$10 Race

When Micheal move from directly behind us to four blocks away it took us a long time to convince Mom to let us go there on our bikes. We finally received permission to go, on bikes, but it turned out to not be as fun of a vist for me as it was for my brother. Micheal and Christopher had video games in common and I could have cared less.

On the way back “we” decided to race. I didn’t want to, riding was hard and I was fat. But Micheal and Christopher did and so we pedaled as fast as we could. When they got to Calhoun Street Micheal went right, going toward the dentist office then to my house. Christopher went straight down Louis C Crampton Street hoping to get there first. I had fallen way behind and was having a hard time breathing. By now I wasn’t going to win. I had to stop and walk my bike. Head down, rapid breathing I pushed my bike along trying to catch my breath. That’s when I saw it, a $10 bill laying in the road. No one was around so I picked it up and took it home.

The boys were so mad and jealous. Micheal angry at not going that direction, and Christopher upset because he was going too fast to see it and missed it. He insisted it was his because he was first to go down that street. So Jealous. No one knows who won the race and I can’t remember what i bought with it.--I had found $10.

Literary Luncheon

No tradition involving a single food stands out in my memory, but every Sunday the entire family, aunts, uncles, cousins gathered at Grandma’s. Grandma Powell’s kitchen was the hub of activity. With up to 25 people in the house at one time it seemed that if you were not in the kitchen at some point you missed everything that happened. My mother and her brothers always told stories about their adventures. Always hilarious. Conversations circled ‘round often and if you missed the story, you missed the joke, forever. As a first born I am inherently nosy and that would leave me irritated for days.

The carpet in the kitchen had blue and green diamonds joining into a circle inside a square. The carpet was old and there was a roll in the carpet right in the path between Grandpa’s chair and the refrigerator. This was a disaster waiting to happen and many of us little ones fell for its charms.  

In the kitchen was a yellow dining table. A 1950’s yellow-indestructible, heavy formica table. How do I know it’s heavy? I moved it to Missouri with me; seriously indestructible.

Many meals were hosted in that kitchen, at that table, but what I remember most were the canaries, holidays, and the cakes. Canaries? you ask. Yes, canaries, the small yellow birds that sing their hearts out. My grandmother raised them. She must have had almost 30 birds. She was an expert, she mated them and then sold them. She must have had a hook up, many birds went in and out of that kitchen. If you sat in the living room and the birds were convinced they were alone they would sing, like a concert.

Cakes were another hobby of my grandmother. She made and decorated birthday cakes and wedding cakes. The wall in the stairway to the basement was lined with cake pans. Each grandchild got a cake on their birthday. My birthday fell on my uncle’s, but we were given separate cakes! She made me a Barbie cake one year. The most memorable cake was for my cousin. It was very elaborate, the base was a basket and above the basket held up by tall straws was a balloon--hot air balloon cake. She had gone all out with the decoration, little flowers on the ground, a stripe pattern in frosting on the balloon. The candles were lit and we all started singing “Happy Birthday”, before the song was finished the balloon exploded and frosting flew to the far reaches of the kitchen. My cousin cried and cried, but the rest of us...ugly snorting laughter.

During holidays we would all gather at the table. As the family grew a small table was added, still in the kitchen. Eventually we spread out  all over the house to eat. And in an attempt to keep us in one room we set up dinner in the basement at the pool table.

So many memories are associated with the kitchen and the table. When we were young we would enter the house and immediately search for the leftover frosting. We would sit at the table eating the rich treat with our fingers. She also made sugar cookies that I have yet to replicate. At the table we ate breakfast with uncle Marvin when we spent the night. I learned that Wheaties are disgusting. After breakfast, Grandma would let me set the table for a tea party. During that game the table was mine.

Every year the kids and the aunts would join Grandma slicing and dividing strawberries for freezing; I swear there were 20 pounds strawberries, our fingers were purple for days. They also canned pickles and tomatoes.

This is the table we sat at when we filled out thank you notes after she died. And this is the table where my dad made a care schedule when my grandpa went into hospice care.

I like the table because it is yellow, because it is old, because it is indestructible. When it was time to move to Missouri, I called my uncle and asked if I could have it. I defend vehemently this table every time someone says I need to get a new table. II will not get rid of the table, that sucker is an heirloom. Grandma would not approve of this, she would say get rid of it, but it is too much of my memory.

Today I made snickerdoodles and my grandmother’s frosting. I still cannot make the cookies the way she made them. Apparently this secret is not meant to be repeated.

Power of Place

I suffer from First Born Syndrome. It is my place in the birth order that has influenced my actions and sent me on my journey toward a career that maybe, just maybe, I am born to do.

I was born and raised in Lapeer, Michigan, the “bedroom community.” All that means is the GM jobs were in Lake Orion, Pontiac, and Detroit and the people of Lapeer (the men) car pooled every day two hours to The Shop. It was assumed that you would grow up, graduate and go to work at The Shop. But in my house our parents talked of little else except going to college, becoming doctors or scientists . This is strange to think about knowing that no one in my family, on either side, had ever gone to college. But this thinking is etched in my memory as far back as I can go--I was going to go to college. It is first born bossiness that landed me in the role of teacher.

I preface this as hearsay, I do not remember this happening and I still call shenanigans on my mother, but she insists that it is true. When my first little brother was a few months old, my mother stepped outside to get the mail. At this time I would have been two years old. Mom stepped just outside the door. Being quick and independent minded I shut the door behind her...and the door was locked. So the two year old is alone in the house with the two month old. Apparently all I had to do was turn the knob and the lock would pop; instead for about ten terrifying minutes all I would say in response to, “Turn the handle. Open the door, Michelle,” was “Can’t you get in Mom?” So her only choice was to walk five minutes to the neighbor, have them drive her four miles to the Post Office my dad worked in, get the keys, and have the neighbor drive back to the house, all the while Michelle and the baby are home without adult supervision. Upon entering the house she found me, on the couch reading a book with the baby asleep nearby, “Hi, Mom!” If this is, in fact, a true story, I think it’s fair to say that this first born had everything under control.

Under control is the name of the game. I had two brothers, twelve cousins on one side, and nine on the other.  At home I also had a “gang’. I was the oldest on the block. I told them what to do and what we were going to play. My mother will, as of yesterday, tell you that I was the boss. I kept all the neighborhood kids,and all of the cousins organized. I made the plans and I kept them all following according to plan. I was teacher when we played school, mom when we played house, and Princess when we played Voltron. Mostly they were scared of me. I know this to be true when one day I yelled at one of our nemeses, Brian D. As I was yelling at him to leave my brothers alone his little brother started mocking me. From the tree I heard  Brian D. telling his brother to, “Shut up, she’ll kill you!” I asked my mother why they kept following me and all she had was, “You were the leader. You had a plan so, they just did.”

For the weekly trip to Grandma’s we were allowed to take a few toys or games to share with our cousins. I spent lots of time after church carefully selecting the cassettes we would listen to. On the drive we, and by we I mean I, would talk about asking Grandpa for tractor rides, or if we could go see the chickens, or if we could go salamander hunting in the woods. When we were old enough we would go into the woods alone checking all of the fox holes for animals.  We would carefully check for salamanders under wet logs. When there were no salamanders to be found I remembered the woodpile out by the garden; however, this led to two bee stings--not mine.

As I grew up so did my bossiness, in high school I became the leader of my youth group. I wrote and directed two Christmas plays. One play required more people than I had in youth group. I recruited from my high school friends. We had regular practices and we performed a meaningful play for the entire congregation.

In college I wanted a Murder Mystery dinner so badly I volunteered to write the entire thing. I created over twenty unique characters, all with possible motives. I created the invitations with the story and character information. I created the clues and the confession. I did this in conjunction with school work and my part time job and I did it not once, but twice. They were the talk of campus. Who does something like that? Oh, that’s me the first born.

This is not a traditional educational background essay, but it is important to my “place”. I have always been the bossy leader.

There isn’t a day in my classroom where I can put down the leader hat, there would be nothing but chaos. I have to be organized with the plan, I need to corral students as I did my family and friends. Without my command of the room and agenda the kids would be lost. When a sub is in my room, despite all the detailed instructions, my students feel lost. They are very happy to have the leader back to let them know what to do. Expectation surrounds me.

My mom said it best, “Looking back it all makes sense. You were born to be a teacher.”

Irish Dance Shoes

June 10, 2013

Irish dance shoes

I am an Irish dancer. I have been a dancer since 2002. In Irish dance there are two types of shoes each representing different styles of dancing.

Soft Shoes

In Irish soft shoe there are four traditional dances; Reel, Hop Jig, Single Jig, and Slip Jig. These are lively and bouncy dances. They are danced up on the toe, they are flowy and formal. When judges look at technique they are looking for strict foot placement, arch in the foot and pointed toe. They are feminine and pretty.

          I am a pair of soft shoes. One of those formal shoes that does exactly what is expected. The honor roll shoes. The college bound shoes. The kind of shoe that didn’t study biology, but took all the English courses. Studied grammar and literature because both are formal, sexy and romantic. I’m the shoe who started Irish and Scottish dancing because she read a romantic novel about Scotland.

            Being formal, poised, and precise isn’t all bad. It makes you determined to be the best teacher for the school year. It makes you a leader in your area and building. It makes you a planner, respected, and romantic. All of these qualities make good planners; for teaching or wedding planning. Irish soft shoes show professionalism. I am a professional pair of experienced Irish soft shoe.

            I’m proud of my work and my dance. I identify myself through my career and my dance.

 Hard Shoes

            Traditional hard shoe dances are Hornpipe and Treble Jig. There is also a Treble Reel  

    (not generally “traditional”). These dances are fast and intricate. They are loud and “stompy”.

    They are also dance up on toe (but not like ballet). These dances are fast and require

    determination and stamina. The judges look for toe and arch placement, precise placements

    and correct beats. They are loud and boisterous. 

            I am the hard shoe. This is the loud, busy, complicated kind of shoe. Everything is a [dance] production. These productions aren’t loud by design; it’s just the nature of the shoes. I was the first to go to college; not just to college, all the way to Iowa. I’m the loud shoe that plans their own travel, to places like San Juan, WA; Scotland; New York; and Hawaii. The professional soft shoe needed a job, so the hard shoe found one, in Grandview, MO. The hard shoe found a place to continue Irish dance and works determinedly to learn those hard shoe steps. These shoes have also earned medals in Irish Dance at age 34.

            These shoes live fast, hectic lives. Making time for long distance family, students, and planning a wedding to take place in Michigan, all are productions for the loud, boisterous, “stompy” dances that the shoes like.