulates the persons in that space.” So begins the book Architecture by Birds and Insects by friend and artist Peggy MacNamara. Peggy’s breathtaking watercolor paintings portray the intricate assemblage we call a nest. The materials are chosen for their durability and yet it is their beauty and structure we admire.

The babies that inhabit this little home on our porch have grown to where I can’t always tell mother from child. The parents are frantically feeding this crew who pop up with a wide open beaks and high-pitched tweets. We expect they will soon be on their way.   The nest appears crowded, as if big teens have moved in with their gym shoes all over the hallway. “What is for dinner, mom?” And “Can I have the car?” I hear it in their voices; they are ready for that day.

Our own little fledgling, Campbell Patrick Comer was here visiting for the 4^th of July. His doting parents attended to his every need, as did all members of the family and guests. He shared his spot in the back seat of the car with his tia, Emma. They arrived at the cabin and it was our first time at full capacity. Our nest held. The plans that were lovely on paper came to life as people filled the space and quiet sleep, and private spaces were enjoyed. The family rejoiced together in a beautiful, comfortable space. We are grateful for those planners and builders who guided us in our vision and created a home from a small seed of an idea. We hope it is a legacy for generations to come, to enjoy time on a lake with your family.

For every Bird a Nest—

Wherefore in timid quest

Some little Wren goes seeking round—

Wherefore when boughs are free—

Households in every tree—

Pilgrim be found?

Perhaps a home too high—

Ah Aristocracy!

The little Wren desires—

Perhaps of twig so fine—

Of twine e’en superfine,

Her pride aspires—

The Lark is not ashamed

To build upon the ground

Her modest house—

Yet who of all the throng

Dancing around the sun

Does so rejoice?

Emily Dickinson

If you can read the words on this pillow please imagine my sister and I along with my mom singing this at the top of our lungs in high operatic voices and you can get a feeling for life lived with a really funny mom.  My mom’s sense of silly was sublime.  She could break down in laughter at the smallest of funnies. She even requested us to do a “silly”, which could mean a ridiculous walk, song or face.  My dad was an amazing co-creator in her world of “lets put on a show”.  Judy Garland never had a better Mickey Rooney than my mom and dad together.  My mom’s ability to break out into song or dance was a source of much embarrassment but now in looking back it was glorious.  Thank goodness for a collection of 16mm films that capture my mom flickering on the screen doing the wackiest dance you will ever see, and underneath the silliness is someone who was a quite good dancer.  She expected all guests to perform, say a poem, do a skit, or sing a song. She insisted we be prepared for this as we made our way in the world, but to our surprise we have had few occasions to pull our tap shoes out of our purse.  But you never know.

These musings about my mother are prompted by the joyful event of my daughter becoming a mother herself.  She will be that soothing voice, firm hand, or cooling touch. She will sing and dance her way into the heart of her little boy and that bond will last forever, stronger than any force in nature.  She will find her way through the maze of events called childhood with the support of her mom and she will draw on the lessons learned from amazing grandmothers before her.  May everyday going forward for her be mother’s day.

Welcome to our world Campbell Patrick Comer

“I want to describe myself
like a painting that I looked at
closely for a long time,
like a saying that I finally understood,
like the pitcher I use every day,
like the face of my mother,
like a ship
that carried me
through the wildest storm of all.”

-Rilke